Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, What if they met in Russia, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Not a lot of angst, Just letting these boys have a nice time, Author knows fuck all about sport in general and hockey in particular

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-15 Completed: 2026-05-15 Words: 53,306 Chapters: 10/10

Language Barrier

Summary

It's 2008. Due to an injury, Ilya Rozanov never made it to the International Prospects Cup. But Fate's gonna do what Fate's gonna do; this summer, Shane Hollander will be tutoring at an English language intensive hockey camp in Moscow.

Notes

Caveats: I know staggeringly little about hockey, sport, or Russia. I have googled a ton I swear but also? It's an AU so I'm just going to beg your indulgence. Some of this is probably ridiculous. BUT HEY the point is that I have had a wonderful time introducing these two in a different way, in a different place, and giving Ilya the upper hand for a change. I just want them to be happy.

A plethora of kisses peppered over the clever head of StrangeredLantern, beta extraordinaire. XXX

Chapter 1: In Which Shane Hollander Travels a Very Long Way

SHANE

The first flight is nerve-wracking, but thrilling. Buoyed up by excitement and confidence, Shane feels for the first time in his life like an adult. A proper independent adult, not a teenager who still lives with his parents. A man, a grown man who’s made his own decision, even if his dad tried to talk him out of it and his mom, waving as Shane walked through the security gates, looked like she was maybe about to cry.

Yeah, no, she was definitely about to cry.

Which makes him feel bad, but he would’ve felt worse if he’d passed this opportunity. Now’s the time, the perfect time. The formation this year of the KHL, the Kontinental Hockey League, is going to make ice hockey even more popular in Russia and China, and there are already some incredible players emerging from there. With their massive populations, and the way they focus on sports? It’s going to be awesome. They’re going to produce the next wave of champions. The world of hockey is changing, and Shane wants to be ahead of the curve.

And sure, it’s not like Shane is ever going to play in the KHL. He’d never want to be anywhere apart from the NHL; that’s still one hundred percent his goal. But this is such an incredible opportunity: a summer development camp in Moscow. He saw how those guys played in the International Prospect Cup. Sure, Canada won, but only just. Only because Russia was missing its star player. Shane knows he can learn heaps from these guys.

And at the same time, he’ll be earning money! The camp director’s running an English-language stream for players who are thinking about the NHL, and Shane’s going to be a tutor. Well. They’re not paying him as such, but they cut the fees nearly in half, and his dad said Shane could have the difference, so he’s earning. Kinda.

He’s never taught anyone anything before, but on the phone with his mom, Vasiliy Berezkin promised that it wouldn’t be difficult. They have a proper English teacher, but they want the players to work on their conversational skills, and the best way to do that is to have English speakers at the camp. So there’s going to be two of them—Shane and a guy from the U.S., Cody Farnham.

Conversational skills. Yeah. Shane isn’t sure whether he’s actually got any conversational skills. His dad says it’s not so hard, you’ve just got to ask questions and listen. He didn’t explain how you know what questions to ask, though. Maybe Shane should start writing a list. Like, how long have you been playing hockey? Who do you play for? What’s your training schedule?

On the first flight to London, Shane tugs out a book: The Ultimate ESL Teaching Manual. This is one of four books he stuffed into his cabin bag, which (even without that one) weighs a ton when he shoves it back into the overhead locker. There’s also a Russian/English phrase book in there, a traveler’s guide to Moscow, and a book about the Russian Five—the players who defected in the early nineties to play for Detroit, before things opened up a bit more. Director Berezkin says it’s not like that anymore, but that story didn’t exactly put his mom’s mind at rest.

Anyway, the first flight is good. They get dinner, and it’s not terrible. It’s not what Shane would want to eat, but he knows he’s going to have to try to be a bit more flexible about food for the next six weeks, so he tries it anyway. The salad and the roll are okay. The chicken is greasy, and he leaves most of it. They turn off the lights in the cabin after dinner because this is an overnight flight, although they’re going to lose half the night with the time difference, so it’s going to be morning already by the time they land. 

He closes his eyes, but there’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep.

When they arrive in London, the time has leapt ahead by five hours, and it’s two in the morning in his time, but it’s seven a.m. in London. He sets his watch to London time to make sure he doesn’t mess up and miss his next flight, even though he’s got five hours until boarding. It seemed like a really long layover when they were in the travel agents, but now he’s got to get off this plane and go through all the queues and pick up his luggage and then check in again with Aeroflot because Air Canada doesn’t fly to Moscow, and all the lines take ages. Heathrow is massive and low-ceilinged and everyone’s got wild accents and even though he’s got five hours he can feel himself getting super anxious, constantly checking his watch. His bags are literally the last two to come out on the conveyor belt, probably because he checked in so early.

He goes straight to the gate and watches as the rest of the travellers assemble. They look more serious than the people on the last flight: lots of businesspeople, no kids. He feels out of place, and he’s getting really tired, and it’s so long since he left home. It seems like a million years since he ate that last family lunch around the table, and since then he’s spent two hours in a car and three hours in an airport and nearly seven hours in a plane and then another four hours in an airport and in an hour he’ll get on another plane for another four hours; and then it’ll take an hour to get through customs and everything will be in Russian and what if they forgot they’d promised to send someone to pick him up and by then he’ll have been up for—oh god—twenty eight hours, and he didn’t sleep well last night, and—

No, he tells himself sternly. He squeezes his knees, digging his fingers in tight. No, you knew this was gonna be a long haul, but it’s fine. You can do this. You can maybe sleep on the next flight.

He doesn’t. The next flight is horrible. The plane is seedy, the flight attendants are cold and perfect but kind of scary, and everything smells like cigarettes even though you obviously can’t smoke, as if everyone who’s ever flown on this plane was a smoker. When they take off, there’s a whining sound he doesn’t like. He grips the armrest and stares at his watch. It’s just past lunchtime according to that, but it’s breakfast time in his body clock, and he really doesn’t want to eat the cold pickled vegetables or the meaty stew they put in front of him. He picks at the solid black bread and wonders how you get bread that colour. 

One of the things he’d been looking forward to was flying over Europe. He’d looked at the path the plane would take, figured out the cities he might see, the mountains; but even though he’s got a window seat there’s nothing to see except endless clouds. He tries to read the phrase book, but the words swim before his hot, sore eyes. He’s never been awake this long in his life. He tries, again, to sleep, but it’s hopeless.

He wishes he couldn’t hear his mother’s voice murmuring, Well I explained this, honey. You could’ve taken a day in London. But that would’ve meant finding his way out of the airport and to a hotel, and what would he do with himself? Where would he eat? He’d just be waiting, nervous, stretching it all out. No, he’d said, I’d rather just keep going.

So here he is, keeping going. And his mom was right, it’s kind of horrible. A weird kind of sick exhaustion, and he knows he needs to sleep, but he’s wound so tight, and soon he’s going to have to navigate through Russian customs. 

Seized with a sudden irrational concern, he gets awkwardly to his feet; the two people in his row look up at him, blank-faced but irritated, and they both sigh as they unbuckle and get up, letting Shane squeeze past to open the overhead locker and grab his cabin bag. Back in his seat, he holds the bag on his lap, zips it open, and confirms that his passport’s in the inner pocket. Of course it was there. He knew it was there. Where else would it be? Calm the fuck down he tells himself. Get a fucking grip.

He clutches his things on his lap for the next hour or so until the stewardess clicks her fingers at him and says something in Russian; then, when he stares at her uncomprehendingly, “Landing now. Your bag?”

She grunts when he hands it over, losing control a little, and it thwacks into the man next to him. Stupid heavy books. Stupid Shane. Stupid fucking idea, going to Russia all by himself.

What the fuck is he doing?

“Sorry. Sorry about that,” he says, over and over, but nobody says that’s okay, don’t worry about it.

Shane Hollander has been awake for twenty-nine hours and travelled just under five thousand miles when he finally sees one familiar thing: his own name, written on a piece of paper held by a bored-looking man in a brown tracksuit. It stands out like a beacon in the roaring sea of bodies, luggage, and harsh lights at Sheremetyevo Airport. There it is, in red Sharpie on an unfolded piece of paper: SHANE HOLLANDER. There he is. They didn’t forget him! The smile that flows across his face is unintentional but utterly sincere.

He waves. “Hey! Hi! Hi, that’s me, I’m Shane!” Too late he remembers the Russian word and adds, “Um, privet?"

The man with the paper nods and gives a half-smile in return, holding out his hand. A quick shake. “Welcome. I am Evgeniy Semyenov.” His English is pretty good, his accent not nearly as thick as some of the players that Shane met at the Prospect Cup.

“Oh, right. You’re, um, the English teacher?”

“Yes. And this is—” Evgeniy turns, as if he’s looking for someone, and makes a small, frustrated sound. He cranes, his neck very long and patchily shaven, and mutters something under his breath before making an irritable come here gesture and shouting, “Rozanov!”

The crowd parts as someone shoulders his way towards them, against the flow.

It’s him. It’s Ilya Rozanov. The player who couldn’t make the Prospect, ‘cos he had some injury or other. Shane’s heard all about him, about his strength and speed. They use the same words about Ilya Rozanov as they do about Shane: prodigy. Phenomenon.

And Shane should introduce himself, should hold out his hand and shake politely, but he stands there, tired and stupid and overwhelmed and hopelessly riveted by the intense blue-green eyes that are fastened on him. He blinks, drops his gaze, and his attention is arrested all over again by the most ridiculous, lush, curvy mouth he’s ever seen.

It’s not smiling. There’s an unlit cigarette hanging out of one corner. But it’s stupidly beautiful. Shane can feel himself blushing and looks away.

He’s just tired. It’s not that beautiful. It's just a mouth.

Evgeniy snaps something in Russian and then interrupts himself to say it in English: “You know you can’t smoke here.”

Rozanov starts replying in Russian, but Evgeniy says, “English!”, gesturing at Shane.

Scowling, Rozanov says haltingly, “Is why,” jerking his head in the direction he’s just come from. His voice is deep, dark, and guttural; at odds with those blue eyes and that honey-gold mop of curls.

“You can see why we need tutors, Shane,” says Evgeniy mockingly, earning Shane another angry glance from Rozanov. “Perhaps you can help Ilya say what he wants to say?”

“Um,” says Shane, racking his brains as to what Rozanov might’ve wanted to say. “Maybe, um. Maybe, um, did you mean to say that that’s why you were heading out to a smoking area? I mean, it’s probably not a great idea, smoking’s pretty bad for you. There have been thousands of studies. Have you ever seen a lung, like, from someone who smokes? They’re super gross. They go black. It can’t be good for your game.”

The two Russians regard him, flat and maybe confused. Shane feels his face heat up as if he’s being barbecued. What an idiot! He only just met this guy, and first he’s staring at him, and then he’s lecturing him!

“We go?” says Rozanov, raising one eyebrow, and Evgeniy nods.

ILYA

Semyenov is a terrible driver, and he’s talking far too much, all in English. Fucking show off. Ilya sits in the back seat, sulking. The Canadian tried to get into the back with him, but Ilya shoved him aside, said “Nyet, no,” and pointed to the front seat.

It’s about an hour’s drive from the airport to the camp, in a far-flung, dead-end suburb of Voskresensk that's full of tower blocks. Ilya wanted to stay at home for the duration and drive his new car to the camp every day, but his father said no, saying his English would never get better unless he spent time with English speakers. And it’s true, he does want to learn English. He does want to play in America. So he’s just going to have to suck it up.

Hollander isn’t saying much, though. He'd better be more talkative than this. From the seat behind Semyenov, Ilya watches Hollander’s profile. He’s sitting up very straight, his hands in his lap, his big brown eyes locked onto the road ahead. He’s got the most perfectly straight nose Ilya’s ever seen. That thing’s never been hit by a puck, that’s for sure. Ilya rubs his thumb over the bone of his own, much less immaculate, nose. 

It’s hot in the car—the air conditioning is shit—and Hollander’s still wearing a thick hoodie. His face is gleaming a little, and his tongue darts out and licks sweat off his upper lip.

“Is too hot,” says Ilya loudly.

“It is too hot,” Semyenov corrects him. “You sound like a fucking Russian!”

Ilya winds his window all the way down. As if given permission, Hollander does the same.

“Is it, um, much further?” Hollander says.

“Not far. Five minutes. Are you hungry?”

It’s nearly eight o’clock and personally Ilya is starving, but Hollander shakes his head. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep on the flight, so.” He mumbles, but Ilya gets the gist of it. He understands more English than he can speak.

They pull into the hotel carpark. It’s a shitty hotel, but the camp has taken it over, and it’s only a ten-minute walk from the rink, so it’s okay. Ilya arrived two days ago with a few other players from his club, Moscow Volki, and the other players have been arriving in dribs and drabs from all around the region. The other English tutor arrived yesterday. He’s from California, and he’s rooming with Ilya’s friend Zaitsev. Hollander’s the last to arrive; Ilya picked him to share with partly so he’d get two days with no roommate, and partly because he’s heard Hollander’s really fucking good, but he doesn’t look it so far. He looks nervy as fuck. It’s hard to imagine him on the ice.

Hollander trundles his two massive suitcases behind him. Ilya doesn’t offer to take one. They’re going to take up so much space in their room; they’re hard-shelled and too big to go under the bed. He lurks behind Hollander and Semyenov as they go up to the desk, and tries unsuccessfully to eavesdrop as Hollander has some weird, anxious argument with the guy trying to check him in, with Semyenov translating. It looks like he doesn’t want to hand over his passport. Idiot, what did he expect?

Semyenov finally convinces him it’s okay, and Ilya smirks when he catches the tutor rolling his eyes behind Hollander’s back. Hollander gets his key, and Semyenov says, “Okay! Rozanov will show you to your room. See you tomorrow at the rink.”

“Oh. Okay. Um, bye. Thank you for picking me up,” says Hollander, and he follows Ilya obediently down the hall.

Ilya took the bed closest to the window. Perks of being first to arrive. He sits on it now, leaning back on the heels of his hands, and watches Hollander as the Canadian looks around the room. The curtains and bedspreads are a hideous shade of mustard, and the dirty green carpet tiles on the floor have seen a lot of questionable activities. There’s a cupboard that doesn’t shut properly because it’s already full of Ilya’s shit, and only one chest of drawers. Each bed has a small bedside table, but only one has a lamp. (The lamp was originally on Hollander’s side, but it’s not now.)

The place is pretty shitty even to Ilya’s eyes. From the look on Hollander’s face, it’s even worse in his opinion. Zaitsev reckons his Californian roommate laughed out loud and took photos. Prick.

“Okay,” says Hollander. He smiles, a tight, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes. “Okay, so. Um. I might sleep.” He mimes sleeping as he says it, tucking a palm under his cheek and closing his eyes.

“I know sleep,” says Ilya. He’s not a fucking idiot.

“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. Um. Have you been learning English long?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Um. How long? In school?”

“Yes.” 

“Oh.”

They appear to have exhausted this topic. Hollander says nothing, just stands there looking awkward as fuck.

Ilya’s stomach rumbles loudly.

“You’re hungry,” says Hollander, a smile flickering over his face. “Sorry, you missed dinner because of me, huh?”

“Hungry, yes,” says Ilya. “I go to kitchen. For food. You want?”

“Um. No, no thanks. I might… um, bathroom?” Hollander gestures at the cupboard door, then opens it and immediately flushes bright red. It’s so cute, Ilya can’t hold back a bark of laughter.

“No. Is there,” says Ilya, gesturing in the bathroom’s general direction. He jumps up and opens the door to their room, holding it open and pointing down the hallway. “There.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure. Thanks.” Hollander peers around the door, nodding. “Okay. So we’re sharing with a bunch of guys, yeah?”

Ilya isn’t sure what this means. He says. “I go kitchen now, okay?” He pulls his room key out of his pants pocket and jiggles it. “Use key, yes?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Ilya nods and pads down the hallway.

When he comes back half an hour later, having convinced the woman in the kitchen to heat him some leftovers, he’s got Zaitsev and Nikitin with him. They both play with him at Volki—Zaitsev’s their best goalie. Nikitin’s a waste of space as far as hockey goes, but he’s usually funny and always generous with his money, so they put up with him anyway.

“Be nice,” Ilya tells them firmly as he rummages for his key. “He’s tired and kinda freaked out, I think.”

“So why do we have to invite him to come out?” grumbles Zaitsev, who’s had enough of English speakers for one day and hid around the corner when he caught sight of his roommate.

“Easy. We’re going to invite him, and he’s going to say no, because he’s just flown halfway round the world and he wants his bed, and we look like good guys without having to put up with him,” says Ilya. “He tells Berezkin we’re friendly, and we get in the good books for nothing.”

“They all say you’re stupid, but sometimes I think maybe you’re not,” says Nikitin thoughtfully. Ilya elbows him in the belly. Nikitin yelps and shoves him against the door, and they tussle, laughing, falling halfway into the room when Ilya’s key finally catches.

Hollander is fast asleep, flat on his stomach. He’s on top of the bedspread and still wearing his clothes, even his shoes. His face is slack and peaceful, open-mouthed and turned to the side; one arm is hanging off the side of the bed. Wow. He has a great ass. Most hockey players do, it’s true, but still.

“Shhh,” hisses Ilya, when Zaitsev starts giggling. 

“We should get a pen. Give him a moustache,” whispers Nikitin.

“Yesss! I’ve got one in my room!”

“A friendly welcome facial tattoo. Is it a permanent marker? Go get it, Zaits.”

“No,” says Ilya firmly. “No facial tattoos.” 

“I’ll do a nice one. A sophisticated one. Not, like, a dick or anything,” says Zaitsev.

“No. Leave him alone.” 

Ilya hustles them out and shuts the door as quietly as he can, taking one last surreptitious (but appreciative) look at the way Hollander’s pants are pulling over his butt.

Chapter 2: In Which Shane Hollander Takes Things Too Seriously, As Usual

Chapter Notes

Hi hi and thanks to everyone who read last chapter!

At the end of last chapter we left Shane conked out on his bed in an ugly Russian hotel room, being observed by Ilya and his friends, but luckily for him Ilya's already developed a soft spot and wouldn't let the others draw on Shane's comatose face.

I'm gonna reiterate that I know precisely fuck all about sports, or sports camps, or training. I am making a lot of stuff up. Roll with it and I promise we'll end up rolling to some fun places :)

Many thanks as ever to the fabulous Strangeredlantern whose delicate linguistic tweaks are wildly appreciated XXX

SHANE

The day hasn’t started very auspiciously. Shane woke up to the sound of loud clapping and a foreign voice saying, Eh, Hollander! Morning now! It was hideously confusing.

He’s since worked out that Rozanov woke him up at what would’ve been one a.m. in Ottawa, so it’s not really surprising he felt stupid and half-asleep, and managed to lock himself out of their room after going to the bathroom; he’d been asleep for, like, ten hours, so when he woke up he was desperate to pee, and he just went straight down the hall without taking his key. When he got back, the door was locked, and Rozanov was gone. So then Shane had to go down to reception, and the girl there didn’t speak English, so he had to mime eating, hoping Rozanov was at breakfast, because he wouldn’t have left without Shane, surely?

He was right, anyway, and Rozanov is in the dining room with a dozen other guys. Shane feels sweaty and grubby, and he knows his breath is terrible but he has to go and ask for the room key.

“I tell you,” says Rozanov, looking exasperated. “Always need key!”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ll remember next time.” There are three other guys at Rozanov’s table, all looking at Shane. “Um. Privet,” he says lamely. He’s suddenly worried he might smell. “I’m, um, Shane. Hollander. Hi.”

“You meet everybody later,” says Rozanov, pushing back from the table and pointing to the clock over the coffee station. “Quick, now.”

Shane hurries along behind him. Rozanov’s wearing black track pants and a black hoodie with the sleeves cut off. He’s incredibly muscular. “I, um. I need a shower,” says Shane. “When do we have to leave?”

Rozanov flashes all ten fingers in the air, twice. “Twenty minute.”

“Okay.” They reach their room, and Shane grabs his room key off the bedside table, gets some clean gear and his toilet bag, and hustles down to the bathroom. It’s got three showers, three toilets, and three sinks; the tiles are wet, water splashing out from under the door of one of the showers. He washes as fast as he can, even saving time by brushing his teeth in the shower, and jogs back to their room, grabbing a protein bar for breakfast.

So that wasn’t a great start. Still, they get to the rink on time; they walk there with all their gear and two of Rozanov’s friends, Zaitsev and Nikitin. Zaitsev is dark-haired and massive, his shoulders even wider than Rozanov’s, and he’s gotta be at least six three. He’s the goalie—Shane remembers him from the Prospect. Nikitin’s got a super-short haircut and kind of a weaselly face, but he seems to make the others laugh, even if Shane can’t understand the jokes.

Back in Ottawa, Shane thought he was being smart by making sure all his hockey gear was in one suitcase, but now he feels like an idiot: the others have big, soft gear bags they carry with one casual hand hooked backwards over their shoulders, and here he is rattling along with a rolling suitcase. He looks like a grandma. When they stop to cross a road he tries putting the handle down and carrying it but it’s so fucking awkward he gives up at the next road. The streets are leafier than he expected, but lots of the pavements are cracked and the apartment buildings crowd close to the road.

Anyway. The rink’s the important thing, and it’s pretty nice from the outside—a huge grey block of a thing with a bright blue decorative swoop across the front. Shane knows (because he looked it up) that the Khimik Ice Palace was built in the sixties and was home to the team that won a whole bunch of USSR titles. They cut across the parking lot and in through the automatic doors, and the familiar chill and smell of being close to the ice is instantly soothing. 

Several older guys are standing around a table in the foyer, including the one who picked Shane up last night. Evgeniy, is that right? God, Russian names are so hard to remember. He needs to write them down and memorise them. A bald one has a clipboard. Players are milling around, so many Russian voices.

Evgeniy lifts his chin in their direction. “Shane!” he calls.

He introduces Shane to the other men. Director Berezkin is in charge of the camp. The two coaches, Coach Kravets (the bald one) and Coach Moroz, are wearing matching windbreakers with the Khimik Ice Palace logo on the back. Shane shakes hands and puts on his game face, smiling, nodding, and telling them how happy he is to be here. They all speak some English, so that’s good. 

Berezkin has an incredibly loud voice. He turns and bellows something in Russian, waving his hands at the assembled players, and then says in English, “Put your gear in locker room! Then go to training room!”

Shane follows the crowd. He’s the only one with a stupid suitcase. He’s probably not even going to be able to shove it in his locker; it’s so big. He hangs back, the last one to enter. 

The locker room’s not much different from a Canadian one, although it smells different, more like cigarettes. There’s got to be two dozen guys in here, all talking and unpacking. The guy in front of Shane goes to the last closed locker, opens it, and pockets the key. Shane casts around, heat rising in his face. Are there even any lockers left?

“Eh! Hollander!” says a loud voice. “Here. Key for you.”

Ilya Rozanov is waving a key at him. Gratitude washes over Shane and he navigates awkwardly through the room, apologising to everyone he bumps into. Rozanov’s got two lockers; he gives one key to Shane.

“Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

“Yes,” says Rozanov absently. He’s looking at Shane’s suitcase. “Is big, hey?”

“Um. Yeah, I guess.”

They start unpacking into their lockers. Sounds like they’ll be able to leave all their gear here for the duration of the camp, which is good. Shane doesn’t want to carry this stupid suitcase back and forth every day. He stacks his sticks, two pairs of skates, his helmet, pads, guards, breezers, mouthguard and neck guard into the locker. That leaves a puffer jacket and another pair of trainers in his suitcase, and honestly, he doesn’t think he’s going to need them. It’s warmer here than he expected.

Beside him, Rozanov rolls up his duffel bag and stuffs it into the back of his locker, then slams the door shut. The room’s emptying out. “We go now?” he says to Shane.

“Sure. Um, what should I do with…?” Shane gestures at his suitcase, embarrassed, and Nikitin says something that makes several people laugh.

Rozanov says something sharp in Russian and then translates for Shane. “Is good, though! Is for… for our feet, yes?” He zips the suitcase shut, plonks it on its back in front of the bench that runs along beneath the lockers, sits down, and throws his feet onto the suitcase. “Nice!”

Nikitin tries to drag the suitcase closer to his locker spot, but Rozanov kicks his hands away. “No! Is for me and Hollander!”

It’s so unexpectedly kind of him. He’s turned Shane’s stupid, embarrassing giant suitcase into a good thing. He looks at Shane, lifts his eyebrows in acknowledgement, and winks. Shane smiles. Blushes. Maybe Rozanov’s not so bad after all.

They all gather in the training room, a large open space with a whiteboard and tables. Berezkin and the coaches introduce themselves in Russian and then in English. They go around the room, each player introducing themselves the same way; some of them are okay with English, some of them don’t even try. Shane’s got a notebook out, and he’s trying to write down the names and some distinguishing features, although he’s got no idea how to spell anything. Anatolly, he writes. Defence, blonde, one earring. Kirrel, offence, blue tracksuit, eyebrows.

He’s terribly aware of Rozanov looking sideways at his notebook as if Shane’s being weird by taking notes. It’s not weird, it’s practical.

“What?” Shane hisses, irritated. Rozanov grabs his pen, crosses out “Kirrel” and writes “Kirill”, then adds what must be Kirill’s surname, Oryol. His writing is large, bold and upright. He draws a silly face beside it, with one gigantic eyebrow looming over the eyes. Yup, that’s Kirill. Shane stifles a laugh. He reclaims his pen as the next guy introduces himself.

Dimitry, he writes. Offence. Nose.

Rozanov beckons impatiently for the pen. He scribbles over the first i, so it reads "Dmitry," adds "Garanin," and draws a face with a massive hooked nose, which is very rude but also a really good memory aid.

Alan Salagov, goalie, curls. Shane holds out the pen to Rozanov, who corrects the spelling to Tsallagov and draws a face with a crazy ‘fro.

Honestly, it’s really helpful.

This continues for some time until Shane’s attention is arrested by a name he can spell. Cody Farnham.

He stops writing and lifts his head. This is the American. He’s a classic Californian surfer dude, tall and tan and blonde—but the guy’s talking Russian. Shane catches his own name in the flow of unfamiliar sounds, and Cody Farnham gestures towards him, grinning and waving.

He’s talking Russian.

Fuck. Fuck! The other tutor speaks Russian!

Heads turn towards Shane, and he looks down. Fuck, Jesus, fuck, is he literally the only person here who doesn’t speak this fucking language?!

“Hi, Shane!” says Farnham. “Not sure if you understood any of that, but it’s great to meet you! You’re an amazing player—so happy you’re my fellow tutor. Psyched for the next few weeks!”

“Um,” says Shane. “Yeah. Hi. Thanks. Same.”

Rozanov stole his pen. When the next guy starts talking, and Shane looks down, he sees Rozanov’s written Kody Farnam and has just drawn a cock and balls next to the name.

Shane clenches his jaw viciously, so as not to laugh.

Funky something, he writes. Offence, five-head. He offers the pen to Rozanov. Artyom Funkitov, Rozanov corrects, and then draws a caricature that looks like Megamind. Shane doesn’t think his stupid pun made it through translation, but they’re obviously in agreement about Funkitov’s defining feature.

“Rozanov?” says Berezkin.

Rozanov stands up. A stream of Russian emerges, followed by, “I am Ilya Rozanov, centre. I play for Moscow Volki. I will go to the NHL. Is my… my… um…”

He looks down at Shane, raising his eyebrows as if he’s asking for the right word.

“Your goal?” Shane suggests, and then realises that might be confusing. “Your dream? Your aim.”

“Yes,” says Rozanov. “What he said.”

Ilya Rozanov, Shane writes. Offence. My roommate.

It’s Shane’s turn. Oh god. He stands up, palms immediately sweaty. “Um. Privet. Menya zovut Shane Hollander,” he says, haltingly. That’s it, that’s all he knows, except for “thanks”. “Sorry, I don’t speak Russian. I’m from Canada. I play offence, mostly centre. I’m excited to be here. Good to meet you all. Thanks. Um, spasibo?”

When he sits down again, Rozanov hands him the notebook. Shane Hollander, it says, with a sketchy but recognisable drawing of Shane lying on his bed, fast asleep and fully dressed. Shane blanches and slaps the notebook shut.  Rozanov snorts.

ILYA

After the introductions, Moroz hands out the week’s schedule. He’s Ilya’s coach at Volki, and he gives Ilya a wink and a chin lift as he passes. The schedule’s all in English. Bastards! Never mind, Ilya can always get his anxious roommate to explain. He has a suspicion that Shane Hollander is going to have the entire week’s schedule memorised by lunchtime, down to the minute. That notebook will be full by Wednesday.

Semyenov gets up and waves the schedule around. In Russian he says, “This is the last time I’m going to speak Russian to you! We’re here to work on our brains as well as our hockey. In six weeks, all of you will be prepared to play in Canada or the U.S.—that’s our goal. So you can see on this schedule, every day has four segments. One, English lesson first thing with me. Here. Nine am sharp, starting tomorrow. Mandatory! Two, conditioning and drills. After lunch, a match, and last, a match review and breakdown in English with your tutors.”

Nikitin groans. “Might as well be back in fucking school,” he mutters. “Thought we were finished with this shit.”

“Did you? Did Moroz put you forward for the draft already, huh? Are you a big professional hockey player now?” Ilya mutters back, because of all the ways they could be spending their time while they wait for the season to start, this seems like the one that'll give them the best opportunity to impress the coaches and, more importantly, Berezkin, who's involved in the decision about who to put forward for the NHL draft. Frankly, he’s happy to be here, especially after the misery of missing out on the Prospects Cup. His elbow’s much better now, but it was a worry for a few weeks. He’s still taking it easy on the erg.

Semyenov says loudly, “Okay boys, here we go: English from now on!” and there’s a general groan around the room. “Everybody stand up.”

The room fills with the metallic graunch of chair legs.

“Mr. Farnham, you stand over there, by the window. Mr. Hollander, you go over the other side. These are your two tutors. Split yourselves into the two groups. Go on, quick! Half of you go with Farnham, half of you with Hollander.”

It’s not hard to figure out what’s going to happen. Farnham’s Russian is rat-shit, but at least he’s got some. There’s an orderly stampede over in the direction of the window. Christ, poor fucking Hollander! That’s shit! His little face has gone all frozen as he stands there with only two other guys.

Ilya grabs Zaitsev’s arm. “Nah, nah, let’s go with Hollander. Nikitin! Come on brother, this way.”

Nikitin groans under his breath but follows, as always. There are five of them on Hollander’s side now, and all the rest standing with Farnham.

It occurs to Ilya that this could be an opportunity to avoid some of the known idiots. Mityaev and Ladygin, gods, he doesn’t want to end up with those neanderthals. He has to pick the good English speakers so that he can learn better. “Oryol! Garanin, Tsallagov! Yo, boys, come over here. Come on!”

“Nah, Roz, we—”

“Go!” says Semenyov. “You are too many, they are too few! Go!”

Ilya scans for his next picks. He doesn’t know the others as well, but surely that guy with the massive forehead has to have a brain. “Funkitov!” he calls. “Hey, man, come over here!”

Funkitov looks at another guy who must be his friend, and the two of them raise their eyebrows at one another, then agree and come over. Two other guys do the same. There— twelve on each side. Sorted.

The two coaches are muttering, pointing people out, which is weird, because why do they give a shit who learns with what English tutor? But then Kravets says, “Okay, except Kaminsky and Garanin, you switch.”

“Why?” says Dima Garanin. “I’m good here.”

“Because I fucking said so. Right. Thank you. Good. That’s two goalies each team, a reasonable split of offence and defence. Congratulations, boys, those are your teams for the duration of this camp.” He picks up one of two boxes in the corner and goes over to the guys by the window, and Moroz grabs the other box and comes over to their group.

Inside the boxes are coloured bibs. Their team is red, the other blue. Ilya can’t decide whether he’s pleased to have his usual coach or pissed because he misses out on impressing Kravets, who’s got quite the reputation, but hey. Moroz has brought him this far, and he’s not going to demand anything that might damage Ilya’s elbow, so there’s that.

Bibs in hand, they trudge back to the locker room and gear up. Hollander’s quiet, discomfort radiating off him. 

“Hey,” says Ilya, as they’re lacing up their skates. “You are okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”

It's hard for Ilya not to roll his eyes. “Was only because Farnham has Russian.”

“Sure. I know.”

Elbowing him gently, Ilya says, “But we have better team. You are better player than him.”

Hollander turns his head, unsmiling. He looks tired, but steely. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I am.”

On the way to the ice, Zaitsev is grumbling in Ilya’s ear. “The fuck is wrong with you? Farnham’s my roommate, we would’ve been in there easy, and now we’re stuck with Suitcase Boy who doesn’t understand a fuckin’ word we say!”

“Sorry. Your English is pretty shit, it’s true, so I guess you’re fucked,” says Ilya remorselessly.

He’s not going to stop and deconstruct why he keeps wanting to be nice to Shane Hollander. It’s probably just the natural reaction to someone who looks like a confused puppy half the time. It’s probably not anything to do with the guileless brown eyes or the perfect straight nose or the glowing skin. Not the earnestness that’s so completely unhidden. Hollander doesn’t react much, but he’d still be the worst poker player Ilya’s ever met. You know that if you hurt him you’ll see it, and something about that makes it an unbearable prospect.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter in the end, because that’s the last time anyone moans about Hollander. By that afternoon—after watching Hollander smoke them all in speed trials and shot accuracy, and then match Ilya’s hat-trick in the “friendly” (yeah, no, not very friendly) afternoon games against Farnham’s team—Zaitsev, Nikitin, Max Pestov, Kirill Oryol and all the rest of them are smug and happy. Yeah! Fuck English, whatever, who cares, they’ve got an ice monster on their side!

The Hollander on the ice is barely the same person as the Hollander awkwardly wrestling his way out of his gear next to Ilya in the locker room. 

Farnham comes over, already out of the shower and still damp. He slaps Hollander on the shoulder, and Hollander whips around, alarm all over his face.

“Hey, nice work out there,” says Farnham easily. He’s got that square-jawed, button-nosed, Hollywood look going on. Something about him rubs Ilya the wrong way, like Farnham thinks he’s in pole position against Hollander. He’s fucking not.

“Thanks,” says Hollander. “I kind of liked the bigger rink, those extra metres make more difference than you expect.”

Ilya knows Russian rinks are several metres wider.

“Yeah, it’s interesting,” says Farnham. “Less, uh…” He holds up a finger and wags it back and forth in big arcs. “And more…” The finger makes circles, figure eights in the air.

“Good thing you speak Russian,” says Ilya rudely—in said language, but smiling widely—“because it doesn’t look like your English vocabulary’s very extensive.”

Farnham smiles at him, and Ilya’s pretty sure he didn’t catch most of what Ilya said. This suspicion is confirmed when Farnham replies haltingly, and with a truly terrible accent, “Yes, it good. My grandparents Russian.”

Hollander watches this exchange and says innocently, “Wow, that’s so cool. Where did you learn Russian, Cody?”

Behind him, Farnham says, “I was just telling Rozanov, my grandparents are Russian.” Jesus Christ, they’re going to have to say everything twice for the next six weeks, aren’t they? Ilya turns away.

“Oh. Nice,” says Hollander.

“Did you learn, uh… whatever your grandparents speak?”

“Yeah,” says Hollander. “English.” He says it pleasantly enough, but Ilya’s good at hearing subtext.

“Oh, sorry, I thought maybe—”

“Nope.”

Ilya’s had enough of this guy. “Come on,” he says to Hollander. “Shower.”

“For sure,” says Hollander, grabbing his towel and glancing at his watch. “I better, um…”

“Yeah, sure man. Later,” says Farnham.

The showers are packed and noisy, but not so packed that Ilya can’t sneak a glance and confirm that Shane Hollander’s entire body is that same pale, flawless gold. There’s no hair on his chest, not a mark anywhere on him. His hips are slim, his thighs impressively muscled.

Ilya grinds his teeth. Stop it, he tells himself, squeezing his eyes shut and lifting his face to the hot water.

Farnham’s group got the main training room, and Hollander’s tutoring takes place in a smaller room with no windows. There’s a whiteboard and two big tables that take up all the space, and exactly twelve chairs.

Tsallagov and Pestoy are the last two in. Full, the room is close and fuggy and quickly smells like boy. Hollander drags the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping away sweat.

“Is, um,” he says. It comes out in a croak, and he clears his throat. Swallows. “Is, um, the English teacher coming? Or a coach?”

The guys say nothing. Fresh sweat beads on Hollander’s upper lip.

“Maybe no,” says Ilya. “You start.”

“Um. Okay. So. Let’s, um.”

Hollander goes to the door and checks down the corridor as if he’s desperately hoping that Semyenov will materialise out of nowhere. Ilya is pretty sure these tutoring sessions have been scheduled last in the day on purpose, so the coaches and tutor can fuck off early. Honestly, if Hollander doesn’t get his shit together asap and take charge, this room’s going to be empty in five minutes.

“Start,” says Kirill loudly from the back.

“Right. Sure. Okay.” Hollander shuts the door, and his triceps flex as he clenches a fist. He looks down and then up, and he’s got himself under control. Good boy. Ilya approves of this determination in the face of nerves. “Let’s start. Well, we did introductions this morning, so I think I know your names, but let’s see if I can remember them all.” He points to Ilya. “Ilya Rozanov, that’s easy. We are sharing a room,” he says to the rest of the group. He’s talking carefully; clearly, not too fast, making little gestures that support his words.

He makes his way along the first table, then down to the next. His pronunciation is horrible, obviously, but he remembers everyone, which, honestly, is pretty impressive. They all know that stupid Americans and Canadians struggle with Russian names, but the notebook seems to have done its job, and Hollander doesn’t make a single mistake. That done, he goes to the whiteboard. He draws a big rectangle with a circle and a line in the middle, and at each end he adds another little rectangle with a grid.

“So, um. Evgeniy said—”

“Semyenov,” Ilya corrects him. 

“Oh? But he said—”

“Semyenov.”

“Okay, Semyenov. He said we should talk about the match. But I don’t know if you guys know all the words to do that with. So let’s make a list of words, eh?” He points to the big rectangle.

“Rink,” says Nikitin, getting in early with an easy one. Hollander nods and writes RINK at the side of the board. His writing looks like it could’ve been laser printed on, every letter perfect. “Great, what else?”

“Goal,” says Maxim Pestov.

“Yeah, goal, nice.”

“Ice.”

“Centre,” says Ilya.

When they’ve exhausted all their ideas about the rectangle, Hollander draws a stick figure, and they start yelling out gear items. Ilya learns quite a few new words, actually. He didn’t know the word breezers for hockey pants. Hollander draws a very bad map of the U.S. and Canada, and scribbles over parts of it to show where that word is used. Then they’re drawing sticks and pucks and skates and blades and laces and all sorts of shit. Tsallagov starts writing it down; Ilya doesn’t bother, he can get a copy later if he forgets.

Down the hallway, there’s the sound of a door and then voices, people leaving. It’s early, but apparently Farnham’s guys have had enough. Hollander stops drawing and looks uncertain again.

“Okay, well maybe—”

“No,” says Ilya, who’s enjoying watching Hollander write on the board, and also how happy he is when one of them gets a word right. “To talk about game, we need more words.”

Zaitsev makes an irritated noise. “Shut up,” says Ilya, still in English, waving at the clock above the board. “Is ten minutes more, is nothing.”

He’s not sure how he became a teacher’s pet for the first time in his life, but Hollander gives him a small, grateful look. Something warm bubbles inside Ilya’s chest; he keeps his face blank.

For five minutes, they list words that describe play. Fast, slow, accurate, inaccurate. In-acc-u-rate, they all repeat. Passing, blocking. Taking a hit, hitting the boards. Then Hollander glances at the clock and says, “Okay, last thing. Everybody say one thing that happened in the match this afternoon. Say if it was good or bad. So, like, um… Zaitsev, you did a really good save off… um, his name was…”

“Ladygin,” says Zaitsev smugly. “Yes, was fucking great.”

“Write ‘fucking’ on list,” says Nikitin, to general laughter.

Hollander flushes, his lips pursing as if he’s trying not to join in, and ignores this suggestion. “Yes,” he says, “it was great, because you didn’t let him trick you—he made it look like he was going left, then—”

“He do that always,” says Zaitsev, which is true, Ladygin is a predictable idiot, but still. It was still a good save.

“Now you,” says Hollander to Zaitsev.

“Uh. Ah. Rozanov missed easy goal. Was bad.”

“I score three!” cries Ilya indignantly.

“Could’ve been four, though, so he's right,” says Hollander, poker-faced, and even Nikitin snorts.

Even though he's the butt of the joke, Ilya grins.

This kid's alright.

Chapter End Notes

Drawings of this fic and many others live in tessville on tumblr. Hope to see you next Sunday :) x

Chapter 3: In Which Ilya Rozanov Shows Off

Chapter Notes

Recap: Shane's spending his summer in Moscow, in an English Language immersion hockey camp for prospective draftees, and his roommate is Ilya Rozanov. The first nerve-wracking day of tutoring is over, and Shane and Ilya have some time to get to know one another.

I confess I've never been to Russia. Me and Google and StreetView have done our bestest, hope it's not too wildly inaccurate. Also I did a lot of casting my mind back to the state of tech in 2008 which was a trip. XXX

SHANE

On the walk back to the hotel everyone’s still speaking Russian, and Shane still doesn’t understand any of it, but he feels like something’s shifted since this morning. They might not be talking to him but they’re occasionally looking at him, lifting chins in acknowledgement of his presence, and one time Rozanov winks at him.

This does very funny things to Shane’s stomach.

Anyway, he’s pleased to have the first day down, and he’s desperate to get back and charge up his phone and text his parents. He’s so mad he forgot to plug it in this morning, but it had been such a rush to get out.

At the next corner, everyone turns right. Shane is really certain the hotel’s straight ahead. “Hey,” he calls. “Isn’t it…?” He gestures down the street.

Rozanov turns, jogs back to him. “We buy beer. You want beer?”

“Um. No, no, I’m good.” Ginger ale seems very unlikely, it’s probably not even worth asking. “I think I’ll, um. I’ll go back.”

“Okay,” says Rozanov, friendly enough. “You know where is hotel?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

“Bye. Um, do svidaniya,” says Shane, and Rozanov looks amused.

“Davai,” he says. “I see you soon, yes? So davai is okay. Do svidaniya very, ah…” He pulls a silly face that somehow communicates the idea of formality.

“Oh. Right. Da-vai,” says Shane like an obedient parrot. Rozanov nods approvingly, gives him a small salute, and jogs back to his friends.

Back at the hotel Shane pulls on a clean t-shirt. Tomorrow he’ll bring a spare for after showering. He digs out his charger and the travel plug that’ll work with the Russian power points. After a few minutes his phone’s got enough power that it pings; new messages. He flips it open.

Three texts from his mom, two from his dad. In the last couple he can tell they’re getting anxious, and he feels bad. He should’ve remembered to text earlier. hi all gd, he thumbs rapidly. 1st day gd hotel fine slept lots. lessn went well i thnk. He wants to tell them about the food and the flights and Farnham with his stupid Russian and how Shane did really well in the speed trials, but that’s way too much for a text. He keeps going until he hits the character limit, anyway, because texts are going to be expensive. He needs to find wifi so he can email them. He brought his iPod touch just for that, so he rummages in his bag for it and it’s still got ten percent battery, but there aren’t any available networks showing in the settings. For several minutes he chews on his thumb, wondering if he’s brave enough to go ask; eventually, the desire for contact with home wins out, and he goes down to the lobby.

A skinny, bored looking girl is leaning on the desk, reading a magazine.

“Um, hi?” he says. “Privet? Do you have wifi I can connect to?”

She looks at him with pale, blank eyes. He waves his iPod around. “Wifi?” he says again. He can feel the heat rising in his face. He should’ve waited for Rozanov, dammit.

The girl shrugs, but a male voice from the office behind her calls, “On govorit pro vee-fee!”

“Ahhhhh.” She gets a piece of paper from the drawer and pushes it across to him, but it’s in Cyrillic. Shit. 

Shane opens the settings again and holds the iPod out to her. “Could you please… spasibo?” He knows that means thanks, but the word for please is super long and he just can’t summon it right now. Her long nails tap against the glass. Handing it back, she says something in Russian, her voice loud and slow as if he’s deaf, and waves a finger round in a circle as if to indicate the lobby. Shane imitates her.

“Vee-fee, um, here?” he says.

“Da.”

“Not in room,” calls the disembodied voice from the office.

“Okay. Spasibo. Spasibo!”

There are a few tables and chairs scattered over the other side of the lobby. Shane parks up and opens gmail. There’s a long one from his mom with a couple of pictures attached, which he starts downloading but the wifi’s pretty slow.

Hi mom and dad, sorry it took me so long to text! I was really tired by the time I got here, you were right mom and I probably should have stopped in London but that’s okay. The English teacher came to pick me up and also my roommate who is Ilya Rozanov, do you remember, the one they were talking about but he couldn’t come to the IPC because of an injury? Anyway he’s fine now and

Shane pauses. 

Ilya Rozanov is much more than fine. 

He’s everything the rumour mill said he was; crazy strong and aggressive in play, nearly as fast as Shane. But rumours also said he was kind of an asshole, and he hasn’t been like that at all. He saved Shane a locker and did that thing with the suitcase, and helped out when everyone wanted to be in Farnham’s group. And then this afternoon he stopped everyone from leaving the tutoring group. Oh, and he did all those funny drawings in the notebook this morning, that too.

The more Shane thinks about it, now that he’s not on the spot and spiking with anxiety, the more he can see that Rozanov’s been kind of awesome today. Wow. Not what Shane would’ve expected.

Anyway he’s fine now and has been really helpful today. The other tutor (Cody Farnham from Cali, do you remember him) speaks Russian so I’m the only one who can’t which is really

No, his mom will worry if he says that. He backspaces.

… speaks Russian so that’s really great.

He’s in the middle of trying to describe the bread when the hotel doors slide open and the boys saunter in, laughing and talking and pushing one another. Shane looks up; there, at the back of the group, is Rozanov, his curls glinting as he walks through a patch of sunlight.

His smile is wide and toothy; he glances over and sees Shane, and the smile gets wider still. He lifts his chin and eyebrows in greeting and veers over to Shane, briefly yelling something to the others, who head down to the lifts. 

The chair creaks dangerously when he throws himself into it, all sprawling limbs, dumping a plastic bag by the table. His hoodie is tied around his waist and the tank he’s wearing shows off… well, everything. A little shiver runs down Shane’s spine.

“Good,” Rozanov says. “You are here. I think maybe you…” He mimes with two fingers, a little person wandering helplessly.

“No, I didn’t get lost.”

“Yes, lost. Good you not lost.”

“Um. Yeah.” Awkward, unsure what to say, Shane goes back to his iPod. Looking at Rozanov makes him feel funny. Like if they look directly at one another, if their eyes meet, it’s difficult to look away.

“What you do?” says Rozanov, leaning forward nosily.

“Email. My parents.”

“You tell them you have very good roommate?”

“Um. Yeah, I did,” says Shane, telling the truth without thinking, and then he hears how dumb that sounds and flinches a little bit. God, that was obviously just stupid banter, he was obviously supposed to say something like as if, hell no, I told them you’re an asshole. He’s so bad at that stuff. He risks a rapid glance across the table, and shit, Rozanov’s grin is massive, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. Defensively, Shane says, “Well you were helpful today, I guess, and I don’t want them to worry so I said nice things. But…”

He trails off.

“But what? I am not good roommate?” Rozanov says with mock indignation.

Not having any idea what he was going to follow up that “but” with, Shane just shrugs. 

“You are right, I am. Better than Nikitin.”

“Why? Why is he a bad roommate?”

Ilya says, “Yesterday… you sleep? Early? We come to room, we see you—”

“Oh, yeah.” That’s where that picture came from, that Rozanov drew. The one of Shane conked out on the bed. He was probably drooling. So Nikitin was there too? Awesome.

Rozanov’s not finished his story. “Nikitin, he say we make picture.”

“You did draw a picture of me. In my notebook.”

“No, he want draw ON you.” Rozanov mimes drawing on his own face, fingers circling his eyes as if he’s wearing glasses, then tracing a curly moustache over his lip.

“Oh. That’s, uh, not very nice,” says Shane.

“No. I tell him no. See? Very good roommate.”

“Thanks, I guess.” It’s horrible to think of them watching him sleep and laughing about drawing on him, but at least Rozanov didn’t let him do it.

“He is not… bad. Thinks he is funny.”

“Is he funny? In Russian?”

A shrug. Those shoulders are so impressive. Shane wonders what Rozanov can bench. “Sometimes,” Rozanov says. Gesturing to the plastic bag he says, “You want beer?”

“No thanks. When is dinner? Do we eat here?”

“Yes, but later. You are hungry?”

“A bit. I can get a snack or something.”

Rozanov looks him up and down. Shane focuses on his email. After a minute or two Rozanov declares, “We go to shop. I show you.”

“No, I’m fine. I have some protein bars in my—in our room.”

“You have what?”

“Some—nothing.” 

It’s too hard to explain. He’s finished his email but he re-reads it, or pretends to. He’s hideously aware of Rozanov still watching him, the weight of it prickling over Shane’s skin, itching.

Heaving a sigh, Rozanov slaps his thighs and stands up. He’s going to go—and before he can think about what he’s saying Shane blurts, “No, wait. Yes. Let’s, um. Yeah. Show me where the shops are.”

“Okay, good,” says Rozanov. He picks up his bag of beer. Shane hits Send, his iPod whooshes, and they walk out into the late afternoon sunshine.

ILYA

Hollander stares around as they walk. “What does that say?” he’ll ask, pointing to a sign. “What about that one?” It’s always something incredibly mundane, like One way or Stop or Gas. Ilya says each one in English and then in Russian, just to hear Hollander stumble through the challenging vowels.

“You are English tutor,” says Ilya. “I am Russian tutor. You are very small class. Easy to be top.”

Hollander huffs a little laugh and takes a photo of the gas station on his iPod.

“Boring photo,” says Ilya. He struts onto the forecourt and strikes a casual pose that emphasises his biceps. “Again.”

They keep this up all the way down the street to the shops. Voskresensk isn’t a big place, and these aren’t even the main shops, so it’s only a ten minute walk; but they stretch it out, naming and photographing the school, the blue and white church, some ducks, a shitty old Lada Riva that Hollander says is “very Russian”. Ilya’s poses get more and more dramatic. One involves a handstand. He’s aware that he’s showing off, and he doesn’t care. Something about Hollander has gotten under his skin today. The honesty, the anxiety, the capability on the ice; the way he took control of his own obvious fear and ran that tutoring session like he wanted to do right by them. He’s weird, but in a refreshing way.

That, and…

Yeah. Those eyes, that pretty face. The curve of his chest. The flawless skin.

The knowledge that he comes from a place where this feeling that Ilya’s having is… permitted.

“What’s that?” says Hollander, pointing across the grass to a small wooden structure on the side of the river. The paint is peeling; there’s a very small, very dirty window in the back wall. Ilya jogs downhill to investigate, the bag of beer jouncing in his grip, and peers through the glass.

“Is for boat,” he says. “Little boat, yes?”

“A boathouse,” says Hollander, coming up behind him.

“Yes. Boathouse.” Ilya goes around to the sunlit side of the building, considering how to pose. Hollander gets his iPod out and backs up a little, framing his composition.

“Ready?”

A minor devil takes hold of Ilya. “Time for some high fashion,” he says in Russian. He hikes up the hem of his tank, holds it between his teeth in a snarl, and lounges against the warm wood, hips thrust forward, arms hanging limp. 

“What are you doing?” says Hollander. His voice is definitely higher than usual. Ilya briefly takes the tank out of his mouth and says cheerfully, “Photo!” before shoving it back in and resuming his pose.

“You’re ridiculous,” says Hollander, but Ilya hears at least three tiny metallic camera sounds.

“Is cool. Show me,” Ilya says.

“No. Later, maybe.”

“You want I take photo? For parents?”

“No. Um. Huh. Maybe. Yes,” says Hollander. He thrusts the iPod into Ilya’s hand. His fingers are warm and they fumble against Ilya’s as they pass the small device between their large, hockey players’ hands.

Ilya gestures towards the boathouse. Thumbs in pockets, slightly pigeon-toed, Hollander stands straight and serious. He’s not going to flash his abs, sadly. Missed opportunity.

“Smile,” says Ilya, and a careful, toothy grimace appears on Hollander’s face. Shaking his head, Ilya demands, “No! Real smile, you are happy in Russia, with handsome new friend! Not… this!” He gives an exaggerated impression of the way Hollander’s holding his mouth, and it works; for a brief second he gets a proper smile, crinkled eyes and all.

Click.

In the gastronom, the corner store where they picked up the beer earlier, Hollander inspects everything, fascinated. He zeroes in on all the unfamiliar things, full of questions. It’s a big test of their limited shared vocabulary. Ilya grabs some syrok. 

“You like?” he asks.

“Is it chocolate? Yeah, I like chocolate but I don’t really eat it much. I try not to have too much sugar.”

“No, chocolate is…” Ilya makes a circular gesture, trying to express that it’s only the outside. “In, is…” He wracks his memory. Christ, he’s spoken a lot of English today. Suddenly it comes to him. “In, is cheese!” he says triumphantly.

The look on Hollander’s face is priceless. “Cheese?” he says.

“Yes, but… not cheese? White?”

This explanation doesn’t help, by the look of it.

“I buy, you try,” Ilya declares. “What you like?”

“I, um. I haven’t got any Russian money. I need to go to the bank. We tried, but we couldn’t get rubles in Canada.”

“Is okay, I buy. Is cheap. What you like?”

“No, I don’t—”

“Hollander!” says Ilya loudly. “What. You. Like?”

A pause. Hollander clearly wants a snack. Lunch was forever ago. He’s looking at a boring bag of plain looking sushki crackers, and Ilya grabs it, along with some apples. Hollander looks like a guy who snacks on fruit.

“I’ll pay you back,” Hollander mumbles. “When I get to the bank.”

“Yes, yes. Drink?”

“Um. Do they have ginger ale?”

“What?”

“Never mind. No, no drink.”

It’s still an hour before dinner will be served back at the hotel. Ilya leads them back to the riverside. The sun’s low but the air’s not chill yet, so they sit on the grass and eat their snacks. Hollander likes the sushki but is both fascinated and repelled by the syrok.

“Oh, god, it’s like… like some sort of cottage cheese?”

“What is cottage?”

“It’s like, curds maybe?” He’s poking his finger into the syrok.

“What is curds?”

“It’s… I don’t know. Soft cheese?”

“Yes, that.” Ilya loves it. He reclaims the rejected, molested syrok and pops it into his mouth. Waste not, want not and all that.

“These are good,” says Hollander, grabbing another handful of sushki.

“Good with beer.” Ilya cracks a can, even though it’s going to be warm by now, but it froths and foams wildly, all over his pants. He curses and laughs, leaping to his feet, and Hollander dissolves in a fit of laughter.

“That’s so your fault. You were waving that bag around everywhere while you were posing.”

Ilya doesn’t catch all these words but he catches the sentiment. He wipes his pants and moves to a dry patch of grass on the other side of Hollander, taking a swig of warm, now rather flat beer, and holds it out to his companion.

“No, I—”

Ilya wiggles the can. “Drink. Is only beer.”

Their eyes meet. There’s a long, weird moment in which Ilya falls, precipitously, into a warm brown world; fingers touch his on the can. 

Hollander watches him, every second, while he does as he’s told and drinks.

They get back just in time for dinner. The dining room at this hotel isn’t fancy; it’s got a basic menu, but for the development camp boys there’s a single set meal every night. Tonight it’s plov, rice and beef, with salad and bread and sour cream. It’s alright, but Ilya wishes Hollander’s first Russian dinner was more impressive.

It’s funny, the way the guys have gravitated into the same two teams that were set up today. Two tables of Farnham’s guys, two tables of Hollander’s. There are a lot of taunting jokes flying back and forth between the teams and Ilya tries to keep Hollander in the loop, but it’s too much, too fast.

“It’s okay,” says Hollander as Ilya tries to explain a joke about one of the guys who comes from Kapotnya, one of the shittiest parts of Moscow. “You don’t have to explain everything to me. I’m not… not your responsibility.”

“No,” Ilya agrees. “But is important to know ‘do not live in Kapotnya’”.

A soft laugh. “Not much chance of that.”

“You are from Canada, yes? Is nice?”

“Ottawa. Yeah, it’s nice, I guess. Here is nice too.” 

It’s not really. It’s alright but it’s just a stupid industrial satellite town. There’s much more to see in Moscow proper. Ilya finds himself wondering if he can maybe play tour guide one weekend. 

Hollander’s eaten all his salad but is only picking at his meat. Ilya’s plate is the mirror image. He briefly considers suggesting a swap but decides that’s a step too far.

“You will be in draft this year,” he says instead.

“Yeah. You?”

“Maybe.” Missing out on the Prospects tournament didn’t help, but the Russian clubs haven’t made their final selections yet. Ilya’s still got a chance to impress. He knows that if it wasn’t for that stupid fucking elbow injury he’d have been at the head of the pack; he just has to prove it’s behind him, and he’s hoping that this development camp’s going to give him that opportunity. Plus, if he does a good job with English, and shows he’s a team player… yeah, maybe that’ll help too. God, he wants it so bad. If he doesn’t make it, there’s every possibility that his father will put his foot down and say he has to get a “real job”. Which’ll mean the fucking police, and that’s the last thing Ilya wants to do. 

It’s impossible to express all that in English though. He diverts back to Hollander.

“You want team in Canada? Or America?”

“Canada, for sure, but there’s only seven Canadian teams, and twenty five American, so…” Hollander shrugs. “I just want to be chosen.”

“You will be. You are very good. Everybody know this.”

A small smile, half suppressed. “Thanks. You are, too.”

“Hey, Hollander!” says Zaitsev, pointing at the uneaten plov. “You eat?”

“Um, no, I think I’m done. You want it?”

“No, me,” says Ilya, leaning across and scooping a big forkful off Hollander’s plate. There’s a brief shouting pandemonium as Zaitsev and Oryol join in, the three of them stealing food right off Hollander’s plate, and rice gets everywhere. Tsallagov calls them all fucking animals. Hollander looks as if he might be thinking the same thing.

After dinner they go to the lobby for a smoke because they’re not allowed to in the restaurant. Hollander heads back to their room.

Nikitin, watching him go, says, “Did you hang out with him all afternoon, Roz? We were looking for you.”

“Mmm,” says Ilya noncommittally.

Nikitin snorts. “Bet that was a laugh a minute.”

“He’s alright,” says Ilya.

“He’s more than alright on the ice,” says Kaminsky. He plays offence; a star centre in his club. Today Moroz made him play left wing, to Hollander’s centre. There’s going to be an ongoing battle about that, Ilya can feel it coming, so at least it’s good that Kaminsky can admit Hollander’s good.

“He’s fucking fast,” Zaitsev agrees.

“Everyone’s faster than you, Zaits.”

“My hands are fucking bullets, and that’s all that matters,” Zaitsev says, and that’s true, he’s not gonna win any skating races but he’s a fucking good goalie, so who cares.

Nikitin says, “But Hollander, man. The guy is so serious. I didn’t think he was ever gonna let us out of that stupid tutoring session. We did, like, half an hour more than the others!”

There’s general grumbling, but Ilya shuts it down. “What the fuck are we here for if it’s not to improve our English?”

“Dunno about you, but I’m here to skate all day, drink all night, and find some local pussy,” says Nikitin.

“Yeah! We should head into town. Who’s got a car?”

“Rozanov has.” Faces turn toward him.

“Nah,” says Ilya. “It’s fucking Monday. Waste of time. Maybe later in the week.” He grinds his cigarette out. “I’m going to bed.”

There’s a chorus of mockery and dismay. “You’ll just have to try and amuse yourselves without me, boys,” Ilya says, blowing them kisses.

He opens the door of his room and is momentarily speechless. Hollander, barefoot and wearing only his shorts, is bent into a perfect straight-sided triangle, his ass presented to the open doorway.

“What the fuck,” says Ilya in Russian.

“Sorry, I’m just stretching. I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.” Walking his hands and feet closer together, Hollander slowly straightens up and turns around. His face is flushed from being upside down.

Christ, the curve of his chest is gorgeous. And the waist. Ilya swallows. “More,” he says, waving his hands vaguely and wondering how to say don’t stop on my account in English.

“Oh. No, it’s okay. There’s not much room.”

This is unfortunately true, or Ilya would suggest that Hollander teach him some of those stretches, thereby giving Ilya an excuse to also be shirtless. But then he remembers he doesn’t need an excuse for that, since this is his own room also, and he pulls his tank over his head, toeing off his sneakers. 

Hollander turns away, but not before his dark gaze has skittered all over Ilya’s torso and down to his pelvis.

Is something happening here?

Fuck! It fucking might be!

It’s happening for Ilya, that’s for sure. Maybe It’s happening for Hollander, too.

Which is probably a really terrible idea. But maybe it’s not? What if Hollander, being Canadian, is used to that sort of thing? Sure, there aren’t any hockey players who officially play that way, but so what, it’s totally legal where he comes from, even socially acceptable outside of the hyper-masculine bubble of hockey. Maybe here in the temporary, liminal space of this anonymous room in a foreign country, he’d be… interested?

The weighty, sparking silence is full of possibilities.

Hollander sits on his bed, not looking at Ilya. He picks up his iPod and stares at it as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Move,” says Ilya gently, climbing onto the bed beside him, making his request clear.

Hollander mutters, “What are you doing?” But he shuffles sideways anyway, making room.

Leaning back against the headboard, Ilya lets his shoulder and arm come into contact with Hollander’s; it’s a narrow bed. Their outstretched legs are touching. Ilya wishes he was wearing shorts too, but he’s not. He lets the silence elongate, feeling the delicious tension. The immanence. He loves this stage of connection; the uncertainty, but the thrill. It’s even better with guys, because it’s so taboo, and if he’s got it wrong… The danger is heady. 

Hollander doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move, sits as still as a rabbit in headlights, but his breath is coming faster. “What are you doing?” he says again, but he sounds a little scared, which is definitely not the emotion Ilya wants to hear.

“Photos?” he suggests. “Of… before?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah. Sure.” Some of the tension leaves Hollander, his shoulder relaxing slightly against Ilya. There’s an excuse for this proximity, now. A reason. Softly, softly, Ilya tells himself.

Hollander opens the Photos app and holds the iPod in his left hand, making it easy for them both to see. He flicks through the pictures they took this afternoon, moving quickly past the one that Ilya took of him.

“No! Stop!” says Ilya, flicking back. “Too fast.” He zooms in to Hollander’s face, with its smile and crinkled eyes. “Good photo. Good work, me.”

Hollander huffs. “Oh my god, you are the least modest person I ever met. Your ego is huge.”

“Modess?”

“Modest. Never mind. Yeah, it’s a nice picture. Mom will like it.”

The next photo is Ilya with his tank held up between his teeth. “Also good. Maybe she like this too,” says Ilya evilly.

“Fuck off. Asshole.”

“What? Is good photo. Is good body.” It’s a fucking good body. Ilya would like a copy of this one.

“She’s my mother.”

Ilya notes that no argument has been made about whether or not he has a good body. This is very encouraging. “Your mother no like men?” he needles. “Sad for father.”

Hollander makes an irritated sound that Ilya finds unreasonably enjoyable. “Sorry,” he says, smiling to himself and not sorry in the slightest.

They flick on through the rest of the photos. The church, signs, the gas station (another very good pic of Ilya, the light hitting just right). Hollander swipes again and there’s a selfie of him and what must be his parents. His mother is Asian, his father white. They are smiling but also look as if they might cry soon.

“Your parents?”

“Yeah. At the airport, when I left.”

“They look nice.”

“They are nice.” Hollander turns the iPod face down on his thigh. “There, that’s all the photos.”

“More, please.”

“I haven’t got any more. Well. Not of this trip.”

“Okay. Show other things. Show Canada.”

Hollander turns his head, glancing at Ilya. They’re very close. He smells good, fresh, clean. His tongue swoops over his full bottom lip and leaves it glistening redly; when Ilya forces himself to look away, up at Hollander’s eyes, they’re downcast. If Ilya’s not mistaken (and he’s not) Hollander’s looking at Ilya’s mouth in return. Ilya swallows.

“They’re not very interesting photos,” Hollander murmurs. “Just… home.”

“Yes. I want to see boring home.”

Hollander shrugs, the movement delicious against Ilya’s arm, and complies.

His voice is low, almost monotone, but increasingly warm and happy as he describes what they’re looking at. That’s in our garden. The cat’s name is Tigger. No, like in Winnie the Pooh? But she’s old now. I fell out of that tree when I was seven and broke my arm. That’s my car, I just got it last year. No, it’s good, it does really good mileage per litre, you know? Oh, that’s my team. That’s our coach. This was on my birthday. Eighteen. Yeah, you too? Yeah. No, we just did a dinner thing. That’s, um.

He falls silent. Ilya grabs the iPod. The girl is really pretty, in the cute, girl-next-door way. Not the killer-in-the-club way, not like Svetlana. Great smile, though. 

“Who?” he says, digging his elbow into Hollander’s ribs.

“Um. Jess. Jessica.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“I mean… yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” Ilya gives him a bitch, please look. “You do not know?”

“No, I—give that back. I mean, she’s… We go on dates and stuff.”

Fuck. Ilya’s pathetic. Of course this solemn, serious, gorgeous Canadian has a pretty girlfriend. Of course he’s not going to mess about with Ilya Rozanov, random Russian, just because they’re stuck rooming together. What the fuck was going through Ilya’s head? Idiot.

“Nice. Pretty,” says Ilya.

“Yeah. Do you, um, do you have a girlfriend?”

Ilya shrugs. “Have girls I fuck.”

“Oh,” says Hollander, his voice laced with embarrassed distaste. “Okay.”

Flooded with self-loathing, Ilya swings his legs off the bed and says, “I go for run now.”

“Now? It’s late.”

“Okay, you sleep,” says Ilya, savagely tugging his laces tight.

But Hollander says, “Actually, can I come too? I, um. I’m still a bit on Ottawa time. It might help me sleep.”

Ilya shrugs. Hollander pulls on a t-shirt.

It’s good that he has a girlfriend. It’s good that Ilya found that out, before he made even more of an idiot of himself—before he took a crazy risk.

It’s better this way. It’s good.

Ilya tells himself this all the way around the block. Twice. By the time they get back, he almost believes it.

Chapter 4: In Which Ilya Rozanov Receives An Unwelcome Visitor

Chapter Notes

Recap: Shane's rooming with Ilya at an English Language intensive summer hockey camp in Moscow. Things are going okay, he's managed his way through the worst of the anxiety of being out of his comfort zone and Ilya's helped him with a lot of that. In fact, when we left them it seemed that Ilya maybe liked Shane a little more than he should... until Shane showed him a pic of a girl and let him think she was Shane's girlfriend.

Poor disappointed Ilya. Let's make him suffer just a little more, shall we?

What passes for plot in this fic shall now commence.

Many thanks to everyone who's reading and commenting, I appreciate you so much! It's been particularly nice to get comments from people I don't even know, because I know that's hard and kind of scary so thank you guys!

And biggest thanks and squishiest hugs to SRL, to whom you all owe a big vote of thanks for converting all my UK spellings to US, as is only right considering who the narrators are. Even if it makes me pull that lemon-sucking face XXX

SHANE

“Hello?”

Shane pushes back from the cafeteria table and stands up. That little ember of panic, always ready to flare, ignites—why are his parents calling? Isn’t that, like, super expensive?

“Shane? Honey? How are you? Are you free for a call?”

“Yeah, of course, is everything okay?”

“Totally. Totally. I just… we just missed your voice, wanted to catch up.”

It must be incredibly early back home. After two weeks in Russia, Shane’s adapted to Moscow time, but he still always knows Ottawa time, like a second clock running through his days. Here, they’ve just finished lunch in the rink’s cafeteria. 

Rozanov’s looking over at him, a question on his face. Shane says quickly, “Just my parents. I’m gonna…” as he backs away, looking for somewhere quiet where they can talk.

There’s nobody in the training room. He stands by the window, enduring the homesick ache stirred up by his parents’ voices.

“You’re on speakerphone, honey. We want to know everything!”

“I think I’ve told you everything.” He’s emailed almost every day for the last two weeks.

“How are you sleeping?”

“Sleeping fine, Mom. Eating fine.”

“Any interesting Russian foods?” says his father.

“Some gross ones. Mostly fine. I’m gonna bring you back some sushki. Like little round O’s but crackers. You have them with—” He starts to say beer, but changes his mind. “Like, snacks.”

“Looking forward to it,” his dad says.

“Tell us more about the boys you’re playing with. Are they good enough to keep you challenged?”

“Yeah, some of them.”

“How are your days going? Useful?”

Down below, there’s movement. Half a dozen guys are heading across the car park to the grass verge, where they sometimes go to smoke. It’s mad how many of them smoke. Unbidden, Shane’s eyes track that one curly gold-brown head; Rozanov. The way he saunters, all confidence and strength, is everything Shane wishes he could be—the looseness in his limbs, the easy movement of his broad shoulders. Shane mimics the motion in microscopically small movements. Right shoulder, left, right.

“Honey? Are you still there?”

“Yeah! Yeah, sorry, Um. Well, I told you we’re in two teams, right? Like, twelve in each. And I tutor my team, and we practice and condition together, and then every afternoon we play the other team.”

“Keeping you in the same two teams doesn’t sound like the best way to find optimum player combinations,” says his mom.

“No, but we’re not trying to. It’s about building relationships in the team and learning English.”

“So which team is the best?”

“Ours, of course,” says Shane.

“Of course. ’Cos they have you.”

“Not just me. Zaitsev is a really good goalie. And Kaminsky’s really good with complex plays; he's pretty great. He was at the IPC, you remember? He was playing center then?”

“Mmm, yes, I do remember him. That's great, honey. And what about your roommate?”

“Yeah. Rozanov. Yeah, he’s… he’s the best, probably. I don’t get to play with him much, though, because we’re both centers, so we play against each other in practice, then in the afternoon game, we’re only on one at a time. He's awesome to watch, though.”

Down on the grass, Rozanov is wrestling with Popov. They roll over and over, and the shouts and laughter of the others drift on the breeze. Rozanov pins Popov’s wrists and straddles him, yelling some nonsense or other.

For a brief moment, Shane’s imagination puts him right there, where Popov is. The soft scrape of grass and the huge blue above; the sun making Rozanov’s curls into a wild corona. Rozanov grinning down at him, victorious and joyful. His heart lurches, and he swallows.

“Shane?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“Did you hear me? I don’t think this is a very good line.”

“No, sorry, some, um, some noise here. Can you say that again?”

“I asked how the tutoring is going.”

“Oh. Yeah. Actually okay, I think,” says Shane. “Pretty good. We talk a lot about hockey. We talk about the game we just played. I mean, some of the guys are better than others, you know, but… yeah, some are alright.”

“It must be so daunting. You’re all so young… I keep imagining those boys planning to leave their families and come to a foreign country to play in the world’s best league… you’re doing such a good thing for them, Shane, helping them communicate better. I’m so proud of you; it was such a brave choice.”

Shane grunts, embarrassed.

“They couldn’t have possibly found a better person than you. They’re so lucky.”

“God, mom, please.”

“You’re laying it on thick there, Yuna.”

“I’m proud of my boy! What’s so wrong with that?”

“You’re embarrassing him.”

“I’m not, I’m mothering him.”

“Well, that’s probably enough mothering for now. We should let Shane get back to his day.”

Shane can envisage their faces so clearly through this exchange. He can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, I'd better go,” he says. “But thanks for calling, it’s good to hear your voices.”

“Yours too, honey. Bye for now, then.”

“Bye! Hope you win this afternoon’s game!”

“Bye. Thanks, bye.”

He hangs up. Outside, Rozanov’s lying on his back now, hands behind his head, eyes closed in the sun. The posture raises his chest, spreads his lats, and makes his stomach a concave curve that looks perfect to lie your head on. It was weird saying that name to his parents. Rozanov. Ilya.

It’s been eighteen days since Rozanov climbed onto Shane’s bed, their bare arms and shoulders pressing together. Eighteen days since Shane panicked and lied—well, maybe not a lie, maybe only an exaggeration—and said that Jess was his girlfriend.

She’s not, not really. She’s just a nice, friendly girl that he took to the movies a couple of times. A normal girl, a fun girl; a girl who wanted to hold hands, and kiss, and make out. Which Shane did, because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and because he wanted, more than anything, to be normal too.

But he’s not. Ilya Rozanov is proof of that, and it’s fucking agonising. 

Rozanov is a magnet; everything about him yanks at Shane’s attention. Like he’s the moon and all the blood in Shane’s body is pulling, tidal, towards him. Sure, his body is insane, and his face is stupidly handsome, but it’s all the little things, too. His voice and his accent, the way he says Hollander, the ‘o’ filling up the whole cavity of his mouth. The scattered moles across his torso, the one on his cheek that made Shane suddenly understand the term beauty spot, the cream of his skin. Those fucking curls. The intensity of his focus when they’re on the ice. In the morning practice sessions, they face off against one another, over and over. Rozanov is so good, so aggressive, firing down the ice like a bullet from a gun. Every day, they fight to be picked for the first line in the afternoon game against Farnham’s team. Moroz gives them both fair ice time; he’s a good coach, and Shane’s learning a lot about the difference that the wider rink makes to the Russian style of play. That in turn helps him read his opponents better. It’ll be worthwhile, one day, when he’s playing against Russian-trained players in the NHL.

And off the ice, too, Rozanov’s always there. He tries harder than anyone to involve Shane with the others, always flipping between Russian and English to explain things and inviting him along when they go out. Last weekend, they went for a drive out to this crazy white mountain, some industrial fucking slag heap of massive proportions, Shane and Rozanov and Zaitsev and Nikitin. Rozanov made them speak English all day; he flat-out bullied his friends into it. Kept a tally of every time someone fell into Russian, and the loser (Nikitin, of course it was Nikitin who couldn’t resist making sly jokes in Russian) had to buy the first round that night. 

Rozanov says he’s doing it because they’re here to learn fucking English, and it’ll be worth it when they make it into the NHL, but whatever his reasons are, the fact is that he’s making this whole thing a thousand times easier for Shane than it would be without him. He helps Shane, and he grins at Shane, and winks, and laughs, and rubs his hand in Shane’s hair. Mocks him often, but it’s always weirdly affectionate, and he won’t let anyone else hassle Shane, ever.

It’s a good thing he’s always talking about girls, honest to God, or Shane would think—

No. Stop it. No, he wouldn’t. Jesus, he has to get himself back in line.

The boys outside are trailing back into the building. Shane heads to the locker room to gear up for the afternoon game.

“Everything okay?” says Rozanov, making a phone gesture, as they lace up their skates. Shane’s massive suitcase is still in front of their section of the bench, and Rozanov still uses it like his own personal table. Right now his skate’s on top of it, and it’s making marks on the suitcase. This both enrages Shane and makes him pathetically happy that he’ll take home marks made by Ilya Rozanov. It’s very confusing.

“Yeah, fine,” he says. “My parents just wanted to check in.”

“Check in?” says Rozanov. He always repeats things he didn’t understand.

“Yeah, check in. It means, um, they wanted to make sure everything is okay with me.”

“Why it not be okay?”

“No, no reason. Everything is okay.”

“You have problem, you tell me, yes?”

“I haven’t got a problem, Rozanov.”

Rozanov grunts as if he doesn’t quite believe this. “If someone is problem—”

“Jesus, will you listen to me? There’s no problem!”

“Okay! Okay!”

As they head for the rink, Rozanov says casually, “I go home this weekend.”

“Oh. That’ll be nice.”

A shrug. “You want to come?”

“Huh?” says Shane, like an idiot.

“You want to come? See Moscow?”

Half of Shane would love a couple of days of solitude and not talking. But he really does want to see Moscow. And he really would like to hang out with Rozanov, even if it’ll just make his painful, stupid, impossible crush worse.

Fuck it.

“Yeah, that would be awesome,” he says.

“Awesome,” Rozanov repeats, with a combined grin and wink that makes Shane briefly light-headed.

They gather on the ice, all twenty-four of them, jostling and shit-talking. Shane gets down on the ice and does some stretches until Kravets blows a whistle to get their attention.

“New rules today,” he says loudly. This, more than the whistle, shuts everyone up. Shane stands.

Moroz grins, his nose red from the cold. “From now on, we only speak English. On the ice, in the game. Always.”

There’s a groaning wave of complaint, which Kravets shuts down real fast with a clap and an angry look. “Eh! Fucking babies! This is what you’re here for!”

Shane’s just forming a plan—obviously, Moroz will put him in first, and he’ll focus on the terms they’ve been covering in their tutoring sessions—when Kravets says, “We will be fair. Farnham, Hollander, you do not play today. The rest of you, any word of Russian on the ice is a penalty.”

“Noooo, fuck,” mutters Rozanov beside him. Shane’s disappointed as hell, but also, this new rule makes him feel ultra competitive. He knows he’s been taking the tutoring more seriously than Farnham, so he reckons his guys have definitely got the edge here.

“It’s okay,” he says, beckoning them all closer. His team starts coagulating around him. “We covered all this, you guys know it. Man on when someone’s coming at you or someone else, and open when you can receive, and drop when you’re leaving someone the puck.”

manon manon open drop drrrrop drrrrop they mutter. 

“Remember other important words,” says Rozanov, “like fucking useless, where are your balls. Keep insults simple; they are too stupid for clever things.”

“Fucking useless!” yells Zaitsev, cheerily, across the ice. The blue team gets rapidly into the spirit of things. Russian douchebags! Pussies!

“What is douchebag?” says Kaminsky.

Luckily, Moroz breaks it up before Shane has to attempt to answer that, herding them over to the bench. “Hollander, you can watch if you want, but not on the bench.” He waves up at the stands. “Go. Go, no last-minute cheating.”

“I don’t cheat,” says Shane indignantly.

“Good. Go.”

“We got this,” says Tsallagov, punching Shane’s shoulder pad.

Shane taught them that last week. He grins. “You got this,” he agrees.

He sees Farnham making his way up behind his team’s goal, where he’ll get a good view of the play. Shane heads in the other direction. He hasn’t managed to make friends with Farnham; the two-team arrangement makes it hard, sure, but even outside of the rink, they haven’t connected. He gets the feeling that Farnham makes jokes about him to his guys; sometimes Farnham comes over and makes small talk, but as soon as he goes back to his team, there always seems to be a comment and a laugh, and people glancing over at Shane. He also seems to be using this camp to practice his Russian, frankly. He’s got relatives here still, so he disappears to stay with them on the weekends, when most of the rest of them have time to hang around and get to know each other. Shane settles into a seat directly behind the red team's goal and takes off his helmet. It’s weird being up here in full gear. Kaminsky takes center in Shane’s place. He loses the first face-off, and Shane chews nervously on the lace of his jersey as the puck flies down the ice towards him. The guys on the benches are yelling almost immediately, their words unclear from up here, muffled. Ladygin makes an attempt on goal, but Zaitsev’s right there, taking a hit to the chest to block it, and then Pestov’s got possession, and off it goes again.

It doesn’t take long to see the edge that Shane’s team has. They’re shouting at each other, warning each other when they see things coming, communicating. Sure, the blues are too, but mostly they’re just shouting me, me, and twice Kravets stops play and gives penalties for hearing them say something in Russian.

When Rozanov is brought on, he looks up at Shane and grins quickly before looking up over Shane’s shoulder. At the same time, Shane registers footsteps. Rozanov’s face suddenly closes off, and he skates away.

Curious, Shane turns. A young guy’s making his way along the row of seats behind him—a stranger, which is weird, because the rink isn’t open to others during the weekdays. Shane smiles, offers a vague greeting, and nods at the guy, acknowledging his presence. He’s not going to start a conversation that’ll only end up with him explaining he doesn’t speak Russian.

“Privet,” says the guy, sitting really close to Shane, only one row back. He says something else in Russian, gesturing at Shane’s hockey gear, and back at the ice.

Shane shrugs and feels himself blushing. “Izvinite. Sorry. Um, ya ne govoryu po-russki.” His accent is terrible, he knows, but at least that gets the message across.

“Ah. English?”

“Yes! I’m Canadian! You speak English?”

“Nyet.”

Okay, fine. A short conversation is a good conversation. Shane smiles, nods, and turns back to the game. Rozanov has just scored and is taunting the blues’ goalie in impressively rude English. God, Shane hopes the coaches don’t think he taught Rozanov those words.

“Lorsque vous êtes Canadién… parlez-vous français?” says the guy behind him, rather unexpectedly.

“Uh, oui,” says Shane, in French, turning round again.

“Êtes-vous Québecois?”

“Non, mais je l’ai appris quand même.”

His new companion stands and climbs over the row to sit with Shane, leaving a seat between them. His French is good, though it has a strange Russian lilt to it. “Pleased to meet you, Canadian Hockey Player. Why aren't you playing? Have you been naughty?”

“No, I just… I’m one of the English tutors, and today they’re only allowed to speak English, so it wouldn’t be fair if I was playing. Or that guy, he’s the other tutor,” says Shane, pointing to Farnham at the other end of the rink.

“Ugh, poor you, trying to teach them. Hockey players are very stupid.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Mmm, it is.”

“Well, I’m a hockey player, so—”

“But you speak French, so you are a civilised hockey player. A sophisticate.” He gives Shane a sly, amused look, flicking his eyes up and down Shane’s body.

“You don’t play, then?” says Shane, deciding to ignore that look.

“Absolutely not.” Dark eyes flash wide in dramatic revulsion. Fair, the guy doesn’t look like a hockey player. He’s tall, wide-shouldered, but lacking the muscle for it. His clothes are all black, like an art student or something, and a diamond glitters in one earlobe.

“Then… um, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here? I think the rink’s closed to the public at the moment.”

“I’m not the public. One of the coaches is my father.”

“Oh, okay. Which one?”

A hand is offered, long-fingered and cold to Shane’s touch. “Moroz. I’m Alexander Moroz.”

“Shane. Shane Hollander.”

“Hello, Shane Hollander. How are you finding our glorious motherland?”

“It’s, um, it’s been good? I haven’t seen much. Just here, really.”

“Well, that’s a terrible waste, to come all this way and sit in this smelly ice bucket all day.”

“I might get to see some more of Moscow this weekend.”

“Good. There are good clubs there. Good restaurants.”

“I’m not really a club person,” says Shane. “Do you, um, do you live in Moscow?”

“Not really, not anymore. I grew up there, but I study in Paris now. Just home for the summer.”

“Right. So you’ve come to visit your father?”

“Come to ask him for more money,” says Alexander, rolling his eyes as if this is a great inconvenience. “Paris is superb, but not cheap.”

The action’s moved up the ice towards them, the red defense doing a spirited job. Shane starts to yell, “Behind you, Ni—” and then remembers he’s not supposed to, and claps his hand over his mouth. Nikitin passes to Oryol, who weaves between Farnham and Garanin and slaps the puck fast and sharp towards an empty spot on the ice. Rozanov comes flying up the side, captures it, and passes at the last second to Funkitov, who slices it across the front of the goal, distracting their goalie—Rozanov’s lightning fast enough to intercept and smash it back to Funkitov, who slaps it in at a gorgeously tight angle. God, it’s a beautiful play, a lightning-fast zigzag of fleet collaboration.

Shane leaps to his feet. “Yeah! Let’s go!”

“He’s not bad, eh?” says Alexander.

“Who, Funkitov? The guy who got that goal?” Actually, Funks isn’t super great, but he’s smart and strategic enough to have figured out that Rozanov can make them all look better than they are. Shane takes his seat again, feeling oddly proud of his team and how well they’re doing.

“No, I meant Rozanov. Ilya,” says Alexander.

“Oh, sure. Yeah, he’s… he’s really good.”

“Always has been.”

“You know him?”

“My father has trained him for years. He’s Papa’s golden boy.”

Shane’s seen the way Moroz dotes on Rozanov, pushing him, criticising him, demanding more of him than he does any of the others; he’s seen the way Rozanov’s lips purse, a tiny sign of satisfaction and pleasure, when Moroz gives him a curt good job, or raps his knuckles approvingly on Rozanov’s helmet. 

It must be hard to have a father who feels like that about someone else your age. Shane doesn’t know how to respond to that unspoken undercurrent of bitterness.

He looks down at the ice instead, his attention drawn as always to Ilya Rozanov. He’s skating in slow arcs, staring up at the two of them, his face unreadable. 

Shane lifts a hand in greeting, but Rozanov doesn’t return it.

ILYA

Something hot burns inside Ilya to see Sasha there with Hollander. They don’t belong together, they shouldn’t be in the same time and place, they’re from different parts of his life and it makes him squirm to see them there, heads leaning close. They’re talking, chattering away. Has Sasha somehow managed to learn English in Paris? No, surely not. Does—does Hollander speak French? Fuck, he might. Canadians, right?

He turns his back on them and focuses the formless, anxious anger into the game. It makes him aggressive, but nearly fucking unbeatable. He has a great smash into the boards with Mityaev, and the pained grunt that comes out of his opponent is intensely satisfying. Plus, Ilya gets control of the puck.

It’s not that he’s showing off, knowing that both Sasha and Hollander are watching him. It’s just that he really, really wants to win. He wants Hollander to tell Sasha how good he is. He passes to Oryol, shouts man on to warn him he has to pass it off quick, and Oryol intercepts neatly and flicks it straight up to Pestov, who passes it up to Popov, playing on Ilya’s right wing. Garanin’s flying towards him until Pestov gets in his way, giving Popov the opportunity to flick it back to Ilya. Ilya’s still way back from the goal, but fuck it, he can do it, he can do it, the blue defense is nowhere near the line he’d need, if he could—

He slams it into the top corner from nearly ten meters back, trusting in the speed of his shot and the expectation that he’d be trying to get closer before making the attempt. Dyatlov, in goal, moves fast but not fast enough. Not fucking fast enough.

Nikitin slaps Ilya on the back. “Lucky!” he says.

“Or good,” says Ilya, scowling up at the stands. Hollander’s on his feet, grinning and clapping, which Ilya likes. Sasha lounges at his side, pleased as a cat. 

Which Ilya doesn’t like at all. A self-satisfied Sasha Moroz cannot be trusted.

The reds win handily. Moroz tells them their prize is that they can leave early, but Kravets’ team has to do their tutoring session as usual. A plan to head out for drinks before dinner forms rapidly on the red bench.

Some of the guys know Sasha, who waits at the side of the rink, and Kaminsky invites him to join them. Sasha demurs, says he needs to see his father. Hopefully, he’s just being agreeable when he says he might try to meet them later. 

Ilya can’t ignore him completely, or Moroz would notice, but he keeps his greeting brief and turns rapidly back to his team.

Hollander comes out with them for once; he tends to avoid group outings, but today he’s so obviously happy and proud of them. It’s charming how delighted he is with a victory he didn’t even get to be part of. 

They take up almost all the outdoor space out the back of the small bar around the corner from the hotel, sprawling over the mismatched selection of plastic chairs and wooden benches. Sunshine, beer, and victory are a great combination. The guys keep buying rounds for Hollander, who doesn’t normally drink much; he surreptitiously pushes the third bottle over to Ilya. 

They’re much more used to having him around now, and getting so much better at throwing in lots of English, keeping Hollander in the conversation.

“To Hollander!” says Zaitsev, for about the third time. “Best tutor!”

“To Hollander,” Ilya agrees. “Sometimes being boring is good.”

Nikitin raises his drink again. “To boring!” 

Hollander laughs, shakes his head. “Winning is not boring,” he says. 

“True. True!”

“And you guys won for sure. It was so cool to watch you. Kaminsky, you did great.”

(This is bullshit—Hollander would never have lost that first face-off—but Hollander is always painfully sportsmanlike.)

“And you,” Hollander goes on, turning to Ilya. “That play with Funkitov? Immaculate.”

“Imma what?”

“Immaculate. Means, um, perfect. Super clean.”

Imm-ac-ulate, Ilya mouths to himself, looking at Hollander. At his happy smile, his tousled hair, where all the boys have been ruffling his head in thanks. At the bright brown of his eyes in the sun and the delicate prettiness of his freckles. Immaculate. His heart tightens, aching a little with want. 

It’s so incredibly stupid, so pointless, but he can’t quite stop himself from lingering in the warmth of that feeling even though he’s too old for this sort of ridiculous behaviour. He’s spent too many celibate nights in that fucking hotel room, thumpingly aware of the perfect muscled body in the bed across from him. Maybe when he goes home on the weekend, he can find somebody to relieve that tension for him. Although now he’s gone and invited Hollander along, that plan might be dead in the water.

Hollander says, “Alexander was really nice. Coach’s son.”

It’s not enjoyable hearing that name in Hollander’s mouth. Ilya thins his lips. “I don’t know him very much,” he claims mendaciously.

“Oh? He said lots of nice things about you. He loved your second goal. I told him that one was crazy risky. You should’ve—”

“Should have got goal, did get goal. Did you not see puck go in?”

“You got lucky.”

“No. Is skill.” They learned that word last week.

“You’re a cowboy.”

Ilya frowns, confused. “Russians are not cowboy.”

“No, it means… someone who takes risks. Makes up rules.”

Considering this, Ilya takes a long draft of beer. Yeah, okay, fair enough. He changes the subject: “You speak French?”

Now it’s Hollander’s turn for confusion. “Yeah, but how… oh, because I was talking with Alexander?”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah. Canada, you know.”

“Of course. Bi-lingual.” Another word from class. Hollander says they’re all going to be fully bilingual soon.

Ilya remembers this word—will remember it forever—because of the way Hollander looked at him when he said, it means, um, two tongues. I mean languages. Tongue is another word for language. It comes from the French, la langue.

The end of that was lost in the general hilarity over the phrase “two tongues”, of course. In Russian, the same word means both things. In English, it’s just fucking funny that Hollander chose the word tongue. They’ve all given him shit about it ever since. 

“Yeah,” says Hollander, blushing and looking away, but smiling; obviously remembering the same moment. “Yeah, I know, two tongues.”

Sasha doesn’t turn up for drinks. Hurray! They all troop back to the hotel for dinner, pleasantly buzzed and still cocky from the win; they go in for dinner and start giving shit to the other team until Hollander elbows Ilya and asks him to get them to lay off, which seems like an impossible challenge until Zaitsev sits down with the heavy graceless plonk of the semi-drunk. The shitty hotel dining chair collapses under him. The resulting mayhem and hilarity distract everyone very effectively.

Back in their room, Hollander grabs his iPod and says he’s going to head to the lobby to check his email.

“Okay. Run later?” says Ilya, because they still do that most nights, and he likes it. They both sleep better, they reckon.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

But he’s barely been gone five minutes before the key’s back in the lock. This warning sound gives Ilya critical seconds in which to yank his hand out of his pants and start gazing intently at the shitty little television on the chest of drawers, which is replaying some cheesy old comedy. He bends his knee, hiding the evidence of the lingering effect of Hollander saying two tongues. Dammit, can’t a man get a moment’s peace?

“Look who I found,” says Hollander, yanking his key free and sitting on his bed, gesturing to the doorway. “Entrez, Alexander.”

Fuck. Really? Yes, really. 

Sasha closes the door and leans back against it, ankles crossed, smiling.

“Privet, Ilyushka.”

Hollander smiles, gorgeously unaware. “Is that your nickname?”

He knows about familiar names, Ilya explained them to him, but he doesn’t know that one. There’s no nice, friendly, familiar name for ‘Ilya’; it’s too short. There are only intimate versions like Ilyushka, with its loving overtones that are totally inappropriate unless you’re taking the piss or you actually mean it. The way Sasha just used it, with that tone and that sly insinuating look, is way out of line. Luckily, Hollander is desperately ignorant.

“No, is not,” says Ilya. In Russian, he says, “Don’t call me that, are you fucking crazy?”

“Crazy for you,” says Sasha, with a mocking wink.

“Stop it!”

“Don’t worry. He doesn’t understand a word.”

“He can understand a fucking wink.”

Hollander is looking between them, from one to the other and back again. “Is, um. Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” says Ilya with a tight smile. “Sorry. Just Russians being Russian. I know Sasha… a long time.”

“Oh, I thought you said—”

“I know him long time, but not… close.”

Hollander says, “This is weird, isn’t it? You and I can talk English, and you and—and Alexander can speak Russian, and—”

“Sasha,” says Sasha, inviting Hollander to use the name. Hollander takes a second to follow what he means, and then smiles. 

“Sasha? Votre petit nom, pour Alexander?” he says. That French R rolls on the back of his tongue. Sasha says something else, a long and doubtless charming explanation which includes a lot of very Parisian hand gestures and the words Sasha and Ilyushka. There’s no telling what he might be saying. He’s such a shit-stirrer.

“Will you shut the fuck up,” says Ilya in Russian, and then he turns back to Hollander and English. “Yes, yes, you two speak French. But not me.”

“Hmm,” says Hollander, frowning adorably. “I didn’t think of that. Sorry, I guess this is kind of difficult. But he wanted to come see you.”

“Is okay.”

Sasha says something else in French, gesturing at Ilya and giving Hollander that ingratiating smile that he uses for people in authority and various other idiots. They burble at each other for a while, and Hollander laughs. 

“Hello, I am here too,” says Ilya loudly, in English, because it will be much easier to make Hollander feel bad than Sasha. And also because at this point he feels like shouting.

With a very French pfft sound, Sasha says something that’s clearly mocking. Hollander bites his lip, trying not to laugh, but his eyes scrunch up. 

This is horrible. Ilya hates this. Two minutes ago, he was about to settle in for a quick but vital wank, and now he’s being laughed at in another language by a) the object of his hopeless lust and b) a guy he’s fucked. This sucks.

Hollander gets up. “I’ll, um, leave you two to catch up,” he says. “In Russian.”

“No!” says Ilya in alarm, because this is entirely the wrong outcome.

“I’m gonna go write some emails, then take a shower,” says Hollander firmly. He grabs his towel from the hook on the wall. “I might be a while.”

“Merci! A bientôt,” says Sasha, wriggling his fingers in farewell.

The door closes.

Fuck.

Chapter 5: In Which Shane Hollander Witnesses Something Life Changing

Chapter Notes

Recap: Shane meets Ilya when they're sharing a room at an English Language intensive summer hockey camp in Moscow, where Shane's tutoring. They're getting along great -- in fact, Ilya was starting to like Shane a little more than he should, until Shane showed him a pic of his girlfriend, so Ilya put that thought away. BUT NOW... Sasha's showed up at their hotel, and Shane's politely gone off to write emails and give the two of them some time to catch up.

Ohhhh nooooo time for some drama :)

I've been away for a few days and haven't managed to liaise with my beloved beta so sorry for any mistakes, that's on me X

ILYA

“You’re a fucking asshole,” says Ilya fiercely. “And very fucking stupid. Has Paris fried your brain?”

Sasha tuts dismissively and saunters over to sit on the edge of Hollander’s bed. He leans back on the heels of his hands, his absurdly long legs stretched out in front of him. His hair is longer than last time Ilya saw him, falling into his eyes. He licks his lips. “Come on, Ilya. We both know you enjoy playing on life’s risky cliff edges.”

“Not that risky. Fuck.”

“He’s Canadian. Outside Russia, people don’t think about things the same way this shithole does. In Paris nobody gives a damn, you can like who you like. Fuck who you like.”

“We’re not in Paris. Or Canada.”

“We will be, soon. You’ll be in America, I’ll be in France. We’ll be free as birds.”

“Not if we want to come back here. You need to be more careful, Sasha.”

Sasha smiles. Not that arch, sly smile he puts on for everyone else, but that affectionate, open one that so seldom appears on his face. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Ilya shakes his head as that smile taps straight into the belly-deep affection that still lurks inside him for this handsome, dangerous idiot. “Tell me about Paris, then.”

A dramatic shudder. “Ugh, it’s so beautiful. The clothes, the wine, the art. The parties.”

“You’ve made friends?”

“Mmm.”

“Any special ones?”

“So many. Oof, French boys,” says Sasha, rolling his eyes. “Such whores. It’s wonderful.”

A laugh bursts unexpectedly out of Ilya. He’s missed this, Sasha with his shameless horny appreciation. For a while there, it’d been so much fun between the two of them. Young, and thrilled at their terrible shared secret; the fact that it was so forbidden made it throb a thousand times more pleasurably. They’d laughed a lot, fucked a lot, learned a lot, and felt oddly trusting with one another because they both had so much to lose. Mutually assured destruction, Sasha had said. You’re my nuke, I’m yours. Nobody’s pressing that red button.

“You’re getting plenty, then,” Ilya says now.

“Mmm, so disgustingly much. You?”

Ilya gestures at his own face and body. “Do I look like I’d be having trouble?”

Smirking, Sasha says, “It’s true, ego monster. You look good. As always.” He stands, and comes over to Ilya’s bed; sits on the end of it, beside Ilya’s still-bent knee. Ilya’s heart rate kicks up a notch, memories flashing through his mind.

“I’m flying out tomorrow,” says Sasha. He presses his lips to Ilya’s kneecap, his dark eyes peering up at Ilya through lashes and hair. He walks his fingers up Ilya’s outstretched leg, from his ankle to his knee and up the inside of his thigh, dipping under the hem of Ilya’s shorts with small caresses.

“So?” Ilya’s voice comes out a little hoarse, and he’s very aware that he’s not doing anything to discourage these touches. And sometimes nothing says… everything.

“So, this is our one and only chance for a little game of Remember When.” Sasha’s fingers delve deeper, until his fingertips can brush over Ilya’s briefs, tickling his balls.

Ilya knows he should grab that wrist and drag it free, but still he doesn’t. Truth is that he’s gone without for weeks, maybe a month or three, and he isn’t feeling particularly strong resistance-wise. Hollander’s been driving him to distraction, leaving Ilya marinading in this heady miasma of impossible and unrequited lust, and this is a quick, safe, familiar option, if nothing more. Ilya calculates. Hollander spends at least half an hour on emails, and nearly the same again on showering. Even if he’s fast tonight, they’ve still got a little time. Not much, but enough.

“I thought you’d put up more resistance than this,” says Sasha. “I prepared a whole speech about why it wouldn’t do any harm, why we might as well. Don’t you want to hear it?”

“No. You always talk too much.” Ilya shoves his hand under his waistband, meeting Sasha’s fingers inside his shorts. He takes Sasha’s hand and rubs his palm over Ilya’s thickening cock.

“You’re so easy,” says Sasha, half mocking, half impressed. “Which is more than I can say for this angle.” He tugs his hand free, then hooks his fingers beneath the elastic of Ilya’s shorts and briefs. Lifts one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “May I?”

Fuck, this is such a bad idea. The worst. But it’s also the easiest way Ilya’s going to be able to get some relief, especially now he invited Hollander home for the weekend. And tomorrow Sasha will be safely on a plane, and he won’t be here to drop little sarcastic comments or call Ilya Ilyushka in front of people. 

Fuck it. Fuck it! Ilya pulls the curtains and then scrambles out of his shorts and briefs, leaving them tangled around one calf. He sits back against the thin hotel pillows, knees raised and spread. He lifts his cock from his belly, offering it.

“Quick, then.”

“God, you’re such a romantic.”

“We haven’t got long. You’re the one who started it. Do you want it, or not?” His dick’s fully at attention now, and has a long and reliable history of attracting Sasha’s absolute focus.

Sasha kneels between Ilya’s bent thighs. His eyes, and then his hands, roam up Ilya’s torso. “I fucking hate hockey,” he murmurs, “but it does do wonderful things to the body.”

“Seriously, Sasha, get on with it. Suck my dick. We both know you want to.”

Pulling an unimpressed face, Sasha nevertheless bends and gets straight to work. Christ, his mouth is good. They’d taught each other well, but he’s obviously been honing his skills in France. Ilya holds his skull, fingers spread wide, and enjoys the soft fall of his hair and the sight of his own cock disappearing, then reappearing wetly as Sasha bobs up and down.

There’s a sound in the hall, someone banging into a wall and laughing, and Ilya’s heart stutters. He hisses a shhh! and holds Sasha’s head still, until Sasha bats his hands away and pulls off, scowling.

“When did you turn into such a nervous old babushka? They can’t get in here.”

He’s right. Ilya’s being a shit lay. “Sorry,” he says, smiling a tight smile. “Here, come here.” He encourages Sasha to crawl up the bed, and kisses him. He used to love doing that, and is disappointed to find that the magic of it has evaporated somewhere along the way. “There,” he says. “Now get that pretty mouth of yours back on me.”

He leans back, eyes closed, as Sasha takes him deep again. Mmm, yes. Hot and wet, all gorgeous suction and swirling tongue, that appreciative humming. Ilya cants his hips, pushing up into it. Sasha can take it. He can take anything.

Could Hollander take it? What would his mouth look like, doing this? Those mahogany eyes gleaming up at Ilya, that perfect sleek skin of his shoulders and arms? 

A whimper escapes Ilya. Oh, fuck yes. Yes. That’s Hollander’s mouth, Hollander’s tongue. He gentles his thrusting, but Sasha chases after it and takes him deeper, right into his throat. Ilya curses as pleasure curls and solidifies. So good, so fucking good. Sasha’s cupping his balls, stroking them as they rise and tighten, as Ilya approaches the edge. Ilya pinches his nipple, the sharp near-pain sending shockwaves down his body to meet the oncoming rush.

And then the mouth’s gone, replaced with the rough tugging grip of a hand. “Show me,” says Sasha. “I want to see it. Come for me, Ilyushenka.”

Ilya closes his eyes again. Hollander’s hand. Hollander’s perfect smooth Canadian accent. Come for me, Rozanov.

He makes a choking sound and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, belly convulsing as he comes hard and bright. The spatter of semen is audible, quick hot splats on his chest.

“Fuck, yes,” murmurs Sasha appreciatively. “God, look at it all. That was so fucking hot.” He unbuckles his belt, pushes his pants low and takes out his stiff, red cock. “Can I come on you too?”

A small, metallic sound at the door.

Fuck.

Too many things happen at once.

The door opens. Ilya scrabbles up the bed, away from Sasha, grabbing a pillow and slamming it over his groin. Sasha gasps, laughs, shoves his cock back in his pants. At the same time Ilya’s tugging at his underwear and shorts, which are twisted around his calf, trying to find his way back in.

It’s all futile, because while they’re doing this Shane Hollander is coming in and saying, “Sorry, I forgot my toiletry bag, I won’t be a—”

He looks up.

Fuck. The horror on his face, when their eyes meet. The fucking HORROR.

Hollander hurls himself back out into the corridor. The door slams shut.

Ilya’s blood is running cold. His face is numb. He’s stopped breathing.

“Oops!” says Sasha gaily. “Well, I guess we’ve got plenty of time now.” He starts to undo his trousers again.

“Get out,” Ilya growls, shoving Sasha off the bed. “Get out, you fucking idiot. I have to go after him.”

“No you don’t. He’s a big boy. He’s not Russian. I told you, they don’t give a fuck.”

“Hockey gives a fuck,” Ilya spits. He uses the pillow to roughly wipe away the sticky come, and wrestles his way back into his shorts. “And Russia gives a fuck, and I am a hockey player in motherfucking Russia, Sasha!”

“That nervous little boy isn’t going to—”

Grabbing Sasha by the arm, Ilya hauls him across the room. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up and go back to Paris.”

“You’ve lost your sense of fun,” Sasha yells over his shoulder as he stamps down the corridor.

Ilya pulls on a tank and shoves his feet into sneakers, not even bothering with socks. Key in pocket, he jogs down to the bathroom; empty. Hollander’s towel is still hanging in one of the shower cubicles. Taking the stairs two at a time, he runs down to the lobby. It’s lifeless.

“The Canadian,” he snaps to the girl at the desk. “Did he—?”

“He left.” She hooks a thumb at the entrance. 

Ilya runs.

He takes the route they take every night. Hollander is a creature of habit, and it’s nearly dark; he’s going to go the safe way, the way he knows. Ilya sprints along the road and takes the first road on the right, and yeah, there, up ahead; a glimpse of a white t-shirt, the kick of a foot, disappearing around the corner.

“Hollander!” he yells, and runs faster. “Hollander, wait!”

His feet slap the pavement, his thighs burn as he pushes forward. Faster. Faster, got to catch him, got to—

He rounds the corner, and shockingly, Hollander’s standing there. Hands at his sides, face unreadable in the dusk; waiting, just like Ilya asked. Ilya pulls up short. This is good, a good thing. Hollander’s not running away, and doesn’t appear to be about to punch Ilya either.

“You are okay?” Ilya says carefully, leaning on his knees to catch his breath.

“Um. Yeah.” Hollander’s looking up at the sky, along the road, anywhere but at Ilya. “It’s fine. I mean, yeah, I got a surprise, but I don’t want you to think—I mean, I’m not, you know, I’m not homophobic, I don’t—”

“Shh,” Ilya hisses, looking around. Who knows who could be listening, and who knows whether they speak English? “Not here. We run, yes?”

Hollander’s eyes glint as he blinks. Once, twice. “Okay,” he says. “Sure.”

They fall into an easy lope, as they have a dozen times before. They don’t talk, don’t look at each other. Once round the block. Twice. Ilya’s mind is racing. On the final turn, the one that would lead them back to the hotel, he keeps going straight. Hollander follows his lead, at his side pace for pace.

“Where are we going?”

“River.”

Soon they’re on the path that runs alongside the river, empty in the dusk. There’s a bench here, quiet and away from houses and people and listening ears. Ilya slows and sits, Hollander beside him. They’re silent for a moment as their hearts and breathing return to normal. They’re hot, and sitting like boys do, knees wide. Not touching, but Ilya can feel the tickle of leg hair, tiny and electric. 

He doesn’t know where to start.

Hollander does it for him. “Um. I’m really sorry. I didn’t know he was, like, your… boyfriend.”

Ilya snorts. “He is not.”

“Oh. He’s just… a guy you fuck?” says Hollander tightly, and it’s so unexpectedly vulgar from him that Ilya’s eyes widen until he remembers saying that about girls, weeks ago. I have girls I fuck, he’d said. 

“Yes,” says Ilya, with brutal honesty. “Is problem?”

“No. No, I told you, I’m not… I don’t care.”

Ilya looks across at him, but Hollander’s facing resolutely forward, as if the sluggish glint of water is the most fascinating thing in the world. The moon’s out and his face is silvered with sweat. His profile is so perfect it hurts. Ilya swallows.

“But in Russia,” he says carefully, “is problem. You understand?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not okay here.”

“No. Not okay. And in hockey, too…”

Hollander snorts. “Yeah, in hockey too. I get that.”

“Mmm,” says Ilya. Christ, what a disaster. His career, his life, is suddenly in Shane Hollander’s hands. “You will not tell people?” he says, and it comes out neutral as anything even though inside he’s begging, terrified.

“God, no, of course not!” Hollander sounds sincerely offended. “I—you don’t have to worry about that. I would never.”

Running his fingers through his damp hair, Ilya savours the slow deflation of relief. “It would be bad for me,” he says.

“I get it. It’s okay.”

Thank you pushes at Ilya’s throat, but he can’t bring himself to say it. It feels like grovelling.

Hollander says, “You should maybe not take risks like that, though.”

“I did not think it was… danger. Thought you stay away longer.”

“No shit,” says Hollander, and he flicks a glance at Ilya, mirth at the corner of his mouth. Such a pretty mouth. “But seriously, don’t panic. I’d never say anything to anyone.”

And Ilya believes him. Everything he’s seen Shane Hollander do and say over the last few weeks tells him that a promise from this guy is forged in steel. He nods. “Okay. I trust you,” he says.

“Good. You can.” There’s a pause and then he says, “Do you trust him, too?”

“Yes. Would be bad for me, would be bad for him… same secret.” Ilya sighs. “Sorry. Was very stupid.”

“So stupid. Really fucking idiotic.” Hollander makes a noise that’s almost a laugh, and Ilya could hug him. 

“No more stupid,” he says. “I promise this.”

“Good. Because that was fucking horrifying,” says Hollander, elbowing Ilya in the ribs.

“What, you never see that before?”

“No!”

“Well, new experience. You are welcome,” says Ilya, winking.

Hollander shakes his head. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. He definitely is. “Race you back?”

SHANE

Rozanov's car is sleek and he drives fast. He plays loud music, something unrelenting and percussive, a woman’s voice talking fast over the top of it and then singing high and sweet. It’s weird, dreamlike.

The last few days have all been dreamlike. No matter what he’s doing, Shane’s mind won’t let go of that brief, obliterating second. All he can see when he closes his eyes is Ilya Rozanov, stretched out on that bed, naked. Shane’s mind flashes from knee to thigh to shoulder to curls to chest, every portion of the guy more magnetic than the last as he grabbed that pillow and crushed it to his groin, just a moment too late.

It’s a blur in Shane’s head, but he’s examined that blur a hundred times. Rozanov’s dick was partly obscured by the long line of his muscled thigh, but not completely. He was still hard, his cock thick and red and shiny. Shane’s never seen anything like that before but now it’s as if it was burned onto his retinas. He can’t stop thinking about it, or the milky dribbles of come on Rozanov’s body. The pillow did nothing to hide those. And Alexander, knelt there between Rozanov’s legs, still dressed although Shane thinks he might’ve had his cock out? He can’t remember. All he could see was Rozanov.

He plays it over and over in his mind’s eye, what must’ve been happening before he opened the door. Alexander must’ve been blowing him, right? It could’ve just been a handjob, maybe. But Shane’s imagination prefers the vision of that dark head bent, of Rozanov’s big red-knuckled hands holding him there, of Rozanov’s expressive face grimacing in pleasure.

They turn onto an expressway, multiple lanes of traffic, and Rozanov speeds up, overtaking again and again. The music gets louder, and that’s good, because they don’t have to make conversation.

It’s not that conversation’s been too awkward the last couple of days. That talk in the park was frank and honest, and Shane feels Rozanov’s gratitude towards him, for his acceptance and assurance of secrecy. And their days since then have followed their busy, established path: breakfast, rink, lesson, training, lunch, game, tutoring, hanging with the other guys, dinner, run, bed. Easy to just fill in with hockey talk. 

But now they’re leaving Voskresensk and camp and it’s just the two of them.

Shane wonders if Rozanov’s regretting having invited him home for the weekend. He’d considered saying he’d changed his mind and was just going to chill at the hotel, but he couldn’t figure out a way of phrasing it that wouldn’t sound like it might be related to The Incident, and the last thing in the world he wants is for Rozanov to think that Shane’s in any way judging him or grossed out by what he saw.

He’s not grossed out. He’s so not grossed out. Whatever’s the complete opposite of grossed out, that’s what Shane is.

And that’s really doing a number on him.

This feeling, this visceral attraction, is all new to him. He knows he never felt it for any girls, never understood what the other guys were going on about. The closest he’s ever come is the surreptitious pleasure of, like, Calvin Klein ads or whatever, but he’s never felt it strongly enough to wonder whether he was…

…different.

The weird thing is that Rozanov didn’t seem to be even a little bit fazed by the fact that he likes boys as well as girls. All he’s fazed by is the risk of anyone finding out. Shane’s done some googling over the past couple of days and he gets it now. It’s not just a hockey problem, it’s a Russia problem.

He risks a glance across at Rozanov. In black sunglasses and a black tank, he looks totally Russian. Crazy good. Stupidly tempting.

Shane feels barely sane. Barely himself. Who even is he?

They exit the expressway and drive down avenues lined with square, elegant apartment blocks. Past churches, markets, a big roundabout with a statue in the centre. In the distance there’s a glint of gold; those fat onions that sit at the top of that famous cathedral.

“We can get closer,” says Rozanov, noticing him looking. “You want?”

“Sure.”

Red Square’s all pedestrian, but they drive close enough that Shane can see the distinctive colours and patterns of St Basil’s. It’s otherworldly and does nothing to help anchor him back into himself.

“And there, that is Moscovsky Kreml.”

“The Kremlin?”

“Da. Now you have seen Moscow.”

This is pretty accurate. Red Square, that cathedral, the Kremlin—yup, that’s the full extent of Shane’s knowledge. 

It’s not far from the centre of town to Rozanov’s family home. It’s in a fancy part of the city, well-kept and tree-lined. Multi-storey stone apartments line the roads, quiet and brooding and serious. It doesn’t feel like Rozanov at all. He parks in an underground carpark and they grab their bags and take the stairs up to the first floor. 

Rozanov unlocks the door and calls, “Privet, ya doma!” He ushers Shane inside, shucking off his trainers. Shane does the same. The apartment is high ceilinged, dark and rich, like walking into a chocolate box. Rozanov leads him through into a living room, where sunlight pushes its way between heavy rose-coloured velvet curtains and makes the dark leather couches gleam. He calls out something else in Russian, and a woman’s voice echoes back: “Ilya?”

“Da,” he says loudly, and then in English, “And a friend from Canada.”

Hasn’t he told them Shane’s coming?

A woman bustles into the living room from another direction, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s dark haired and pretty, in an anxious sort of a way. She asks Rozanov something and he shakes his head, answers her. Shane just stands there smiling and feeling like an absolute idiot.

Rozanov says, “This is Polina, my… father’s wife. Polina, Shane Hollander. From Canada.”

“Hello,” says Shane. “Pleased to meet you.” He holds out a hand and she shakes it, her touch light and cool. She smiles back, but it’s thin. 

She and Rozanov have a discussion. Without understanding any of the details, Shane at least gathers that their arrival is inconvenient. Their voices aren’t raised, but their words are short and clipped and Polina keeps shrugging as if to say, there’s nothing I can do about it. Shane’s never felt so awkward in his life, and that’s saying something for Shane Hollander.

Rozanov sighs and nods. Looking more apologetic, Polina gestures in the direction she came from and says something that sounds less irritated; then smiles again at Shane and says in careful English, “Welcome.”

“Um. Thank you. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes,” says Rozanov. “Come.”

Polina disappears and Rozanov leads the way upstairs. They go up two flights, and into a large bedroom that Shane guesses is Rozanov’s; the decor is deep blue and there’s a shelf above the bed with several trophies on it. He closes the door behind Shane and throws his head back, rolling his eyes dramatically and groaning.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Blyat. Fucking Polina. Fucking Polina.”

“What?”

“They… people come here, tonight.”

“Oh, other guests?”

“Yes. Other bedroom is for them. I want for you, but no.”

“Oh. Um. Sorry.” Shane wonders if he should offer to go to a hotel or something.

“No, no sorry. You have my bed. I have, um…” Rozanov waves his hands around, making the shape of a small low bed. “I bring from…” He points at the ceiling.

“Like… a cot? A little bed? From the attic?”

“Yes.”

Rozanov’s bed is huge. All Shane can think is, we’d both fit in there.

“I can take the small bed,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“No, me.”

“No, really, I don’t mind, I couldn’t take your bed.”

“Hollander!” says Rozanov fiercely, as if Shane’s being really annoying. Shane subsides.

They both go up to the attic, up a set of stairs that pull down from the ceiling of the corridor on the floor above. It’s dark and dusty and full of boxes. A tall mirror. One of those dressmaker’s dummy things. On a set of shelves, Rozanov finds a box with a picture of an inflatable mattress on it. 

“Oh shit, is that the little bed?” says Shane.

“Yes,” says Rozanov, looking at it in distaste.

“Those things are terrible. You always wake up lying on the floor.”

“Probably.”

We’d both fit in your bed. “Seriously though, I’ll take it,” says Shane, grabbing for the box.

“No!”

They wrestle for it. It becomes quite physical, and neither one of them gives in.

“Give it to me. I don’t even mind camping. I bet you hate camping,” Shane pants. He’s got his shoulder braced into Rozanov’s chest, using the twist of his body to try to get control of the box.

“I love camping,” says Rozanov. 

“I don’t believe you. Liar.”

“I love outside. I love dirt-sleeping.” He reaches around Shane with his other arm, grabbing the box and yanking. Shane gets pulled back against Rozanov’s body, clutching the mattress to his chest with both arms and laughing. Rozanov leans back and literally lifts Shane off the floor. Fuck, he’s strong. “Give me dirt-sleeping bed!” he yells, his breath hot on the side of Shane’s face. “Is mine!”

Shane’s laughing so hard it hurts, and at the same time it’s sending shivers all through him to have Rozanov’s arms around him like this. Being hugged against that solid wall of muscle.

A flashback slaps him in the face. This chest, golden in the lamplight, splattered with come. He’s milliseconds away from going limp and giving in, just so he can escape, only right now he appears to have lost the power of speech.

He’s saved by a deep, irritable voice at the bottom of the ladder. “Ilya?”

Rozanov releases him instantly. “Is my father,” he says, and crouches by the trapdoor, greeting his father. After several sentences of back and forth, in which Rozanov’s face goes icy and severe, he says, “Come,” and heads down the ladder.

Shane swallows and puts on his best serious young athlete, reliable and trustworthy face. At the bottom of the ladder he holds out a hand to Rozanov’s father, who’s bald and intimidating and much older than Shane’s dad. There are lines in his face like carved scars and his eyes are pale, cold blue. He grips Shane’s hand hard and gives it one quick, military shake.

“Shane Hollander,” says Shane. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Thank you for…” He trails off. He can’t say thank you for inviting me because clearly he didn’t.

“I have seen you play,” says Rozanov senior. His accent is thick but thank goodness he speaks some English. “You are very good.”

“Thank you. Roz—I mean, Ilya, your son. He’s very good too. Really good.”

When someone says nice things about Shane to his dad, there’s a gleam of pleasure and pride on his father’s face. This man stays stony. “Perhaps,” he says. “He may not make your NHL draft because of that foolish injury.”

“Injuries happen,” says Shane. “But everyone still knows how good he is. He’ll make the draft, for sure.”

“There is the KHL now,” says Mr Rozanov.

“Sure. Yes, it’s very exciting. But the NHL is still the… well, um, you know, I mean—” Oh god, he can’t say the NHL is the best, even though it totally is. 

“NHL has money,” says Ilya. “So.” He shrugs.

His father changes the subject. “Polina has told you we have guests this evening? Tonight?”

“Yes.” Ilya waggles the boxed inflatable mattress. “We have bed.”

“You will need to find your own supper.”

“Yes. No problem. We will… go out.”

“Be quiet when you return.”

“Yes, father.”

Rozanov senior grunts, nods, and disappears downstairs.

They take turns blowing into the rubber nozzle, getting the bed ready. It takes forever. Rozanov gets sheets and blankets and makes it up. Shane doesn’t know what to say. This is not family, not as he knows it. He’s so uncomfortable. But he can’t say nothing.

In the end he says, “Is your father… okay with you being a hockey player?”

Rozanov’s rifling through his closet, which is large and extremely full of clothes. “He will be when I am drafted. When I have money.”

“Well, that’s totally going to happen. You’re better than any of the guys we played in the Prospect Cup.” It’s true, he is. He’s every bit as good as Shane; maybe not quite as accurate in goal, but just as fast and even more fearless.

Rozanov shrugs. He pulls out a black shirt and holds it up to the light, considering. It’s so fine it’s almost see-through and embroidered with black vines and flowers.

“For you,” he says, tossing it to Shane.

Shane laughs. “What?”

“For tonight. You wear tonight.”

“No way. No.”

“Yes. We go out. We meet my friend, Svetlana.” He selects something else and holds it up against his body, checking in the mirror. It’s a softly draped knit in a honey colour that matches the gold in his hair; it’s sleeveless and has a deep v neck.

Shane holds out the shirt. It’s light as gauze. “I can’t wear this. I’ve got my own clothes.”

“Hollander, I have seen your clothes,” says Rozanov pityingly. “You wear this shirt. You look great. We meet Svetlana, maybe her friends. We find girls. You see Moscow at night. You will like. Will be fun.”

Oh, god. What has Shane gotten himself into?

Rozanov sees the look on his face and grins. He saunters over and tousles Shane’s hair.

“Do not be scared, Hollander. I will look after you. I promise.”

Chapter End Notes

I SWEAR I wrote that shirt before it manifested in real life. It made me very happy.

Illustrations lurk in tessville on tumblr X

Chapter 6: In Which Shane Hollander Almost Enjoys Dancing

Chapter Notes

Recap: Shane meets Ilya when they're sharing a room at an English Language intensive summer hockey camp in Moscow, where Shane's tutoring. Improper thoughts ensued but nobody's acted on them... but last chapter Shane got the shock of his life when he accidentally walked in on Ilya and Sasha and now the improper thoughts are unstoppable. We last left them in Ilya's home, where they've come for the weekend, and they're heading out to meet Svetlana at a club. Ilya played a little bit of dress up with Shane and there is a strong chance of ONLY ONE BED. Hurray!

Many thanks to everyone who's read and commented, and I was totally thrilled to get a comment in RUSSIAN last chapter! Hello from across the world! This is now my most subscribed story and I'm so appreciative 🫶

And thanks are due to Hudson Williams for helpfully wearing the exact shirt I'd already written, providing me with reference materials. So thoughtful right?

Last but not least, massively grateful to the indefatigable and wonderful StrangeRedLantern for her eagle eyes and superb judgement. You're fabulous my friend. XXX

SHANE

They hang back at the end of the queue. Rozanov is texting his friend, this Svetlana girl. The temperature has dropped way down, and Shane is freezing in this horrifying shirt, but Rozanov wouldn't let him wear a hoodie over it. He'd rather die than wear this thing in Ottawa—you can see his nipples—but he keeps reminding himself that he's in Moscow and nobody here knows him. And actually, now that he sees the rest of the people queuing up at this dark doorway, laughing and sparkling and beautiful, he's relieved that he did as he was told. This shirt fits in here. A couple of people have even eyed him in ways that make him blush and look away. 

Music is thumping dully from inside. This is a million miles away from Shane's kind of place, but he's already so wildly out of his comfort zone it's almost as if one more thing is irrelevant. When you're already underwater, you can't get any wetter. And Shane's right at the bottom of the ocean, in Russia, staying at Rozanov's weird home, wearing a see-through shirt on a dark Moscow side street, and entirely at the mercy of a guy who he didn't even know three weeks ago, but who now fills up every tiny gap in Shane's imagination twenty-four-seven. It's all totally out of control.

The beers they had earlier are helping, though.

"She is here," Rozanov says, nudging Shane. He waves at a girl who's crossing the street, running towards him in the most terrifying high heels. Wow. That's a talent.

And of course she's crazy beautiful. Of course she is. A wild corona of curls, a huge smile, legs for days displayed by the shortest dress Shane's ever seen. All the girls here look like supermodels, and this one's no exception. She throws herself into Rozanov's arms, and he lifts her off the ground, spinning her round and planting a noisy kiss on her cheek.

"Put me down, Ilyushka, you beast," she says, kissing him back. It takes Shane a second to clock that she said it in English. Feet back on the pavement, she turns to Shane with a gorgeous smile. He starts to hold out a hand in greeting, but is suddenly enveloped in a hug, his face covered by sweet-smelling hair.

"Svetlana Vetrova," she says. "Call me Sveta. I'm so happy to meet you, Shane Hollander. You're going to be a star."

"Hello. Um, good to meet you, too."

Rozanov says, "Sveta knows everything about hockey."

"Oh! Really?" Shane did not expect this.

Svetlana—Sveta—hooks her elbow around his and drags them into the queue proper. "Yes, really. You and Ilya are both very special players. I predict great things."

"Don't tell Rozanov he's special, his ego's massive enough as it is," says Shane. "Your English is amazing, by the way."

It turns out Sveta's spent a lot of time in the States. She's really nice. Before they even get to the head of the line, Shane learns that her father was a star goaltender, and she's known Rozanov forever. She's been away for a few months and hasn't seen him since she got back, so she's delighted to have this chance to reconnect.

The bouncer seems to recognise both Shane's companions and ushers them all inside. They descend a dark staircase and emerge into a massive, pulsating space full of bodies, music, and flashing lights. It's heady, terrifying. The beat of it vibrates in Shane's sternum. Sveta has him by the hand, keeping him close as they thread their way through the crowd and upstairs to a dimly-lit mezzanine full of couches and low tables. Below them, the dance floor writhes. Rozanov finds a space and shouts instructions to wait here while he gets drinks. He doesn't ask what they want.

It's super loud, but Sveta leans close and yells questions at him. Questions about the camp and the other players, about Shane's club back home, about his hopes for the draft. God, it's so nice to talk to someone with such great English; Shane finds himself talking way more than usual.

Rozanov returns with a tray—a bottle of champagne, three flutes, and three tiny shot glasses full of a clear liquid.

Shane starts to demur when one's put in front of him, but they both give him an identical oh no you don't look. They clink the tiny glasses together and Shane takes a sip, then realises that the other two threw the shots back in one.

"No, no, no," says Rozanov, while Sveta laughs delightedly. "Is vodka. You drink it all."

"But," says Shane.

"That's how we do it," Sveta tells him. "Come on! You're in Moscow! Do it like a Russian!"

Okay. Down it goes, and they cheer him. It burns, warm in his belly; Rozanov pops the champagne cork with careful skill and fills the flutes. There's more toasting.

"To getting Ilya speaking English!" says Sveta. "You're doing such a good job, he's so much better already."

"He's a good student," says Shane, and she pulls a shocked face.

"Ilya? This Ilya? Maybe you're thinking of another Ilya."

"No, really, he's great."

"I am great," Rozanov agrees. "Is true." His knee is bouncing in time with the music, his shoulders lifting slightly as if he already wants to dance.

Shane sips the champagne—at least he doesn't have to down this in one—and gazes around as Sveta and Rozanov put their heads together, talking quickly in Russian. Everyone looks so sophisticated. He's only been to one nightclub before, and it didn't look like this. The girls didn't look like this, and the guys didn't look anything like this. 

He sees a girl at the next table with the most amazing white-blonde hair, a waterfall of it. She's wearing a white dress and a super fluffy white fur coat that's thrown over her shoulders, like a polar bear who's turned into a princess. Suddenly, she looks up, her eyes a bright silvery blue, and catches him staring. Shane's frozen for a second and then looks away, embarrassed.

He doesn't look back in her direction, but he's aware of movement. A moment later, she's standing by his end of the couch, and he has to look up at her, or it would be rude. She's left her fur coat with her friends; the dress exposes so much pearly white skin that he doesn't know where to look. Head on one side, she says something to him in Russian.

"Um. Um, nyet," says Shane, totally unable to recall that carefully rehearsed phrase, for I don't speak Russian. "English."

She smiles and throws her weight onto one hip, holding out a hand and wiggling her chrome fingernails at him. "We dance?"

"Oh, no, I don't—"

"Da, yes! He will dance!" shouts Rozanov. Sveta pokes Shane with a sharp finger, grabbing the champagne flute out of his hand; the polar bear princess takes hold of his other hand and drags him away. Shane throws a pleading look over his shoulder at Rozanov, but gets nothing but a lifted champagne flute and a wink of encouragement.

Shane never dances. He hates it. He never knows the songs, even at home, and he knows he's got no rhythm. Self-consciousness burns, the awareness that he's shit at this, and that this beautiful girl is going to be desperately disappointed in him. Still, he does his best to pretend, nodding his head to the thumping beat and stepping from foot to foot. The dance floor's so crowded there's no room to do much more, which is a relief, but the downside of that is that after a couple of songs, his dance partner starts grinding closer and closer against him, lifting her arms overhead in a way that arches her spine and lifts her breasts, pushing them against him. 

Shane glances upward because he can't look downward, and Rozanov is leaning on the balcony, watching him. His face is expressionless. Lights flare pink, then strobe. The necklace he never takes off flashes, metallic.

Shane's mouth floods with sudden saliva.

The girl puts a hand on his shoulder, her head tilted in query, and he realises he's stopped moving. She looks up at Rozanov, then back at Shane, and scowls; she mutters something and twists away from him, dissolving back into the crowd.

Fuck. Abandoned and feeling like an idiot, Shane shoulders his way off the dance floor and over to the bar. He's embarrassed and he wishes he could leave, but a slow and unpleasant realisation washes over him—he can't. He's got no idea how to get back to the Rozanovs'; he doesn't even know how to call a cab, so he's stuck. 

The stairs to the mezzanine are right by the bar, and something shamed and a little self-destructive makes him head in that direction, rather than follow the girl back upstairs. It's challenging at first, but the barman figures out his sign language and the repetition of vodka. A girl next to him at the bar helps him figure out which notes he needs, because he can't understand the numbers being yelled at him and isn't familiar with the money in his wallet. Well, maybe she's helping, or maybe he just paid way too much, but anyway, he heads upstairs with three more shots. Maybe these will distract Rozanov and Sveta from his pathetic failure.

To his immense relief, the polar bear princess and her friends are gone, replaced by a loud new group of girls, one of whom is wearing a gold plastic crown. When Shane puts his offerings on the table, Rozanov high-fives him. Their table already has more empty shot glasses on it than when Shane left, and also another full one. "Is yours," Rozanov shouts, mercifully not mentioning the girl who just ditched Shane mid-dance.

Shane throws it back. It's so small, so easy. Like medicine.

The girls beside them buy a whole bottle of vodka, and the one in the crown comes and refills their shot glasses, then drapes herself over Rozanov and pesters him until he goes and dances with her. Another girl tries to get Shane to go down too, but he says no and points at Sveta until she gives up. They all start dancing right there on the mezzanine floor, having a great old time. Several times, they try to get Shane and Sveta to join them.

The world is getting fuzzy and sweet after three vodkas and most of the bottle of champagne. Shane doesn't drink like this. He moves close to Sveta and yells over the music, "You should go dance, if you want. I'll keep the table for us."

"No, not tonight. I already have a handsome and interesting companion," says Sveta, and she twists sideways on the sofa, hooking one long leg over his knee and smiling seductively at him.

Oh god, is she trying to…?

She leans very close and says against his ear, "Is this alright? I think it might keep you safe from the ravening wolves at the next table."

"Um, yeah. Thank you."

"I get the feeling you're not interested in that this evening."

"No." Gosh, he likes her. He didn't expect to, but he really does. “No, I’m not.”

"Which is fine. And by the way… Ilya told me what happened with Sasha," she says, sudden and blunt. Heat rushes to Shane's face. He takes a long drink of champagne, bubbles popping sharply in his throat.

"Oh," he says. 

"He feels very bad. It was a very stupid thing to do."

Shane shrugs.

"He's very lucky you were so understanding. So kind."

"No, it's fine. I mean, I don't… I don't care."

"A lot of people would care."

"Not me." This is both true and false. Shane doesn't mind if Rozanov is gay, or bi, or whatever. But also he thinks about it non-stop, fucking non-stop. 

He looks through the bars of the balcony, the dull glint of a plastic crown catching his eye. Rozanov's wearing it now. His eyes are closed, his muscled arms high, and his hands are flicking with the beat, his body writhing. Shane wants to pluck every other dancer off the floor and drop them off a cliff, clear the way so he can see every part of Rozanov's dancing body—the thrust and curve of his hips. Of course, Rozanov can dance like that. Of course he can. Of course, he looks incredible in that stupid plastic crown. Of course he does.

He turns away, and Sveta's face is right there, watching him. Drunk, stupid with the ache of it all, Shane says, "Does he—does Ilya love him? Sasha?"

Her laugh is pure and amused, but it's not mocking. "God, no, darling. No. It's just… entertainment. Experimenting, you know?"

Shane doesn't know. He's got no idea. "Yeah," he says. "Okay. Sure."

"But you mustn't ever say anything. To anyone, not at the camp, not his family, nothing."

"I won't. I'd never. Truly."

She puts a hand on the side of his face, turning him towards her, and gently kisses his cheek—the girls at the next table hoot and holler.

"I thought he was crazy when he said he trusted you," she says, her hot breath tickling his ear. "But I get it now."

ILYA

If tonight were a normal night, Ilya would already be planning to leave. This girl is grinding all over him and kissing his neck, and she's hot. Like, hot hot. Totally up for it.

But it's not a normal night, and Ilya is going to sleep on an inflatable mattress with Shane Hollander in the same room. With Shane Hollander in Ilya's bed. So there's no point leading this girl on too far. 

One more song, he tells himself, just one—because he loves dancing, and he really loves dancing with a hot girl draped all over him. Ever since he was old enough to sneak into clubs, he's adored this. The close press of bodies, the easy sensuality of it; it's the antithesis of the cold, thrilling competition of the ice. With a few drinks in him, it's like a hug. He misses hugs. He loves hugs, and he loves dancing.

Poor Hollander didn't love it, though. He looked like a trapped rat earlier. He needs to loosen up. He needs to feel what Ilya's feeling right now, the freedom of it and the pleasure of a body synchronised to sound, pulsing in the darkness.

Ilya pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts Sveta. Bring him down here, let's dance.

The girl he's with pouts and attaches herself to his neck like a lamprey in a bid to regain his attention. He lets her, because a good hickey will earn him points with the guys when they get back to camp, but when his phone vibrates he disengages.

Sveta's text says, He doesn't want to.

Tell him not to be a scared baby; we will look after him.

There's no reply.

Give him more vodka, Ilya instructs.

The girl, displeased by his lack of enthusiasm, presses close, up on her tiptoes with her mouth right by his ear. "Find someone else to ignore, asshole," she hisses, and steals her crown back before wriggling away through the crowd of bodies.

It's fair enough. Ilya moves to the side of the dance floor and looks up at the mezzanine. Sveta and Hollander are standing by the balcony railing, looking down. They make a beautiful pair, if a little solemn; and then Hollander sees Ilya, and something lights up in his face, something delighted and lovely that Ilya wants to cradle in his mind forever.

Ilya stands with his arms wide in invitation, beckoning two-handed. Sveta laughs and nods; Hollander's still shaking his head, protesting, as she leads him down the stairs.

Ilya makes his way over to them and takes them both by the hand, leading them into the writhing mass of bodies. This song is a fucking banger, and the floor is vibrating in time with it. Hollander's hand is so big compared to Sveta's, big and warm and clutching anxiously. He leans in close to Ilya and shouts, "I can't dance, honest, I'm happy just to wait upstairs."

"Nooo, Hollander!" Ilya whines, close to his ear. "Don't be boring. Don't worry. We show you."

He steps behind Hollander and puts his hands on that muscled waist, moving his own hips to the beat. Sveta faces Hollander, smiling irresistibly wide, and takes his hands in hers, lifting them, moving them with the music as Ilya plasters himself up against Hollander's spine, letting him feel all the movement. 

Fuck, it's so hard not to grind against that delicious ass.

"Like this," he says, right against Hollander's ear. "Go loose. Close your eyes, feel it."

God love him, Hollander does try. He lets Sveta puppet him; he moves almost to the beat. They dance for him, sandwiching him between them, and after a minute or two, Ilya feels him relax a little. Good. He's pushed through his self-consciousness. This will be a good experience for him, a memory to take back to his safe little world back in Canada. He will remember dancing in a flashy Moscow nightclub with a beautiful girl and a handsome boy, with the warmth of vodka and champagne running through his veins.

He will remember this. He will remember Ilya.

They stay until the crowd starts to thin out. Ilya calls Sveta a cab, holding her tight. He tells her, "Soon, when I'm in America, I'll see you all the time."

"All the time. I love you, Ilyushka." She's warm, slurring, happy.

"Love you too."

"Love you, Shane!"

Hollander laughs, hugs her, and kisses her cheek.

And then it's just the two of them again.

The cab ride is quiet, Hollander staring hazily out the window. He's definitely quite drunk. That last round really wasn't necessary.

Back at the silent apartment, Ilya whispers Shhhhh and Hollander nods, understands. He's quiet as a mouse, careful on the stairs, though he stumbles a little.

They take turns in the bathroom, and when Ilya's finished, he closes the bedroom door softly, carefully. Hollander turned on the bedside light and drew the curtains, still the perfect tidy roommate.

It should be easy and familiar; they're used to sharing a room now. But this isn't any old room. This is Ilya's room. That's Ilya's bed. It doesn't feel familiar or easy. It feels… loaded. Full of impossible possibilities. Ilya watches, fuzzy-headed and mesmerised, as Hollander strips down to his underwear, folding everything like he does, and Hollander doesn't even seem to notice him looking. He holds out that fabulous shirt, the shirt he looked so good in that Ilya will never want to wear it again. What would the point of it be? He'll never look as sleek and obliviously delicious as Hollander did. 

"Where do I put this?" Hollander whispers. "For washing?"

The shirt looked obscenely good on him, but shirtless, he looks even better. The smoothness of his skin over his muscles is disgustingly beautiful. Flawless. What would it feel like, under Ilya's hands?

Ilya grinds his teeth, grabs the shirt, and tosses it towards the washing hamper. It nearly goes in.

As he takes off his own clothes he asks, with admirable normality, "You have good night?"

A small, lop-sided smile. "Better than I thought I would."

"Is different, in Canada? Clubs?"

Hollander shrugs, his muscled shoulders lifting and creating beautiful divots above his collarbones. "I don't… I don't go to places like that much. Not much of a dancer."

"But you can dance now," says Ilya, doing a little dance in his underwear, letting his torso writhe. His ears are still ringing; the beat's still there in his blood. "We teached you. You learn good."

Blushing, Hollander looks away and smiles wider. "It was fun, dancing with you. And it's taught. You taught me, not teached."

"Yes, okay," says Ilya, although that verb makes absolutely no sense. He pulls back the bedding on the inflatable mattress.

Oh. It's a lot thinner than it was when they left. Poking it with one foot, he realises it's almost entirely flat.

"Blyat," he says. He kneels and yanks the sheets off, looking for the nozzle.

Hollander says, so quickly that it takes Ilya a moment or two to decipher it, "That's dumb, don't do that, it's just gonna go flat again. We can share the bed, it's no problem, honest."

Fuck. Ilya's torn. On the one hand, yes, please. He's tired out, and he'd like to be comfortable. On the other hand… sharing a bed with Shane Hollander is going to be torturous. Ilya's got a big enough problem as it is, and that isn't going to help.

Still, in a few weeks, Hollander will be gone. What's wrong with creating a few memories that Ilya can replay in his mind, a few what-if fantasies to harbor and embroider?

He shrugs. "You are sure?" he says.

"Of course," says Hollander.

"Okay," says Ilya.

They climb into bed. Hollander turns off the light. 

It's pitch black, the curtains thick and efficient; nothing like their room at the hotel, which is always semi-lit by streetlights through the thin drapes. Ilya's incredibly aware of Hollander's close presence, the sound of his breathing. He imagines rolling to his right, reaching out a hand, and stroking that pale perfection.

Hollander murmurs, "Thank you. For tonight. For all of it. For being so…"

"So what?"

"So helpful. So nice."

"Is okay."

"Why are you so nice to me?" says Hollander, slurring a little.

There's a pause. 

Hollander thinks Ilya is nice. Nobody thinks Ilya is nice. Seriously, nobody. Maybe it's just Hollander that makes him nice.

Ilya doesn't feel very nice, though. He feels… greedy. He clenches his fists. Don't ruin this. Don't fuck it up.

The bed shakes. Hollander's rolled closer, onto his side.

"Can I, um? Can I ask you something?" he murmurs.

"Okay."

"The other night. With Sasha?"

"Shhh," says Ilya reflexively. Here, in his father's house? No. It can't be discussed here. But Hollander, naive and drunk, only partially understands this admonition. He wriggles closer. Close enough that Ilya can feel the heat of his skin, smell the clean scent of his shampoo and the musky deliciousness of his sweat. 

Close to Ilya's ear, he whispers—even more quietly, right on the cusp of hearing—"I've thought about doing that too. I think about it, like… a lot."

Ilya's heart lurches, seizes, freezes.

"With Sasha?" he whispers. Not because he thinks it's true, but as… maybe, as a test.

"No."

Time hangs and swirls, full of risk and possibility. Ilya's whole body has warmed, including his idiotic and optimistic cock. Hollander can't mean… that. He can't. He can't. Can he?

"With you," says Hollander, barely audible.

Holy fuck. He does.

"But you have girlfriend," says Ilya, hypocritically, as if the concept of bisexuality doesn't exist.

"No. No, I don't. She's just… she's nothing."

A trembling finger traces a line over the swell of Ilya's shoulder, setting off goosebumps all down his spine.

"I've never," whispers Hollander. "But maybe? Maybe we…?"

"Maybe we what?" Ilya croaks, and then Hollander pushes himself up on one elbow, leans over, and presses his mouth to Ilya's in the secret dark.

Something electric ricochets through Ilya's body. The kiss is simple, unsophisticated; pursed lips, nothing more. Instinctively, Ilya's mouth returns it. Christ, those lips are every bit as soft and strong as he'd imagined, and the heat of them, the warmth of this close skin!

With a gentle mwah, Hollander pulls away. Just marginally; he's right there, hovering, frozen, not even breathing. Probably terrified.

"Um," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I—"

"No," says Ilya, and he puts his hand on Hollander's jaw and kisses him again. A proper kiss, an intent kiss, rolling towards him, and Hollander goes easily onto his back, his arms coming up to pull Ilya close. Ilya's head is spinning, his blood pounding as Hollander's mouth opens compliantly beneath him and a frantic, delicious squeak escapes. There are fingers in Ilya's hair, clutching almost painfully at him.

"Holy shit," breathes Hollander, and then he's kissing Ilya again, greedy biting kisses, all tongue and wetness and sudden feral want.

It is not what Ilya would've expected from this pretty, polite, controlled boy. Not even a little bit. But it's fucking awesome and crazy arousing. He rolls half on top of Hollander, and when his leg comes over Hollander's thighs part, making room for Ilya in an unconscious way that's so sexy, so goddamn invitational that Ilya's mind whites out for a second. He grinds into Hollander's hip, totally engorged, and Hollander moans into his mouth. Just moans, the sound completely wanton and honest and beautiful.

He'd let me do anything.

The thought springs unbidden, and it's gorgeous, but it's also shocking. Some tiny fragment of Ilya that's still got control and integrity pokes him, hard, in the gut.

Shane Hollander's never done this with a guy before. And Ilya spent all night plying him with vodka and champagne, doing his damnedest to get him drunk so he'd loosen up and enjoy their night out, which he did.

But what if these kisses, these clutches and moans, are only because of that?

Ilya stops kissing, which might be the most difficult thing he's ever done. Lifting his head from the pillow, Hollander chases his mouth, but Ilya turns away, pressing his lips to Hollander's cheekbone instead.

"What?" says Hollander, plaintive and anxious.

"Shhh," says Ilya. He strokes a thumb over Hollander's face, where he knows those beautiful freckles lie. "Is okay. Is good. Is very good. But… you have a lot of vodka, yes?"

"No shit, do you think I do this all the time?"

"No. But maybe you want kiss me because you are drunk."

"So are you."

"Yes," Ilya agrees, even though he's got a hell of a lot more capacity than Hollander and is only pleasantly buzzed. Still.

"Don't you… Don't you want to? Did I do it wrong?"

"No. No, no, no.” Ilya strokes him and kisses his cheek again, cursing himself internally. When did he turn into a knight in shining armour? "But I don't want…" He can't find the word. "I don't want, tomorrow, you are sad. How to say it?"

"Regret," says Hollander sulkily. "You think I'll regret it."

"Yes. Regret."

"I won't. You're wrong."

"Maybe. Is good if I am."

"It is?"

Ilya kisses Hollander's face again, and down to his jaw. He turns Hollander's face to the side so that he can kiss his way down his neck, and Hollander sighs and squirms, hums his pleasure. Ilya licks him, his tongue pointed and greedy. Yes, he tastes as good as Ilya hoped. "Is good if I am wrong," he confirms. "Is good if we wake up and you still want. But is okay if you don't want, too."

Hollander sighs again, his fingers relaxing against Ilya's skull. "Maybe you won't want to, tomorrow," he murmurs.

This is incredibly unlikely, but Ilya doesn't want to put any pressure on. "Maybe," he says, shrugging. "We will see, yes?"

"If we still want to, in the morning," says Hollander sleepily. 

"Yes."

It's wrong, Ilya knows, but he can't resist stealing another kiss. It might be the last, after all. Hollander arches gently into it, responsive and gorgeous in the dark, and it takes all of Ilya's waning self-control to stop himself from grinding against him. Hollander's lips part, but Ilya doesn't lick into that sweet secret space.

"Good night," he whispers into Hollander's open mouth; then he rolls onto his back, pats Hollander's abs, and smiles into the darkness.

Chapter 7: In Which Ilya Rozanov And Shane Hollander Face The Inevitable

Chapter Notes

Recap: Ilya took Shane into central Moscow for the weekend. Shane got to meet Ilya's weirdly cold father and then, at a nightclub, his incredibly hot friend Svetlana. Tragically the spare room at the Rozanovs's home was already needed for other guests and Ilya and Shane were forced to share a room. Even more tragically, when they got back from the nightclub all fuzzy-headed and dishevelled from vodka and dancing, the inflatable mattress that Ilya was going to sleep on had entirely deflated. Sharing a bed just made sense, right? And Shane (very unused to vodka and dancing) made a move, much to everyone's delight. But Consent King Ilya Rozanov told him he'd had too much to drink and they'd just have to wait until morning to reassess.

Guess what, team... it's sun-up.

A thousand appreciative salaams to StrangeRedLantern for services rendered and all around delightfulness. XXX

SHANE

Awareness snakes through Shane, but not memory; not at first.

For a long moment, he's awake, cognisant of the dry swell of tongue in his mouth and a dull thumping at the base of his skull. He wonders vaguely where he is, because this is all unfamiliar—this pillow, that fine line of light between the curtains—and then it all hits him, all at once, in a tidal wave of recollection.

This is Rozanov's room, in Rozanov's home. Shane is in Ilya Rozanov's bed, with Ilya Rozanov, and last night they—

Oh fuck. Oh, fuck.

They kissed. They kissed, so much, with tongues and touching and grinding against each other, and—fuck, fuck, fuck!—and Shane started it.

He can't move. He's frozen with shock and shame and horror, and yet…

Oh god, it was good. It was so good. 

Until last night, Shane never really understood the point of kissing or why everyone carried on like it was this fabulous thing, but now a whole new world, a whole landscape and language, has been revealed to him. He remembers pressing his face to Ilya Rozanov's, opening his jaw like he wanted to eat him, and Rozanov pushing into it, his full lips soft and hot and greedy, his breath hitching and his fingers clutching. His body was so solid, heavy and strong, and his bone-hard erection was shoving against Shane's hip; and all of it sent fizzing currents of pleasure and arousal through Shane's body. Nothing he's ever felt before, nothing he's ever imagined.

Shane's hard all over again, just from the memory of it. Luckily, he's curled into a foetal position; Rozanov is curled against him, a big spoon cradling him in warmth. Rozanov's arm is hooked over Shane's waist, and one of his bare legs is tangled between Shane's. Slow, damp exhalations warm the back of Shane's neck. 

He daren't move.

What the fuck is he going to do?

Okay. Okay, be calm. Options, think through the options.

On the bright side, this disaster happened thousands of miles from home and his real life. It's only a few weeks until he heads back to Canada, and nobody there will know what he did or what he felt. Because Rozanov knows how important it is to say nothing, right? He already swore Shane to secrecy over the Sasha thing, and Shane's totally going to honour that. He's armed with even more damning information than Rozanov is, so it's in Rozanov's best interests to shut up about this. They're both hoping to be drafted this year, and this… whatever it is… can't happen. It just can't.

So that's option one, right? Pretend it never happened?

For half an hour, Shane lies utterly still while that white-gold line between the curtains grows brighter and brighter. His mind races as he tries desperately to piece it all together and remember exactly what happened. He knows he was drunk, but he wasn't that drunk; not drunk enough to forget any of it. Not the kisses, or how good they were, or what they said to each other. Or Rozanov saying that Shane might regret it in the morning, and stopping the whole gorgeous runaway train in its tracks.

He'd said—and Shane had agreed—that if they still wanted to in the morning, then…

Then what?

No, it doesn't matter what. They can't. It was just drunken idiocy. Everyone does dumb shit when they're drunk, right? Option one is the only sensible option.

He argues silently with himself, back and forth and back again.

The pattern of Rozanov's breathing changes. Without knowing how he knows it, Shane's aware that Rozanov's awake. He keeps his eyes resolutely shut as Rozanov, incredibly slowly and gently, lifts his arm off Shane's waist and rolls away from him. The loss of his warmth makes goosebumps shiver over Shane's skin.

So if he's moved away, that means he… doesn't still want to, right?

And that should be a relief, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels like a gut punch. Like one of those moments when you're not sure whether you want something, but then it's gone, and you know you do want it, and you did all along. With a supreme effort of will, Shane keeps his breathing deep and steady and his eyes closed as he realises that there's no point trying to convince himself that he isn't craving more of those kisses, so many more. His whole self is screaming for them.

The bed shifts, gentle and slight; right on the border of perception, something touches Shane's hair.

Is that… Is Rozanov stroking his hair?

Confused, desirous, hopeful, Shane swallows.

"Hollander?" A whisper, quiet as a breath. "You are awake?"

"Mmm."

Rozanov rolls back towards him, and although he doesn't touch him anywhere, he's close enough that Shane can feel the heat radiating off him.

"You sleep okay?" Rozanov murmurs.

"Yeah."

A pause.

"You feel okay?"

"Sure."

"No headache? You had many vodka."

“No, I’m okay.” Shane runs his tongue around his mouth, which is frankly foul.

"Was good night, yes?"

So good.

"Yeah," says Shane in a whisper. "Dancing was… fun."

"Only dancing?" says Rozanov, soft and gently mocking.

And that's Shane's opportunity. Right there, if he wants to, he can say, yeah, only the dancing, and make it sound like a joke, and that'll be the end of it. He could do that. He could.

But if he does that, he won't get any more of those kisses or touches. He'll shut that door.

And that prospect is hideous.

He wriggles around to face Rozanov. It's impossible to read his expression in the dark; he's just a dim grey blur, topped with a half-glimpsed halo of curls. Shane's going to have to be brave. Or maybe reckless. No! Brave.

"Not only the dancing," he whispers. "The rest of it was good, too."

Rozanov's big, warm hand lands on Shane's hip, burning through the fabric of his underwear. Shane's heartbeat feels like he's been speed-skating for ten minutes flat, a wild gallop of a thing that's threatening to burst out of his chest.

"The rest of what?" Rozanov murmurs.

"You know what. Don't pretend you don't," says Shane, irritated, and Rozanov makes a small, amused sound.

"Okay, yes. I know what. You still want?" he says quietly.

"Do you?"

"I ask first." But his thumb strokes over elastic, over skin, setting off wild tingles of sensation. Shane is dizzy with lust.

"Maybe," he whispers.

"No," says Rozanov. "Maybe is not enough. You want, yes? Or no?"

Shane puts his hand on the swell of Rozanov's chest. He can feel the fast thump of heartbeat, nearly as elevated as his own. He feels the smooth perfection of skin and the small rasp of sparse hairs. He wants to squeeze.

"Yes," he says.

And then they're kissing again. 

There's a mustiness to it,  the sourness of morning breath, and it should be gross, but it's not. Shane's insides turn liquid the moment Rozanov's lips move against his, liquid and warm and shivery with the deliciousness of it. Hands roam. Rozanov's are so big, spread wide over the small of Shane's back. He makes this humming sound—mmmmph, mmmh!—as he kisses and licks, and he pulls Shane on top of himself. Oh fuck, so much skin, so much muscle and skin and the wild insanity of their erections pressed together, Shane's going to lose his fucking mind. They're doing this, they're really doing it. He grinds against Rozanov; it's gorgeous, irresistible, and all he can think is I have to touch that I have to taste it. He reaches down, wriggling his fingers between their bodies and under the elastic of Rozanov's underwear, and groans when the tip of his finger touches the satin perfection of blood-swollen flesh. That's a penis, it's Rozanov's fucking dick, and—

"Blyat, Hollander," says Rozanov, grabbing at Shane's wrist. Pulling him away.

Shame floods through Shane, his face suddenly numb with fear, but Rozanov's still kissing him, careful and determined, and now he's lacing his fingers in between Shane's.

"Yes, yes, yes, but not here," he whispers. "Is not… a good place."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Shh, no. You should."

"Yeah?" Shane lifts his head, and it's gotten lighter; he can make out Rozanov's expression now, see its intensity and the happiness lurking around his reddened mouth.

"Yes."

"When we're… back? At the hotel?"

"Fuck, yes." Rozanov grins, teeth gleaming. He's so stupidly handsome. His other hand, the one not tangled up with Shane's, spreads wide over Shane's ass cheek and squeezes. Shane lets out a little gasp.

He hasn't thought this through. He was so greedy for the kissing, he didn't stop to consider what Ilya Rozanov, who has both girls and boys that he fucks, would want from him. From Shane Hollander, who's never even enjoyed a kiss before last night.

Shane buries his face in the curve of Rozanov's shoulder, pressing his mouth against warm flesh.

"I," he starts. “I… um…”

The thought refuses to come out of his mouth; it's too embarrassing. But he has to say it; he can't fake his way through this.

"Hmmm?" says Rozanov, nuzzling encouragingly against Shane's throat.

"This is really fucking dumb. Like, embarrassing. But I haven't… I mean… I'm not like you, okay, I haven't… done… stuff."

Rozanov's hand moves up a little, onto his waist, stroking gentle circles.

"Is okay. But you want to?"

"Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I really do."

The warm body beneath him shrugs. "Then we do what you want."

"Yeah? You don't mind?"

"Mind?"

"You're not… bothered by it?"

"Bothered?"

Ugh, what's a simpler word? "It's okay? With you? That I haven't…?"

Rozanov nuzzles closer, until his mouth is right by Shane's ear. "Is very okay. Is very fucking sexy. You are very fucking sexy."

Nobody's ever called Shane that before. But right now, at this moment? Yeah, that's how he feels. 

He can't help but ask: "Have you done this before, with other guys? Apart from Sasha?"

"Mmm, a little. But mostly Sasha. You? With men, boys?"

"No. Nothing."

"But now, you think… is good?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess." Maybe it's good with guys. Maybe it's just good with Rozanov. Does it matter? Shane doesn't want to think through all the implications, not right now. All he knows is that this feeling is like nothing he's ever experienced before, and he's going to grab everything he can with both hands.

"You understand… is secret."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, I understand. Don't worry, I won't say anything. I, um… I mean, this is a secret for me too."

"Okay. But is serious, yes? Say nothing?"

"God, Rozanov, I told you I won't."

He kisses Rozanov's neck, licks at his salty skin, and Rozanov sighs in pleasure, but then he says, again, "Not here, Hollander."

Shane sighs too and lifts his head. "Are you seriously still going to call me Hollander?"

"Is your name, no?"

"I think you can probably call me Shane now." Propping himself up on one elbow and still tremendously aware of the way his dick is lined up alongside Ilya Rozanov's, he adds, "If we're gonna…"

"We are. Shane," says Ilya, making a silly face and exaggerating the name with his lips, making Shane grin.

"Okay then, Ilya. What's the plan for today, if we can't do… this?" 

He wriggles a little bit when he says that, surprising himself with his own wickedness, but something about Ilya Rozanov has turned him into a new person, someone he's never met before. Shane has this really weird feeling that Rozanov is just… safe, somehow. Safe and yet the most dangerously appealing thing Shane's ever encountered, like a wild animal that could kill you but won't. It's an intoxicating combination.

"Breakfast," says Rozanov. Ilya. "Big breakfast after big night. Then I take you to my hockey club. See more Moscow. Then… then we go back to Voskresensk."

Neither of them can hold back stupid smiles. Shane doesn't love that ugly mustard-and-green hotel room, but now it's calling to him like a siren song. A place that's just theirs. A place that's private, safe. A place where he can touch whatever he wants to touch, and Ilya will let him. Ilya will make it safe and wonderful to do dangerous and terrifying things.

"And what will we do in Voskresensk?" says Shane, all coy innocence despite the lurid possibilities that are gallopping through his imagination.

"Anything you want," says Ilya. His voice is gravelly and full of promise.

Shane might honestly die.

ILYA

Ilya doesn't sneak out to say goodbye to his father. But he does time it carefully, scooting down to the study while Hollander is in the bathroom.

Not Hollander. Shane. He's allowed to call him Shane, now. Allowed to call him by his first name and lick into his mouth and run his hands over that flawless expanse of skin.

No, he can't even think about it here and now, not in this house. He shoves his happiness down, deep deep down, and knocks on his father's door. It's Sunday morning and his father is a creature of habit, so Ilya knows exactly what will greet him inside. A surly, impossible-to-please old man reading his Sunday newspaper and drinking endless cups of strong black tea from the samovar on the sideboard.

"Come."

Ilya enters, after one last smoothing-down of his unruly curls.

"Good morning, papa. We're heading back to Voskresensk soon. Just coming to say goodbye."

"Not staying for Sunday dinner?"

"Not today, sadly."

His father grunts, obviously sceptical about Ilya's disappointment. Fair enough, since Ilya can't fucking wait to get out of here. It was worth coming home to see Sveta, but that's about it. Once he's been drafted he'll have money and he'll never have to live here ever again, and it can't happen soon enough.

"Is it proving useful, this training camp?"

"Very. There are some really good players, and the English tutoring is excellent."

"As it should be, for that much damn money."

Ilya nods and puts on his appreciative face. "It will be worth it once I'm playing in the American league. I'll be able to pay you back."

"Unless you damage yourself again. When will you know whether you've been selected for their draft?"

"Soon, I hope."

Grigori Rozanov grunts again. "Where's your little American friend?"

"Canadian," says Ilya, immediately wincing internally for being so idiotic as to correct his father's error. "He's upstairs."

"Can't be bothered coming to say goodbye to his host? No manners."

Ilya can't think of a better alternative to the truth, which is I didn't want to subject him to you, so he shuts up.

"Alright, then. Anything else?" His father rattles his paper, clarifying that Ilya is interrupting his important weekend reading.

"No, papa. I'll be home in a couple of weeks."

"With some good news about the draft, I hope."

"Of course. You'll be the first to know."

Ilya skulks back upstairs, his mood thoroughly darkened from the bright delight of his waking.

He tries not to let it show. He chivvies Hollander into the car and drives to the rink, the home of his beloved Volki, and shows him around with pride. He takes Hollander to see the photos on the clubroom wall, of all their famous players, and of the teams and wins that Ilya's been part of. Hollander is fascinated, searching through the images and tapping at the glass when he sees a familiar face. "Is that you? Hey, is that Zaits? Oh my god, is that Coach Moroz?" It is. Moroz is standing there in so many of the pictures, his hair getting slowly paler and paler.

Hollander's so interested, so engaged. He smiles at Ilya, open and happy and free with his enthusiasm in a way that's deeply un-Russian. It's fucking weird but Ilya is charmed by it.

So charmed by all of it.

They go to the rink, where there's a junior game going on, and hang out in the stands. Hollander watches the game intently; Ilya, sideways, watches Hollander just as intently. That profile, that fucking profile. The perfect nose and the swell of lip. Fuck, he's just so pretty!

Last night, and then this morning, Ilya got to kiss that lip, and it tasted just as sweet as it looks. Sweeter, maybe, because Hollander was so shockingly into it. Ilya's confident that Hollander was being completely honest about his lack of experience, but it didn't seem to stop him from throwing himself into it wholeheartedly. Once he'd made that move, it was as if there were no limits or barriers; the sounds he made and the way he moved against Ilya were frankly fucking pornographic, and he seemed to be completely unaware of that fact. It was coming from some deep, true place inside him—no artifice, no play-acting of what's expected. It's like when he's on the ice, and immediately turns into that insane Hockey Terminator; give him one deep kiss and he's instantly and entirely devoted to pleasure.

Ilya might be the more experienced one here, but he's never experienced that. Christ, he wants more of it. So much more. And he's going to get it! That shitty hotel room is calling to him, shrieking his name from afar. He's going to get Shane Hollander in there and get him naked, and—

Hollander punches him on the arm. "Did you see that? Shit, that kid is good! What a save!"

"Mmm," says Ilya, who absolutely did not see anything at all. "Russians. We are good at hockey."

"Some of you," says Hollander, and then he smiles at Ilya, blinks slowly. "Some of you are good at lots of things."

Ilya leans close, delighted. "Hollander… you are flirting?"

"How do you know that word?" Hollander mumbles, blushing deliciously.

Ilya shrugs. He's not sure where he picked that up. He's picking up a lot of stuff from Hollander. "Answer question."

"Maybe."

Hollander grins. Ilya grins back. The thing between them, a thick and glowing anticipation, is palpable.

Zaitsev and Nikitin are kicking a ball around the half-empty hotel carpark as they pull in, and Nikitin kicks it right at Ilya's car. Dickhead. They crowd around as Ilya and Hollander get their bags from the boot.

In Russian, Nikitin says, "Can't believe you fucked off without us! Asshole, you could've offered us a lift home for the weekend."

"Wanker," Zaitsev says agreeably, hooking his elbow around Ilya's neck and attempting to get him into a headlock. Ilya elbows him in the belly until he lets go.

"Hi, guys," says Hollander in a gentle, Canadian reminder that he's right here and he doesn't speak Russian.

The reminder is ignored. "And I can't believe you took him with you instead," says Nikitin. "What a suck up."

Ilya says in careful English, "It was good weekend, thank you. Saw Svetlana. Went to club. Had fun."

"Our little tutor doesn't do fun," says Zaitsev, smiling disingenuously at Hollander, who smiles innocently back. "How could he with such a massive stick up his ass?"

A surge of anger crashes through Ilya; what the fuck is wrong with these guys? What did Hollander ever do to them except try to teach them some fucking English? "He's more fucking fun than you," he snaps, matching their Russian.

It was foolish to show his irritation. Immediately Nikitin's making that ooooohhhh! sound that kids make and the two of them are laughing.

"Svetlana still fine as fuck? Did you bang her?"

Ilya says nothing, stalking towards the hotel entrance. He can hear the football being dribbled along behind him.

"Or were you too busy banging your new Canadian boyfriend?"

Hollander jogs closer to Ilya and says in a low voice, "Did they just say kanadets? Are they talking about me? What are they saying?"

Jesus, this is dangerous territory. Ilya makes an executive decision: it's time for evasive manoeuvres. He drops his bag and turns, intercepts the ball and chips it up sharply into Nikitin's groin, laughing uproariously as Nikitin clutches his balls and howls. 

"He's got bigger balls than you," Ilya shouts cheerfully. Zaitsev grabs the ball and kicks it viciously towards Ilya, who stops it with a lifted knee and returns it, hard and fast. A violent game of damage your mates with the football is immediately underway and all prior insults are forgotten.

Hollander takes a few steps away from the melée. He mumbles, "I'm gonna, um, go in and like, email," and flees the scene.

It's not a subtle diversion, but it's effective. And a salient lesson. Ilya needs to keep a lid on his sudden and extreme partiality. Ilya needs to pretend.

And pretend he does. He hangs out with Zaits and Nikitin until dinner, sitting under a tree with some beers, leaving his bag in the car. He daren't disappear into their hotel room with Hollander. They talk shit and he tells stories (and a few lies) about the nightclub and the girls there, making a special effort to exaggerate how long Hollander spent dancing with the blonde in the crazy fur jacket. 

They don't go back to the hotel at dinner time; he treats the guys to some shitty bar food in town.

All evening, he's two people. He's Ilya Rozanov, out with the boys, drinking and trashtalking and eyeing up women. But inside, he's the Ilya Rozanov who's fretting about whether Shane Hollander has eaten, and what Shane Hollander might be doing right now, and what he might be thinking, and whether he's hurt because Ilya abandoned him. Even though that's fucking stupid. They're not fucking boyfriends. They're just two guys who might want to fuck around a little. 

Or maybe a lot.

It's dark by the time they get back to the hotel. Zaits tries to talk them into a card game in his room but Ilya shakes his head, says he's tired after the big night out in Moscow. He retrieves his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, his heart beating faster the closer he gets to their room.

He's really not sure what kind of welcome is waiting for him, considering he just ditched Hollander the second they got back. He can only hope that Hollander understands it was for both their sakes.

Rattling his key noisily in the lock to give fair warning, he pushes open the door. 

The room's dim; the small lamp on his bedside table is the only illumination. The curtains are closed and it's warm and gold in here—the mustard that's so ugly in the daylight is suddenly soft and cosy. Hollander's cross-legged on his bed, wearing only boxers, hunched over a book. He looks up at Ilya, his dark eyes huge and his expression guarded. Ilya wants to kiss all that anxiety right off his face. He closes the door and slides the chain into place.

There. Now it's just us. Now it's safe.

Hollander says nothing, doesn't move, and Ilya knows it's up to him this time. He toes off his sneakers and pulls his hoodie off, dropping it on the floor. He slowly crosses the room and crouches down beside Hollander's bed.

"Hey," he says, rubbing his cheek against Hollander's bony kneecap.

"What were they saying about me?" Hollander says in a low monotone, a nervous dog with a bone that he started gnawing hours ago. Ilya shakes his head dismissively.

"Stupid things. Wrong things."

"What things?"

Ilya shrugs. He doesn't want to make Hollander feel bad, but he also doesn't want to lie. Nikitin's a dickhead, so why protect him? "Nikitin said you are not fun, but I know that is very wrong," he says, with a slow blink and a slower press of his lips to that kneecap. "He make joke, about you and me. So I…" He shrugs.

"About you and me being… um…?"

"Close," says Ilya, waggling a demonstrative finger between the two of them, and Hollander blanches.

"Jesus."

"Yes. So I think, maybe better to… make him think…"

"Yeah," says Hollander, correctly interpreting Ilya's vague insinuations. "Yeah, better to make him think we're not. Close."

"Mmm." Ilya props his chin on Hollander's knee and looks up at him through his lashes. Hollander is so fucking pretty in this light, and his chest, oof, the swell of it, and the perfection of his dark red nipples! Ilya's afloat in an ocean of lust, all over again.

"Even though we…" says Hollander, and his voice has gone low, and there's a rosy flush spreading over his skin. "Even though now we… are, a bit. Close. Maybe."

"Mmm. You still want?" Ilya murmurs, and Hollander nods, eyes huge. Kneeling up, not taking his eyes off Hollander's, Ilya closes the book and tosses it to the end of the bed.

"You just lost my place!"

"Sorry." Ilya puts a hand on Hollander's cheek, his thumb under his jaw, and tilts his head. Leans close and then closer. Immanence is beautiful, filling him with a rosy joy. He kisses Hollander, licking into his mouth, and the moment their tongues touch Hollander lets out a little mewl of pleasure and his hands clutch at Ilya, one on his bicep, one pushing into his hair.

Ilya doesn't push it, doesn't take it further; he's going to wait for Hollander, take it slow. Not scare him. He's got to do this right, because it's fucking risky. If he fucks it up, they've got to co-exist in this room and on the ice for the next two weeks, and that could be terrible; this is all crazy, he knows that, but he couldn't stop himself to save his life. He's insane with lust and this sweet, charmed adoration that's not like anything he's ever felt before. Hollander's not cool, he's not sophisticated, he's not anything like the sort of people Ilya's normally drawn to—and maybe that's what makes this so intense. Ilya likes trouble, and this is pure distilled danger, right here.

What makes it even more dangerous, and more delicious, is that Hollander instantly wants more. He's tugging at Ilya's tank, sliding his hand up underneath and grabbing at Ilya's chest, making greedy sounds into their joined mouths. Ilya breaks away, just for a moment, to take his tank-top off; next second Hollander's off the bed, hauling Ilya to his feet and backing him against the wall, pressing himself against the whole length of Ilya's body as he kisses him, open-mouthed and sweetly avid, chest to chest. Mmm, he says, mmm and oh and yeah, and his hands are roaming everywhere. Ilya returns the favour, sliding his palms down Hollander's perfect back and down over the muscled, cotton-covered swell of his ass. Ugh, it's so good, and Hollander's hard as nails, rutting against Ilya's hip and then shifting so their erections rub together through their clothing and Ilya grunts, fuck yes.

Arching away from him, Hollander stares at him wide-eyed and without warning he shoves his hand into Ilya's track pants, making straight for his cock. He wraps his fingers around and his eyes widen even more.

"Oh, shit," he mutters. "Oh, shit, is this—can I—"

See? Fearless. Wonderful "Da," says Ilya fervently. "Da. Yes."

And then, like something from a fever dream, Shane Hollander folds to his knees, pushes Ilya's remaining clothing down his thighs, and makes a high, frantic sighing sound, his eyebrows crashing together; he opens his mouth and descends on Ilya's cock like a starving man. He's grabbing Ilya's thighs, squeezing hard, and humming and moaning raggedly and Ilya's never seen, never felt, anything like it. It's like something out of porn but he's really fucking confident that Hollander's not a porn guy, and to be honest it's a little bit clumsy, a little too toothy, a little too fast and it's not long until Hollander makes himself gag. He pulls off—sorry sorry sorry—and Ilya's about to pull him to his feet, kiss him and gentle him and slow him down but Hollander's licking him again, licking and sucking and just so delighted and in the moment.

"Blyat, look at you," says Ilya helplessly. "So good, Shane. So good, fuck. Fuck."

For long delicious minutes he watches Shane Hollander's first ever fellatio, pleasure solidifying hotly in his belly. It's so pure, so honest. Shane doesn't look up at him, isn't playing any teasing games; he's totally focussed on the flesh in his mouth, eyes closed, eyebrows raised in bliss. It's not like any other blow job Ilya's ever had, because it's so damn obvious how much he's into it. He fucking loves it, and Ilya cannot believe his fucking luck. 

He wants, with everything he is, to return this pleasure.

He pushes his fingers into Hollander's thick, shiny hair. "Hollander. Shane. Up, quick, or I come." He tugs gently upward and Hollander reluctantly lets Ilya's cock slip from his mouth and stands. His mouth is swollen and glistening and there's colour on his cheeks. Ilya kisses him, slow and deep.

"You do that very good," he says, and Hollander's nostrils flare; a wide, shy, victorious smile spreads over his face. Ilya kisses his throat and whispers in his ear, "You want I do that?"

"Um. Okay?"

"Get on the bed." Ilya steps out of his pants and tugs Hollander's boxers down, pushing him backward onto the mattress; Hollander lifts his feet, letting Ilya strip him bare, and then lies back, staring up at him. The pulse in his neck is beating hard and his chest is heaving, and Ilya wonders whether he's ever done this before, been naked with someone. 

He stands at the side of the bed, taking in his fill; fuck, this is a lovely body. Strong, muscular, but sleek too; a long, hairless torso, those delicious thick thighs, and a patch of hair around the base of his solid, rosy cock that Ilya suspects is just naturally perfect, because he can't imagine Hollander being much of a manscaper. He looks up and finds Hollander staring at him the same.

"Wow," says Hollander, and bites his lip. Ilya laughs, just fucking happy right here in this moment. He climbs onto the bed as Hollander spreads his legs and makes room for Ilya to lie between them.

Ilya runs his thumbs up the crease of Hollander's thighs. "Tell me," he says, because he really fucking wants to know. "You have done before? Somebody… touch you here?"

He wraps his fingers around Hollander's lovely cock and Hollander shakes his head, his hair rasping against the pillow and his breath rasping in his throat. 

"N-no."

Slowly, firmly, Ilya jacks him. Hollander gasps and trembles and is the most wonderful thing Ilya's ever seen. He leans down and hovers close to Hollander's crotch; Hollander gets up on his elbows, eyes enormous. Pressing a wet kiss to the silky protuberance of hip bone, one side and then the other, Ilya hums as Hollander's cock twitches in his grasp.

"Is okay?" he asks, even though this is exactly what enthusiastic consent looks like. Still, he asks because he loves the sound of an affirmative, the sweet desperation of it, and Hollander doesn't disappoint.

"So okay. Please. Please, your mouth… please?"

Ilya's been doing this for a while now. He knows the ins and outs of another man's body, knows how to generate that heat and urge and wind it up to that wonderful point of no return. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels as though every one of those experiences has been designed to bring him here, to this moment, to this bright and perfect instant when he has the absolute honour of being the first person to show Shane Hollander how fucking good another person's mouth can feel on your cock. 

Slow and wet and rhythmic, he suckles at the perfect silky head of it, licking at the clean, alkaline beads of liquid already leaking out. Hollander falls back on the bed and throws his forearms over his eyes, his belly clenching as he makes a noise of pleasure so intense that it's almost a sob. Ilya strokes one hand up that long, elegant torso and rubs his thumb over Hollander's nipple, then grips the muscle of his pectoral. God, it's a lovely handful, warm and muscled.

He pulls back, just for a second, and tongues at the slit, licking up everything he can before starting in earnest, taking Hollander deep and sucking hard. His other hand's under Hollander's ass, grabbing and lifting and supporting as Hollander whimpers and shoves up into Ilya's mouth, all urgency and greed. Shit, he's not going to last long, Ilya can tell. He lifts his head for a second and says throatily, "Don't come, okay? Wait. Stop."

"I don't know if I can," says Hollander in a squeak as Ilya recommences his efforts. "Fuck, Rozanov, Ilya, fuck, shit, that's so good, oh fuck, fuck, I'm gonna—"

But that's not what Ilya wants. What Ilya wants, suddenly and desperately, is to be able to see Hollander's face when he comes; and so he stops sucking and crawls up the bed, up over Hollander's beautiful body. He reaches down between them, wrapping both their cocks in his hand as he kisses Hollander, deep and wet. Hollander's arms wind around him, holding him close, and he's fucking strong. Against the back of Ilya's pumping hand, those abs are rock hard. Christ, he's delicious. He's gasping into Ilya's mouth and arching off the mattress, lifting the weight of both of them in his urgent need to push into Ilya's grip, and Ilya works them viciously hard, the drag of it raw and gorgeous. Hollander's swollen flesh against his own is fabulously dirty-good, Ilya fucking loves it, and he's so close, so close, and then Hollander makes a choked sound and his mouth goes slack. 

Ilya rears back to watch and it's divine. Hollander looks… transported, lifted to heaven as he comes. He spurts and spurts against Ilya's palm, and Ilya jerks and moans as his own climax rolls over him, sparkling sweet and rooted deep, right from the base of his spine.

Gorgeousness, gorgeousness, gorgeousness.

Panting, he flops deadweight on top of Hollander, who pants out a feeble Holy shit!

He's right. That was… perfection.

And it's only the beginning of what the two of them could do.

Hollander turns his head and kisses Ilya's temple, and Ilya's so happy he could cry. He turns his face away.

Chapter End Notes

This picture and others reside in tessville on tumblr x

Chapter 8: In Which Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov go to the Dacha

Chapter Notes

Recap: After a weekend at the Rozanovs' home in Moscow, Shane and Ilya have returned to the summer hockey camp where Shane's tutoring, and given in to their irresistible attraction to one another. Oops however will we fill in another three chapters?

Well, for starters we still don't know if Ilya's going to make it to the NHL draft. For seconds, we have entered the sheer self-indulgence arc of the plot. Hurray!

Regarding which dodgy plot point, I feel the need for a pre-emptive apology. Like a trigger warning for anyone who knows anything at all about hockey. I DO NOT. I do not and sadly I do not care enough to try to find out. Will I spend hours scouring google maps for ice hockey rinks in the vicinity of Moscow, jumping into street view to look at the surrounding buildings? I will. Am I willing to cover myriad scraps of paper with calculations of flights, flight times, time differences, etc etc? You betcha. But can I bring myself to give a toss how the draft actually works with respect to international candidates? Nope, I fell asleep just thinking about it. Sports and I are just not compatible. Sorry team. I hope my made-up nonsense is not too off-putting. If you make it through the improbable hockey section I promise to reward you with smut.

Thanks again and from the bottom of my heart to everyone who's reading, subscribed or commenting, you are darlings!

And the most massive thanks to Strangeredlantern who always knows when you can remove an article or flex a verb form to make a Russian speaker's English that little bit more charming. Genius! XXX

SHANE

Shane’s shutting the stall door when he hears someone else come into the bathroom, and a second later, he finds himself engaged in an epic struggle. He’s trying to pull the door shut; someone else is trying to pull it open.

Someone? No, there’s only one possible person.

“Fuck off,” hisses Shane. “I’m in the fucking bathroom. Leave me alone.”

“No,” says Ilya cheerfully. (He has not left Shane alone for days. This is exactly what Shane wants.) “Let me in. Quick.”

“No!” says Shane, and then foolishly, “Why?”

“You know why,” comes a wicked growl, and then Ilya wraps his fingers around the edge of the door, so Shane has to abandon the competition and stop pulling because he would crush Ilya’s knuckles if he won. A moment later, the two of them are jammed into the stall, and Ilya’s flicking the lock closed, grinning like a lunatic.

“Hello,” he says, grinding his crotch against Shane and backing him up against the wall. Fuck, the way he says that simple word is so appealing; that weird throatiness of his aitches. It’s like a drug; it makes Shane weak. Same with the way he says Hollander. The scratchy H and the round echo of the O. Shane wants to record it and take it home. Ilya would probably let him do that.

But, still! They’re in the bathroom! At the rink! “Are you crazy? Not here!”

“Everybody still eat lunch. Is fine.” Ilya takes hold of Shane’s jaw and turns his head. “Don’t look at door. Look at me.”

Shane sighs and does as he’s told. All he wants to look at is Ilya. All the time. Always. Looking at Ilya feels like food, like sustenance. It feels necessary.

Because they haven’t got much longer, it’s less than a week until Shane flies home. Every moment counts, even if it’s stupid and dangerous and in a horrible bathroom. So he looks at Ilya, and Ilya looks at him, and all Shane’s blood floods down to his cock.

“We will be quick,” Ilya whispers evilly, and then he’s kissing Shane and shoving a hand up under Shane’s t-shirt, cupping his pectoral. Shane—who has somehow, over the past couple of weeks, turned from a nice Canadian boy into a desperate sex demon—is reaching into Ilya’s pants. Ilya makes an enthused growling sound, and his cock completes its meteoric rise under Shane’s fingers.

“Good thinking,” Ilya mutters. “No time for wasting.”

There’s no point denying it. Shane is utterly addicted to this— to all of it. Ilya’s face and his voice and his spectacular body, and his impressive dick and his talented mouth and hands, and the way he never says no, the way he lets Shane do anything, the way he sits back afterward with that hazy look of lustful admiration. Every night, and most mornings, they’re slamming against one another and grabbing and kissing and sucking and pushing and writhing, insatiable. It’s sorcery, it’s wild. Shane loves it, and he doesn’t know how he’ll ever go back to living without it.

No. He can’t think about that now. He’s got to make the most of these last days, make them count. He rolls his thumb over the head of Ilya’s cock and tugs harder, panting into his mouth. Ilya’s pushing Shane’s track pants down along with his briefs. Shane’s ass is pressed against cold melamine, but oh god it’s worth it as his cock springs free and Ilya spits in his own palm and then runs it up Shane’s length. Shane’s head falls back and thumps into the wall.

A stranger’s heavy hand slaps into the bathroom’s external door, pushing it open, and the sound stops Shane’s heart in his ribcage. He freezes.

In one fluid instant, Ilya sits down on the toilet and pulls Shane onto his lap, knees bent, feet lifted like a rescued princess. Shane is too horrified to fight any of it, and it happened so fast he’s still erect, his bare ass right there on Ilya’s thighs. Ilya holds a finger against his kiss-swollen lips. His eyes are bright with a mischievous thrill.

The person enters. “Rozanov? Hollander?” It’s Coach Moroz.

Shane and Ilya stare at each other. Ilya pokes Shane in the chest, nodding.

“Um, yes, Coach?” Shane says, sounding… well, he hopes relatively normal?

“Come to training room. Announcement.”

“Okay. Okay sure. But I don’t know where Rozanov is. He’s not here. It’s just me, I’m, um… alone.”

There’s a small silence in which Ilya’s expression says very clearly oh my god, you are a beautiful imbecile.

“Okay,” says Moroz. “I will keep looking. Hurry up, the others are waiting.”

“Yup, yup, be right there, Coach.”

The door closes with a solid thonk, and Ilya dissolves into silent hysterics while Shane smacks him repeatedly.

Shane enters the training room first. A couple of minutes later, Ilya saunters in.

“About time,” says Berezkin, in English. All the leaders speak nothing but English to them now. “Where have you been?”

“Cigarette,” says Ilya, taking a seat on the other side of the room to Shane.

Everyone’s here: not just the players, but the coaches and Semyenov and Berezkin too. Everybody.

“Okay,” says the Director, clearing his throat. “This is the last week of camp, and some of you are likely to be selected for the NHL draft. That decision will be made soon. On Thursday and Friday we will have guests at our daily games. Observers. And the decision will be made by the end of the week—announced at our final night’s dinner.”

He looks around, stern but clear. “Maybe twenty Russian players will be chosen this year, and most of those have been playing in the AHL or the CHL. Not many of you will make the list. Maybe none of you. You must understand this.”

Shane looks over at Ilya, but Ilya doesn’t look back. His fierce gaze is fixed on Berezkin, his lips pressed together and his jaw clenched.

Ilya will make it. He will.

Clapping his hands, Berezkin says, “To the rink. Last time you play together without observers.”

The locker room is unexpectedly quiet as they change. Things suddenly got serious.

On the ice, each team huddles with their coach.

Moroz says, “We make a change today. Kaminsky will centre the second line. Rozanov the first.”

Heads turn towards Shane, but he nods back at the coach. This is right, this is fair. He’s already in the draft. It’s his job now to make his team-mates shine.

“Hollander, left wing for Rozanov.”

“Yes, Coach.”

And although Shane doesn’t normally play that position, and in any other situation he’d be pissed to lose centre, he’s so happy for this opportunity. He gets to play with Ilya, support Ilya, help Ilya be the wonder that he is.

The moment they’re on the ice together…

There’s no other word for it. Magic happens.

For weeks, Shane’s been watching Ilya Rozanov play, and Rozanov the same, even if they’ve never played the same line. They feel each other’s presence, each other’s intention, each other’s speed. Some weird chemistry locks them together and it’s beautiful. Sweet and easy and perfect. Shane’s always had the ability to put the puck wherever he wants it, and now he can put it in the most extreme, unlikely spots and know in his bones that Rozanov is tracking it and can reach it. He’s so fast, so strong; and all Shane wants to do is show Ilya Rozanov just how good he is in return.

Kaminsky does well. The defence line does fine; Zaitsev does an awesome job in goal.

But Hollander and Rozanov dominate, completely.

It’s the best game of hockey Shane’s ever played. All the noise and worry in his head is gone, everything white and clear and perfect, focused on this one thing: winning, with Ilya. For Ilya. 

Afterwards, getting changed and showering and then heading into their tutoring session, Ilya can’t stop touching him. Slapping him on the back, fist bumping, mussing his hair. Grinning and grinning and grinning.

“Fucking good team,” he says, over and over. He yells at the whole locker room. “Me and Hollander, we could beat you all, two against everybody!”

“That’s silly,” says Shane, ducking his head but unable to stop smiling. “Not everybody, not just two of us. Who’d be in our goal?”

“We do not need goalie!” shouts Ilya, over the insults and arguments of the rest of their team. “They never come close to goal! Rozanov and Hollander, kings of ice, fuck you all!”

And on Thursday, they’re better still; and on Friday, watched over by a stern line of rocky-faced Russian men, they’re unstoppable. The red team beats the blues 7-2, and four of their goals come from Ilya, three of those off an assist by Shane. It’s weird not to score, and there were plays when Shane knew he could’ve done it, but every time he passed to Ilya instead. Not easy passes, either. He made Ilya work, made Ilya shine, showcased Ilya as the gold he is, and every goal was a shot of pure joy to his heart.

Ilya will be chosen. Ilya will play in the NHL.

Shane will see him, every time their teams cross paths.

He won’t lose Ilya. He won’t lose him.

They have their last tutoring session. It’s free-wheeling and over-excited. Their English has come on in leaps and bounds these past weeks, and Shane’s so proud of them all. So proud. Even Oryol and Popov can join in on the debrief now.

At the end of the session they give him a present. It’s an unwrapped cardboard shoe box, but inside there’s all sorts of Russian stuff. One of those nesting dolls. A packet of sushki, because they all know he likes those. A Moscow Volki toque, a snow globe of St Basil’s, a bottle of vodka. A card they’ve all signed. Thanks Hollander. Fucking good tutor! See you in the NHL! My team will beat your team. Sorry.

Shane looks around the room and it’s hard to reconcile this moment with how scared he was the first time he walked in here, faced with all those strangers, all those pairs of expectant eyes.

It’s good to do things you’re scared of. It’s really good.

“Spasibo, guys,” he says, because he still doesn’t speak any fucking Russian.

They head back to the hotel. Tonight’s dinner is a special one, the final camp dinner, and all the leaders will be there. The announcement will be made.

Ilya’s quiet and twitchy as they’re getting ready. He slicks his curls back and puts on a sharp black shirt, checking himself in the small mirror above the dresser. Shane smiles, watching him. He feels desperately sentimental. 

In only forty-eight hours, Shane will be on a plane. He’ll be gone.

They haven’t talked about that. All their focus has been on these important games and tonight’s decision; and leaving is still the last thing Shane wants to think about. He comes up behind Ilya and wraps his arms around that muscled waist, leaning his chin on Ilya’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You look good.” 

Really, he’s thinking: We look good. Him and me, together. And they’ll have two whole nights, two whole days together before he has to go.

There’s something Shane wants to do in those days. Something they haven’t done, haven’t even talked about. But he wants it more than anything.

Ilya turns, pressing his lips to Shane’s temple.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For helping me be so fucking good in the game.”

Shane snorts with laughter. “The size of your ego, man.”

“What? Is true.”

And it is. So who’s Shane to argue?

The dining room is full, set up with two long tables. Dinner’s going to be served banquet style, and in the meantime servers are circling with drinks and nibbles. Shane takes a beer and a little round of rye bread topped with salmon and sour cream. It’s really good. He takes another one. Ilya gets dragged into a Russian conversation, leaving Shane gazing around the room. The guys aren’t in suits or anything, but they’re looking smarter than Shane’s ever seen them. Even Zaitsev looks sharp.

Semyenov comes over, and he’s wearing a tie.

“Good job,” he says. “Your team did well.”

“Thanks. Yeah, they did.”

“You were a good tutor. Want to come back next summer?”

Shane laughs. “I think maybe it’ll be better to get someone new. Someone who’s undrafted. Because… I mean, it’s been really good to meet these guys. To get to know them, you know? And we’ll be rookies together. I hope.”

“Yes. I hope you have made some friends, that you will keep touch with in your career.”

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely,” says Shane, totally unable to meet Semyenov’s eye. Yeah, he’s made at least one friend. You could definitely say that.

Berezkin waves from across the room, beckoning Shane over, and introduces him to half a dozen older men whose names slide off Shane’s brain like raindrops down a windowpane. He’s gotten a lot better with Russian words, but not that good. He manages his standard phrases. Privet, menya zovut Shane Hollander. They’re all polite enough to respond in English.

“An honour to have you here. How have you found Russia?” says one.

“Great. Really great. Amazing players.”

“Some you would like to see join you in the NHL?”

“Oh, definitely. Yes, sir.”

“If you pick one, then who?”

Shane gives a lop-sided smile. “Depends, sir. What position are you thinking of?”

Berezkin says approvingly, “A diplomat.”

Another man, a guy with an impressive white-streaked beard, says, “We watch you play today. You play well with Rozanov, yes?”

“Yes.” So fucking well, Shane thinks, trying his damndest to look serious. “He’s a really spectacular player.”

“As good as you.”

“Huh. I don’t know about that,” says Shane, and they laugh politely.

“I would like to see you play against one another,” says the first guy. “A well-matched rivalry.”

“We did that a lot in practice. Coach Moroz made sure of it. It was fun—really challenging. He’s… a really strong player. I don’t know what you’ve decided about the draft, but—”

“Uh uh uh,” says Berezkin, cutting him off with a wagging finger. “You will all find out soon. Enough. Go back to your team.”

Dismissed, Shane scurries back to Ilya and the guys. Ilya play-punches Shane’s shoulder and demands, “You say good things about me, Hollander?”

“No, I said you snore and you need to work on your shot accuracy.”

“Fucking liar,” says Ilya, all cocky confidence; but his fingers keep going to the cross around his neck, and Shane knows that means he’s nervous.

When they all take their seats for dinner Berezkin gets up and makes a speech, first in Russian and then in English, about how well they’ve all done. The coaches give out a bunch of prizes, some of them serious, some of them mocking—everything from the most goals scored (Ilya gets that, but he only beats Shane because of that last game) to the most improved English (Tsallagov) to the most improved Russian (Farnham, and that’s definitely a mocking prize because everybody knows he was kind of a shit tutor).

Then the guy with the beard stands up and something electric ripples through the players. This must be it. Under the table, Shane puts a hand on Ilya’s thigh and squeezes.

He starts talking in Russian. Shane doesn’t understand any of it; he’s just listening as hard as he can for names. The guy pauses for dramatic effect, and then—

Vladislav Zaitsev.

Everyone cheers. Ilya whoops for his friend, and Zaitsev’s grin splits his face in two. It’s a good decision, well earned.

Dmitry Garanin.

He was on the blue team. They holler and howl.

Kirill Oryol.

Kirill’s monobrow shoots upwards in glee and Shane’s so glad for him. He’s a great defence player, always happy to take pain for the team, and his English has come so far.

Ilya’s leg is bouncing under Shane’s hand, faster and faster. As the applause for Oryol dies down, Ilya bites his lip.

They’ll pick him. Of course they’ll pick him. It would be stupid not to, right?

I nakonets… Ilya Rozanov.

“Yes!” Shane shouts, into the din of cheering. He digs his fingers in so hard. He wants so much to throw his arms around Ilya, to pull that beaming face close, but he can’t. He’s just gonna leave five tiny bruises there on his thigh to tell him how happy Shane is. “You did it! You’re coming to the NHL!”

“Still have to be chosen,” says Ilya, uncharacteristically modest, but he’s being an idiot. Of course he’s going to be selected, and early on, too. There’s no one like him, no one as bold and fast and utterly fearless.

They’re gonna do this together.

After dinner the older men retire to a room full of smoke and liquor. For the players it’s a bittersweet celebration; yeah, four of them made it, but the others didn’t. Some of them were never really in with a chance, but others could totally have done it. Mityaev, and Kaminsky? Tough luck, Shane tells them, and there’s always next year, it would be so good to see you over there. They smile tightly and nod, but it must fucking hurt.

And another thing hurts, suddenly and utterly. They’ve been so focussed on this announcement that Shane’s been able to ignore his immanent departure; the decision was a big brick wall between him and the future. Now that wall’s been demolished and they know what’s on the other side of it. Yeah, Ilya will come to the draft. But first, Shane has to go back to Canada.

He sits back, letting the rivers of Russian wash over him.

They haven’t talked about him leaving, or even about this last weekend. For all Shane knows, Ilya’s heading home tomorrow.

He blinks, and his eyes feel treacherously wet. Shit. He pushes back from the table and stands suddenly. Ilya turns, looking up at him in query.

“I might, uh. I might turn in,” says Shane to the table, not looking at Ilya.

“No! Stay! We are sorry, we will talk English. Right, douchebags?” says Kaminsky, who never got over that word once he’d discovered its literal meaning.

“Thanks, but it’s okay. Have fun, guys. Night.”

Back in their room, he gets ready for bed. He should start packing… but maybe tomorrow. Because maybe tomorrow Ilya will be gone and Shane will need to have something to do, to keep himself busy. Plus he’ll have to figure out how to get to the airport on Sunday. Maybe Semyenov will take him again.

He’s about to lean over and turn off the light when Ilya surges into the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Noooo, Hollander, we are going out! Put clothes on!”

Shane shakes his head. “No, I’d just be in the way. You guys will have more fun without me.”

The mattress shakes and the headboard smacks against the wall as Ilya pounces onto the bed on all fours, looming over Shane. “Is not true. I have big fun with you even though you are boring. You know this.” He leans down and kisses Shane, a wet and smiling kiss with a sharp vodka tang. 

It’s pathetic how much Shane wants to say stay with me, don’t go out. Don’t waste these hours. He doesn’t, though. He takes the kiss and gives it right back, instantly eager; something about Ilya Rozanov sets him alight, every time without fail. He shoves one hand into Ilya’s hair and the other down the neck of his shirt, feeling the warm muscles of his back. Ilya hums into his mouth, then breaks the kiss.

“Mmm, fuck, Hollander, stop. The boys wait for me.”

“Fuck the boys.” Shane goes for another kiss, biting gently at the lovely curve of Ilya’s upper lip. “I’m so happy for you. So glad we’ll be at the draft together.”

“Yes, is… unh… word for no more worry?”

“Relief. It’s a relief.”

“Yes. Relief.” Ilya nuzzles into Shane’s neck, kissing his jaw and running his tongue around the curve of Shane’s ear. His breath is so loud, and the touch of it sends electricity all the way down Shane’s spine. “I have question for you,” he whispers, right into Shane’s ear.

“Mmm?”

“You go home Sunday, yes?”

Fuck. “Yeah.” Which is why you should stay here, and take your clothes off, and get into this bed with me.

“Tomorrow… you want come to dacha?”

“To where? Where’s Dacha?”

Ilya sits back, kneeling over Shane’s thighs. “Is not place. Is house. Family house in, in country.”

“Like, a cottage?”

“What is cottage?”

“A house for, like, holidays?”

“Yes. For summer. In Balashikha.” Ilya runs his palm, very slowly, down the centre of Shane’s chest. Over his belly. “Just you and me. No others. Private.”

The smile that’s pouring over Shane’s face feels enormous. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come. And you can take me to the airport on Sunday night, right?”

Bending, Ilya purses his lips around Shane’s nipple, gently flicking it with his tongue and then giving it a kiss. 

“Yes. But we don’t think about that. We only think about two days to… do whatever we want.”

“Okay. Yeah, that sounds, um. Good. Really good.”

“Rozanooooooov!” A fist hammers on the door, sending adrenaline through them both.

Ilya yells something over his shoulder in Russian, then says, pouting, “Come with us? Please?”

“No. You go, have fun, celebrate.” Shane pushes him away.

The door closes behind Ilya and footsteps and laughter fade into silence. Shane turns out the light and smiles into the pillow.

Ilya’s cottage. They’re going to Ilya’s cottage. Just the two of them.

ILYA

The key’s where it’s been for years, up on a high beam in the garden shed, covered in dust and spiderwebs. Ilya wipes his fingers clean on his track pants as he heads back around to the front door, where Shane Hollander’s standing, staring around.

It doesn’t look great. The garden is completely overgrown, the lawn a yellowing meadow full of the hum of bees, and the green paint around the windows is peeling now.

They haven’t been here much in the last six years. This was always… her place.

But it’s a place full of good memories for Ilya. It’s where he was most himself; a simple place, an honest place. A place that, in some weird way, matches the way he thinks about Shane Hollander.

Inside, dust motes dance in the sunlight slanting over the kitchen table. Ilya flicks a light switch, and is relieved to learn that his father’s kept the connection on.

“Oh!” Hollander crowds through the door behind him, sounding surprised. “It’s so… um, homey. Not like—”

“Not like Moscow, no,” says Ilya. “Here, this way.”

He gives a quick tour. The ground floor is mostly one space, kitchen and dining and a small cosy living room where comfy mismatched furniture crowds around the open fireplace; the bathroom is also downstairs. Ilya wipes cobwebs from the bathroom window. “See there?” He points to the outhouse at the bottom of the garden. “Toilet was there, when I was small.”

Hollander leans closer, peering. “Oh wow. I have to go explore that.”

“You will not enjoy. Many, um…” Ilya makes a spider with his hand and sends it skittering up Hollander’s arm and round the back of his neck, making him laugh and swat Ilya away.

“Spiders? Okay. Good to know.”

“Bring bag,” says Ilya, heading upstairs with his own bag over one shoulder.

The top floor, with its sloping roof and dormer windows, feels much smaller than it used to. Their footprints are visible on the dusty wooden floor. There are only two bedrooms up here; one with a double bed, and the children’s room.

Ilya closes the door to his parents’ room after a quick peer around and leads Hollander to the room he and Alexei used to share.

Fuck, the beds look so little. He didn’t remember it this way. On the wall, yellowed drawings have contorted and buckled over the years of cold damp winters and hot dry summers. Over Ilya’s bed are posters of hockey players; over Alexei’s, bands he liked and women not wearing much. Their mother didn’t like those ones, but their father did. Between the beds is the chest of drawers that Mama painted in two colours, two green drawers for Alexei and two blue drawers for Ilya.

He’s not sure what drove him to bring Shane here. It’s really not very sexy, for their last couple of days together. What’s the word Shane taught him? Regret. Yeah, he’s having regret.

“Maybe we find hotel,” he says drily.

“What? No! This is so cute,” says Shane. “We might need to do a bit of cleaning, though.” He sneezes, and then grins. “I mean, I can’t accuse you of bringing all your conquests here.”

“Con-quests?”

“All the people you… fuck,” says Shane, and though it’s obviously intended as a tease, the word falls heavily into the room.

Yeah. Yeah, Ilya wants Shane to be one of those people, with every part of him. But he’s not going to suggest it. It’s got to come from Shane, or not at all. 

He smirks, tries to keep things light. “True. Lucky you,” he says.

“We should clean,” says Shane again, peering up at the corner of the room where impressive cobwebs tell stories of long and fruitful arachnid lives.

That is not what Ilya came here to do but he knows from over a month of co-habitation that this dust is going to be all Shane Hollander can think about right now. Fuck. Okay. Cleaning it is.

There’s an ancient vacuum cleaner in the hall cupboard. Ilya throws open windows and doors and runs the vacuum around while Shane wanders from room to room with a bucket of water and a cloth, cleaning surfaces and investigating photos and books and cupboards full of games.

“Hey, Ilya?”

Ilya looks up from where he’s bent over the rubbish bin, emptying several years’ worth of grime from the vacuum cleaner. Shane is at the bottom of the stairs, holding up a child-sized hockey jersey. “Found this upstairs. What does it say?”

“Yashin. Good hockey player. Great.”

Shane scowls at the Cyrillic. “No fucking way. That can’t say Yashin.”

“You think I can’t read Russian?”

“But that’s an R.”

Ilya sighs dramatically as he stands, dusting off his hands on his pants. “You are in Russia for weeks and weeks and you are still… word for person who cannot read?”

“I’m not illiterate.”

“Yes, ill-it-erate,” says Ilya. “But is okay because you are very pretty.”

“Fuck off. Was this yours? You were so little.”

“Children in Canada are not little?”

“Oh my god, shut up. It’s cute.”

“Maybe fit you,” says Ilya, and Shane scoffs. 

“I’m not much smaller than you.”

Ilya pulls off his t-shirt and flexes his arms, spreading his lats. “Little bit,” he says.

“Why are you such a shit?” Shane says, but there’s colour mounting at the base of his throat and he’s staring in a very satisfactory manner.

“You like it,” says Ilya, winking. “Want to feel muscles?”

The hockey jersey is tossed over the banister. Shane’s face begins that beautiful transformation, where he dissolves into wanting and loses all his uncertainties. Fuck, Ilya adores it. He welcomes Shane into his arms and their mouths meet, instantly hungry, instantly drowning in each other. 

Ilya’s never known kisses like these. Completely lacking in any pretence or posturing, nothing but need and delight. His tongue touches Shane’s, soft and careful, and Shane sucks in a breath and wraps an arm around Ilya’s waist, his other hand feeling its way down Ilya’s bared chest. He’s always eager, but there’s something a little bit urgent, a little bit desperate, about the way he opens his mouth wide and pushes his fingers down into Ilya’s pants. Like there’s a clock ticking; and that’s fair. There is.

Ilya doesn’t want it to tick. These last weeks have been so good. Too good. To have found someone who can match him on the ice and in the bedroom, someone this beautiful and built, someone who wants Ilya back in return. There’s a definite element of too good to be true about it, and that clock’s the thing that makes it even more intense and bittersweet. He holds Shane by the jaw, tilting his face into the kiss, and slides his other hand down to grab a handful of that delicious ass. God, he wants it. 

Shane grunts at the touch, his weight falling against Ilya, and Ilya trails his mouth down Shane’s throat.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs. “Ilya?”

“Mmmm?”

“Can I, um. Can I ask you something?”

“Mmmm. Yes.”

“I mean, you can say no, okay?”

He sounds a little anxious, a little uncomfortable. “Okay,” says Ilya, not stopping with his exploration of Shane’s neck, but carding his fingers through soft black hair in reassurance.

“If you don’t want to, I don’t mind.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, “ask.”

“I just. I mean I know I haven’t, but I really want to. And I thought maybe you would want to…?”

Oh, yes. Oh, yes. There’s only one thing he can mean. Running his tongue up and around Shane’s ear, feeling the shiver that follows his touch, Ilya whispers close. Yes. Say it.

“Can we… will you…”

Yesss. Say it.

“Would you want to… fuck me, Ilya?”

It rushes over Ilya like lava, the heat delirious and intense, his cock swollen solid. It’s all he wants, in the whole world.

“Blyat. Yes. Yes, if also you want.”

“I do want. I want to… know.”

Ilya starts walking Shane backwards towards the staircase, still kissing his neck, happiness fizzing in his veins. Yes, yes, god, yes!

“Um, now?” says Shane, his voice high. “Like, right now?”

“Not now? Tomorrow? At airport?”

“No, shut up. Okay. Now.”

Thank fuck for that.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Shane starts tugging at the neck of his t-shirt.

“Stop,” says Ilya. “I want to do that.”

“To do… what?”

“Take off your clothes.”

Afternoon sun is slanting in through the open dormer window, pooling on the rug. The fine curtains waver in the breeze, the smell of grass and pine blowing into the room.

Shane Hollander stands there, achingly obedient, and lets Ilya prowl around him and slowly pull his shirt up. Inch after inch of pale gold skin is revealed to Ilya’s gaze and touch. Silken, lovely. What was that word… immaculate. Yes. Immaculate. And then the contrast of dark nipple, the soft hair of his armpit when Ilya whispers up, and he lifts his arms. Ilya breathes him in, nuzzles into the warmth of him, and Shane laughs, low and breathless.

His shorts sit low, and Ilya slides both hands over his hips and down into the back of them, cupping two handfuls of flesh and grinding against Shane as he kisses him again. Instantly, Shane’s hands are on him, pushing up into Ilya’s shirt. For long, sunlit minutes they touch and kiss, pressed gently against each other at first and then less gently, shoving their hips together and revelling in the sensation and the knowledge of one another’s eagerness.

Ilya runs a fingertip up the crease of Shane’s ass. God, he’s got to take his time, he’s got to do this right. Got to make this the best he can. Got to do better than that first awkward, greedy time with Sasha. He pushes Shane’s shorts down, stepping back so he can free that beautiful rosy dick from the fabric, and crouches as Shane steps out of them. Kneels there, with Shane’s erection right in front of him, stroking those muscled thighs. He looks up, over the smooth planes of Shane’s body, and wants.

Shane whispers, “You’ve got to… just tell me, okay, tell me what to do.”

Nodding, Ilya says, “Yes. But anything you don’t like, is okay. You say.”

Shane nods.

“First, something you like,” says Ilya wickedly, and he opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out in invitation.

“I do like that,” says Shane faintly, and he takes hold of his own cock and feeds it into Ilya’s mouth. Sealing his lips, Ilya licks and sucks, and Shane makes a delighted sound.

Ilya reaches up with one hand, pressing two fingers between Shane’s lips, and Shane takes him in willingly, suckling on him in return. The feeling goes straight to Ilya’s cock, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. With his free hand he taps at the insides of Shane’s knees, encouraging him to widen his stance, and when he does Ilya takes those two spit-slicked fingers and explores up behind Shane’s pretty balls.

“Oh god,” says Shane, and he takes hold of Ilya’s head with both hands, fingers digging into his scalp as Ilya increases the motion, sucking him deep and at the same time, circling his fingertip over Shane’s gorgeously tight little hole. Shane whimpers, he actually whimpers, and they haven’t even fucking started yet. Ilya might lose his mind before night falls. Shane Hollander will kill him.

“Ilya, Ilya stop, slow down, I don’t wanna come yet.”

Ilya releases him with a deliberately wet sound. “Can if you want. I make you come again, promise.” He knows what Shane’s refractory period is, and it’s impressively quick, especially if Ilya’s… determined.

“No, I want… for starters, I want you naked.”

“Okay.” Ilya slaps Shane’s thigh. “On bed.”

He strips quickly as Shane climbs onto the mattress, then grabs the pillows from Alexei’s bed. Maybe he should feel bad about what he’s about to do to those pillows, but he doesn’t.

“Bend your knees. Up,” he says, tapping Shane’s hip, and kneels between Shane’s legs as he puts a pillow under his butt. The angle’s better, will make it easier; it would be easier still on hands and knees, but Ilya needs to see that face. Make sure he’s okay. Watch everything. Everything.

Gently, staring into Shane’s eyes, he pushes one knee aside. Spreading him. He kisses the soft skin inside Shane’s thigh, stroking down his torso, over and over. He sits back. “Beautiful,” he says. Shane shakes his head and looks away, his cheeks colouring. Ilya says it again, kisses his thigh again. Beautiful. Kisses his swollen cock. Beautiful. Kisses the soft skin of his balls. Beautiful.

Pushes the other leg aside. Kisses the crease of his hip and then, positioning his thigh even wider and higher, he presses his lips to the secret place that Shane Hollander’s never offered to anyone else, ever. He feels like the first cosmonaut, like Yuri fucking Gagarin.

“Beautiful,” he says again, dizzy with reverence.

“Oh my God, please, just—”

Ilya reaches down to his bag and retrieves the supplies he’d optimistically stashed in there several weeks ago. He lubes up his fingers and bends to take Shane’s cock in his mouth as a distraction while they get through the next few novel steps.

As soon as he touches him there, Shane makes that sound again. That desperate whimper. Knees spread wider, higher. Opening, offering. His hands are in Ilya’s hair again and when Ilya applies enough pressure that his fingertip slips inside into that soft, strong heat, Shane gasps.

“Is okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, but it’s strangled.

“Relax, yes? Shhh. Slow. Tell me is okay.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t stop.”

With a patience that his body doesn’t feel, Ilya withdraws and pours on more lube, circling and teasing and then pushing in again. Over and over while he licks and sucks and adores, until Shane’s panting and Ilya’s in to the first knuckle, then the second, then, fuck, yes, all the way; and Ilya’s hoping, oh god he’d be praying if he were a religious man, that Hollander’s going to be like Sasha. That he’s going to feel it, going to love it, when Ilya hooks his finger right—there—

Shane Hollander makes a gorgeous, inarticulate sound, and all Ilya’s dreams bloom true.

“Fuck, Ilya, fuck—”

“Is okay?”

“Do that again. Again. Oh, fuck, again!”

Ilya watches, mesmerised, as fat beads of liquid ooze from the head of Shane’s cock. Fuck, he gets so… wet. He licks it up and closes his eyes in pleasure.

With infinite patience, he introduces additional fingers, interspersing his explorations with his tongue until Shane’s whole body is loose and relaxed, no longer freaked out by the novelty of a man’s mouth and hands on—in—his asshole. Soon he’s writhing against Ilya and jerking every time Ilya rubs against his prostate, so fabulously responsive. Ilya’s bone hard, sweating in desire and anticipation, but he’s going to wait, going to wait until—

“Please,” Shane gasps. “Please, I want—”

Thank fuck. Ilya rips open the condom packet with his teeth and rolls it on, hissing at the touch on his over-stimulated flesh. He lubes up and then looks up to see Shane propped on his elbows, staring, wild-eyed.

“Don’t worry, it will fit,” says Ilya.

And then he’s suspended above Shane, taking his weight on one arm while his other hand positions him right, and they’re so close. Staring. Breathing into one another’s mouths.

Ilya almost blacks out when the head of his cock’s gripped by that insane strong heat. “Okay?” he grits out through clenched teeth, and Shane’s only response is to reach down and clutch at Ilya’s ass, pulling him in. Ilya groans, Shane keens, and the world spins around them. 

SHANE

He’s doing it. They’re doing it.

He, Shane Hollander, is in Russia having sex—getting fucked—by the best hockey player he’s ever met, by the most incredible body he’s ever seen, by one of the funniest rudest coolest guys imaginable.

By those eyes, that mouth, those curls that captivated him the first second he saw them standing there in Sheremetyevo Airport, irritated and impatient. And now that perfect face is hovering above him, staring at him as if he, Shane Hollander, is sex personified, utterly desirable, utterly wanted. Everything.

And it feels incredible.

Shane’s whole body is alive with need. His mind is blissfully empty. They're the only thing in this moment— these bodies, those eyes. This feeling. Stretch and pressure, fullness and completion; and when Ilya moves, when he pulls back and then pushes back in, holy fuck, what that does inside Shane’s body is nothing he ever imagined. Every thrust takes him higher, closer to the precipice, but it’s so good he doesn’t ever want to fall over. He wants to do this forever. To stare at Ilya, at his wild blue eyes and that look on his face while he fucks into Shane’s welcoming body.

“Is okay?” says Ilya for the hundredth time, his eyebrows crunching together, his face red, a vein standing out on his temple.

“So… good,” Shane manages, and then he has to screw his eyes shut and just breathe, just keep himself alive while impossible things happen to him, while his blood pounds and his heart stutters and his body howls in delight. It’s no good, he’s going to come. He’s so close and he doesn’t want to be, doesn’t want this to end but it’s gonna because he’s gonna come so so fucking hard, and then Ilya’s hand wraps around Shane’s cock and he gabbles something in Russian, gabbles and thrusts hard and deep, shudders and gasps; and the realisation that Ilya Rozanov is coming, buried in Shane’s body, is mind-blowing. Shane’s orgasm overtakes him, crashing down like a massive wave, pulling him under into some place where everything’s exploding in stars and bliss. He can feel the hot spurt of come on his belly and the hot panting breath of Ilya Rozanov on his face and it’s so much more than he ever expected.

The last tremor subsides. Languor washes over him, peaceful and delicious.

They did it. He did it. He just had sex with Ilya Rozanov.

It’s insane. It’s wonderful.

Ilya pulls out, still half hard, and it’s the weirdest sensation. They rearrange themselves awkwardly on the too-small bed until they’re face-to-face, on their sides, legs tangled together. Ilya takes the condom off, ties a knot in it and tosses it onto the floor. He’s such a savage. He reaches over and runs his thumb over Shane’s top lip, rubbing away sweat.

“So, you… you like?”

Shane can only nod.

“Good. Was good first time I think?” Ilya smiles, a little smug. 

“Um. Yeah.”

“You are very good to fuck. You are…” Ilya’s eyes roll up the way they do when he’s searching for a word, and then he clicks his tongue and declares, “Prodigy!”

Shane laughs and buries his face in the pillow.

But he felt like one. It felt as natural as being on the ice. As right.

Now Ilya’s dragging a knuckle through the mess on Shane’s body, and then, oh god, sucking that knuckle into his plush mouth. It’s sexy but it’s gross too. Shane needs to get to the shower, pronto. But his limbs feel like lead noodles and he doesn’t want to take his hand off Ilya’s hip.

“Thank you,” he mutters, and Ilya makes a dismissive face, as if that’s a crazy thing to say.

It’s not, though. There’s so much Shane wants to thank him for. These last few weeks would’ve been so, so much harder without Ilya Rozanov, in every way. Instead, they’ve been some of the best weeks of Shane’s life. They’ve shown him how brave he can be, how he can do things and be things that would scare him to death back home. They’ve taught him things about himself that have astonished him, but fuck, it’s so good to have discovered who he is. 

This coming year’s going to change both their lives, in so many ways. But lying here in the slanting sunlight, looking into Ilya’s oceanic eyes, Shane can’t imagine anything that would top this moment, right here.

Chapter 9: In Which Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Run Out of Time

Chapter Notes

How's that for an ominous chapter title eh?

Recap: the summer hockey camp is over, and it's been confirmed that Ilya's coming to the draft, which is great. Less great is the loud metaphorical clock ticking away the seconds to Shane's flight home. Ilya took Shane to his family's barely used dacha and all his patience was rewarded when Shane asked for what he really wanted.

Many thanks to the Russian reader who confirmed that yes, there are dachas like this as well as the fancy ones! Damn I get a kick out of connecting to you people all around the world, it's so cool :)

ILYA

Heat wakes Ilya. Morning sun, tracking over his back, is adding to the warmth of the blankets tangled around his legs and the solid body he’s curved around. He blinks and extracts his arm from the bedding, pushing a foot out the side, instinctively seeking air and coolness while his mind catches up.

Oh. Oh yeah.

Oh yeah.

Holy shit. What a night. Hours and hours of fucking and kissing and resting and then more kissing and then more fucking because Shane Hollander’s mouth is perfect, and his hunger and enthusiasm are epic and the only thing more perfect than his mouth is—

“Hey,” mumbles Shane. His voice is low and croaky.

“Hey. I wake you?” Ilya nuzzles into the back of Shane’s neck, breathing in the evidence of their efforts. He shouldn’t smell this good but fuck, he does. They’re half stuck together with sweat and the residue of a very busy night. Ilya’s childhood bed never expected last night, that’s for sure. It’s kind of a miracle that it’s still standing, and even more of a miracle that the two of them stayed there, curled together, all the way through until morning, and nobody fell out. It was not designed for two large adult males.

“No, I was already awake,” Shane says.

“You sleep okay?” 

Shane makes a noncommittal sound as Ilya runs a fingertip over Shane’s shoulder, down the swell of his bicep. “A bit. Not much. Too many, you know… thoughts.”

“Thoughts of…?”

Shane snorts out a little laugh. “Can’t you guess?”

Ilya could make many, many guesses. His own brain is half curdled with all the thoughts twisting around in there. There are so many candidates for what might’ve been keeping Shane Hollander awake. Sharing a single bed? Losing his virginity, very comprehensively? Flying home to Canada today? The confirmation that Ilya’s coming to the draft, and all that means for their respective futures?

Or maybe it’s simpler than all of those big things. Maybe it’s just that he’s got the same warmth in his belly that Ilya has this morning, the same bittersweet joy that all those kisses brought.

They were so good. And Ilya doesn’t want him to go.

Shane lifts his wrist, squinting at his watch. “Shit. It’s nearly ten o’clock. What time do we have to leave, again?”

“Four thirty.”

“And we can definitely make it to the airport by—”

“YES, Hollander. You will not be late. You will not miss flight. You will not be trapped in Russia forever,” says Ilya, wrapping his arm around Shane’s waist and pulling him in tight, rocking back and forth so much the bed creaks and shakes. They’re naked still, and the motion presses Ilya’s dick firmly into the meat of Shane’s ass. “Or maybe I make you stay,” he mutters.

“Don’t start,” says Shane. “I’m so gross. I need a shower so bad. We should’ve showered last night.”

“We did,” Ilya argues.

“Yeah, but then after that we—”

“We did. Mmm.” Yeah, that second fuck was as spectacular as the first. Shane on his hands and knees on the bed and Ilya stood at the end, driving in and in and in until Shane collapsed down, his face pressed into the mattress and his ass arched high, hands fisting the sheets as he gasped and moaned. Fuck, it was sensational.

Ilya strokes down over Shane’s hip, round the curve of his butt and down the back of his thigh. “And today, you are not, ahh… no hurting?”

Shane twists around, smiling over his shoulder. “A bit… tender maybe? But I don’t think you broke me.”

“Maybe you broke me. Fuck, Hollander. That was… blyat, very good. Very very good.”

The smile widens, and Shane looks simultaneously proud of himself and embarrassed. It’s delicious. Ilya’s cock twitches between their bodies and he hums, grinds a little.

This turns out to be a mistake. “No!” Shane says firmly. “No, I stink, I’m gross, I’ve gotta—”

He scrambles out of Ilya’s arms and out of the bed, climbing over Ilya’s legs while Ilya makes disgruntled noises and enjoys the view.

While Shane’s in the shower Ilya makes coffee and boiled eggs. He can’t stop glancing at his watch. Time is moving too fast, the last hours slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t want to think about tonight. Doesn’t want to contemplate driving away from the airport by himself, going back home to his father’s house. 

At least he’ll be able to tell his father about the draft, and start planning that. At least it won’t be long until he’s the one getting on a plane; and at least there’s the possibility, maybe, that he’ll see Shane Hollander again. On another continent, in another world.

Hollander emerges from the bathroom, wearing running shorts and towelling his hair dry. It sticks up from one side of his head, lopsided and adorable. “Bathroom’s free,” he says.

“Eat first,” Ilya tells him, and they sit at the kitchen table and eat their eggs, and a lot of toast, and drink several cups of coffee. They don’t talk much; they’re still recharging. Lots of expended energy to make up for. The conversation consists of knees touching under the table, eyes meeting, and conspiratorial smiles. It’s peaceful. Companionable. Weirdly easy.

Shane breaks the silence after his third slice of toast. “So… you used to come here a lot when you were a kid?” he asks, brushing crumbs off his fingers.

“Yes. With, uh. With my brother and…”

Ilya swallows and stops himself. He doesn’t talk about her. Not with anybody.

“And with your mother? Because this doesn’t seem like your father’s kind of place.” Shane says it gently, curiously. With the blind unthinking innocence of someone who’s never lost what Ilya lost and would never assume such a thing might have happened.

Ilya both appreciates and yet resents this. On the one hand, it’s lovely to have someone ask about his beloved mother. On the other, Shane’s got absolutely no idea that his polite question could open Pandora’s box. He nods curtly and drains the last dregs of his coffee, hoping that’s an end to it.

But Shane keeps going. “Did your parents, um, divorce?” 

Ilya presses his lips together and shakes his head. He lurches up from the table and makes a more forceful attempt to change the subject. “You want go to lake? Swim?”

“Sure, but—oh, shit,” says Hollander softly, refusing to be redirected. His eyebrows are converging as he calculates alternatives to divorce. “Stop, wait, did she… is she still, like, um… here?”

She is everywhere. Everywhere and nowhere. Inescapable, imperceivable. 

“Nyet. She is gone.”

Hollander’s eyes go soft with pain and sympathy. “Oh, man. She… she died?”

Shrugging, Ilya sniffs dismissively and starts picking up plates. “Many years ago,” he says.

“How long ago?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” He piles the dishes in the sink and starts running water over them. “Come, we go to lake.”

“Okay. Sure. I just… um, I’m really sorry. That’s awful.”

It was more awful than Shane Hollander could possibly conceive, and Ilya is not—he is not—going to dredge that up now. It’s his own fault for bringing Shane here in the first place; did he really imagine that here, in his mother’s favourite place in the whole world, they could somehow avoid the painful void of her?

But he’d wanted Shane to exist here, in these rooms, even if it was only for a few hours. As if Ilya is curating a collection of his favourite ghosts, here in a rundown dacha on the edge of a forest. As if he could show his mother someone she would like, maybe, as much as Ilya does.

The lake is always fucking freezing and today will be no exception. Shrieking children’s voices float through the trees as Shane and Ilya follow the path towards the narrow pebbled beach. It’s Sunday morning and there are plenty of families here, picnicking on the grass; a few young people, some couples and a rowdy group with a football. Ilya heads to the western end of the beach, where it’s less crowded. It’s not a large lake, but it’s surrounded by forest and forest paths and as a kid he loved it. He and Alexei would ride their bikes down here and play for hours, skipping stones and daring each other into the cold water.

Neither of them have brought swimming trunks, but running shorts are close enough. Ilya toes off his sneakers and pulls his t-shirt over his head. “Swim?”

“Sure.”

“Is cold, yes? You will be okay?”

“I’m Canadian, Ilya, I’m not from California.” 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “This is Russian lake. You are swimming with a Russian.”

Hollander laughs—“Yeah, yeah, I get it”—and then gives him a challenging look. “Race you then? First one in?”

“Hmm, I don’t know if—” says Ilya thoughtfully, throwing his weight onto one hip and frowning in a piece of very convincing false direction, and then he turns and sprints down the beach as fast as he can. 

Hollander’s right behind him, swearing and laughing. The pebbles are vicious on their feet but Ilya ignores the pain, running into the water full tilt. It gets deep fast; three big strides and it’s deep enough to arrow his arms forward and dive, cleaving into the cold clear water. It hits his scalp with an intensity that sends a shockwave of discomfort through him, and he kicks hard, coming up into a fast overarm as he tries to get his circulation moving.

Something grabs his ankle and yanks, and when Ilya kicks free and turns, treading water, Hollander’s right there, his hair plastered down, black and shining. 

“You fucking cheated!” he cries.

“Me? Me?”

“Yes, you! Hmmm, hmmm, I don’t know,” says Hollander in an atrocious accent. He does go to the effort to make his impression of Ilya very deep-voiced though, so that’s appreciated. “And then you just took off! That’s not how you start a fair race!”

Ilya grins, blinking water out of his eyes. “Yes, is fair! You make challenge. I think, I decide, I agree. Where is cheating?” 

Hollander scowls and splashes him; Ilya splashes him back and things quickly escalate into full-on water-fighting. This involves a lot of yelling, slippery grappling, and attempting to hold one another’s heads underwater and all of it is desperately enjoyable. 

Hollander’s limbs are cold, but his torso is warm and Ilya grabs hold of him with both arms, wrapping his legs around Hollander’s thighs. Trapped, his victim wriggles and curses, but both those approaches are entirely ineffectual and a moment later Hollander’s hands, spread over Ilya’s chest, stop pushing him away. 

Their faces are very close together. In the sunlight, Hollander’s skin is scattered with tiny watery diamonds and Ilya wants, rather desperately, to kiss him.

As if he can sense it—or is maybe having the same instinct—Hollander glances towards the shore, and twists to check on their closest neighbours in the water. He leans back, and starts pushing Ilya away again. Ilya only clutches harder, utterly delighted by the growing discomfort on Hollander’s face.

“Don’t! God, Rozanov, someone might see.”

“Don’t what? Don’t… do this?”

Ilya slings an elbow around Hollander’s neck and hurls himself backwards, pulling them both down into the blue. Bubbles fizz around them, tickling over his skin, and Hollander wriggles in his arms; Ilya opens his eyes, and Hollander’s looking black-eyed back at him, his hair a soft seaweed halo, his skin pallid and angelic in the watery light.

Ilya lets go, pushing at the water to keep himself submerged as his breath-filled body tries to rise; he wants to see what Hollander will do down here in these cool, silent, hidden seconds. He purses his lips into the teasing shape of a kiss and gets a smile in return, a quick silver bubble escaping the corner of Hollander’s mouth; and then Hollander reaches for him, hooks his fingers around the back of Ilya’s neck, and presses their mouths together.

The urge to breathe is getting stronger, but not stronger than the urge to kiss. Ilya tilts his head, seals their mouths and slips his tongue between their lips, licking into Hollander. When Hollander’s tongue touches him back something gorgeous slides down Ilya’s spine, a feeling like the first shot of alcohol hitting, a sweet fuzzy pleasure—and then his mouth’s full of lake water and they’re rising fast, breaking apart as they burst through the surface of the lake and back into sunlight.

Hollander’s laughing, pushing his hair off his face and water out of his eyes. “You’re fucking crazy!”

Maybe he is.

He grabs Hollander’s wrist to look at his fancy fucking watch that you could wear diving down into the Mariana Trench. Time has taken advantage of their lack of attention and bounded forward without permission. A sick feeling punches into Ilya’s stomach, and when he looks at Hollander he knows the same thing’s just happened to him.

They don’t discuss it. They both just start swimming for the beach.

SHANE

“We don’t have to do that,” says Ilya, when Shane lobs the bottle of lube at him.

They’re naked on the rucked and ruined sheets of Ilya’s childhood bed, Shane lying against the pillows with his legs splayed and Ilya knelt between them, having just brought Shane to the shaky edge of tears with the way he’s been worshiping Shane’s cock with his mouth and hands. 

The sun is angling into the room again, trudging mercilessly onwards. It can’t be mid-afternoon already, it can’t, because Shane still wants to do so much, and now Rozanov is, what, arguing with him? Trying to talk him out of it? Or maybe—a worse thought hits Shane.

“Don’t—don’t you want to?”

Ilya gives him a you’re an idiot look. “You are not… sore? We can do other things.”

Honestly, the weird sensations from last night are still with Shane. He can certainly feel the ghost of Ilya when he clenches. But…

But he’s about to get on a fucking plane and fly five thousand miles away and he doesn’t know if Ilya Rozanov will even want to see him again, and he has to have this. He has to, even if he’s going to be sore for days, he doesn’t care. He’s never known anything like it before and he might not ever know anything like it again, and he just needs it. So fucking much.

He scowls, shakes his head. “Stop babying me and just do it.”

Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, you are boss of me now?”

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, is wrong… what is it… wrong pronoun,” says Ilya, with an evil grin. “That is not who you want me to fuck. Say it right.” He squirts lube on his fingers and gently touches a fingertip to Shane’s body. The lube is still cold and Shane’s breath catches.

“Say it,” Ilya insists. He catches his reddened lip between his teeth, his eyes dragging over Shane’s body. “Say what you want.” 

Sunshine gives him a halo, his curls all returned now his hair’s dried. He circles his finger, not applying any pressure, but even that small movement makes the muscles of his arm and shoulder flex and Shane’s brain is shorting out watching it. He wants, fuck, he wants; he wants all of Ilya Rozanov, in him, on him, over and through him. He wants to feast on that body for every single minute he has left in Russia, every fast disappearing second.

The Shane Hollander who boarded that plane in Montreal would never have dreamt of saying these words to another human being, let alone a guy, let alone a gorgeous Russian hockey player that he’s probably going to spend years facing on the ice. But travel has apparently broadened his mind, as people kept telling him it would. This Shane Hollander has found out astonishing things about himself. 

This Shane Hollander props himself up on one elbow and reaches forward, taking hold of Ilya Rozanov’s jaw and inserting his thumb in between those impossibly plush, kiss-swollen lips. Inside is wetness and heat and the greedy, welcoming swipe of Ilya’s tongue, and Ilya’s face contorts with surprise and pleasure. That look is everything. Heat surges and another fat bead of fluid drips from Shane’s cockhead.

“Fuck me, Ilya,” says Shane, and Ilya’s arm flexes; Shane throws his head back and groans his delight as his body’s breached. He rubs his thumb over Ilya’s teeth, his sharp canines and his uneven bottom teeth, and then over the ridges of the roof of his mouth, mapping them. The flesh inside his cheek is obscenely soft and hot and wet, and maybe that’s what Ilya’s feeling too, deep inside Shane’s body.

Shivers run up his spine as Ilya presses on his prostate. Fuck, he’s so good at that, it’s so delicious and how could Shane have never known that such a feeling exists? He wonders if Ilya likes that, too. He wonders if it’s polite when you’re having gay sex with someone to offer to do that in return. He mustn’t forget to ask, later, yeah later because right now he can’t think straight and he’s so greedy for it, for the impossible pressure and the dirty goodness and the way Ilya’s going to look at him while he—

“More,” Shane says. “More, faster, please, please, I just want—”

Ilya expels Shane’s thumb with a kiss and stares down at him, heavy-lidded and already rosy-cheeked. “Fuck, Hollander, you are so…” He makes a frustrated sound and lets loose with a guttural stream of Russian, and it doesn’t matter that Shane can’t understand the words because he can understand the meaning anyway. It means that Ilya Rozanov likes this version of him, and that’s all the permission Shane needs.

“Now,” he pants. “Enough, I can do it, I…”

“No, shhh, let me—”

But there’s no time for patience. Every minute of careful preparation means one less minute of fucking and Shane needs them all, every single one of them. He scrambles away from Ilya’s hands and off the bed, then takes Ilya’s confused face between his palms and kisses him, deep and wet, licking into his mouth. He wants to climb in there, his whole self. Ilya’s jaw is rough, unshaven, and it scratches against Shane’s chin. Shane feels giddy, sick with too much anticipation. Anticipation of bliss and then, oh god, then the coming loss, are both swirling in him, like too much rich food.

He says into Ilya’s still-open mouth, “Lie on the bed and let me… let me be on top of you.”

Ilya curses and moves fast, and a moment later he’s spread out there in front of Shane, the most perfect and delectable body imaginable. God, his chest, and that hair on his belly, and those thighs! Shane’s breathing hard and makes a small, pathetic noise on the out breath, a desperate little whine. He has a brief insane desire to take a photo. What if he forgets? What if his mind can’t hold on to something as unlikely as this, dismisses it as a fantasy?

Most fantastic of all is that big solid cock, dark and demanding.

Shane from before had no idea. He was just such a fucking idiot baby.

He clambers onto the mattress, straddling Ilya’s thighs, and kisses his way wetly down Ilya’s astonishing torso. Closes his eyes so he can concentrate on the feel of skin and hair and nipple against his tongue. Ilya’s hands rove over his shoulders, and Shane can feel the callouses at the tops of his palms, and he knows they match his own.

Down. Down, over muscled ridges. He dips his tongue into Ilya’s navel and Ilya hisses as his cockhead is scraped by the bottom of Shane’s jaw.

“Get condom,” Ilya says.

But Shane’s not ready for that yet. He needs to make a memory, to burn something into his body’s recall so he doesn’t lose it. He bends and twists, pillowing his head on Ilya’s abdomen and taking his cock into his mouth. Not all the way—he’ll probably never be able to do that, although he’d be willing to keep trying. Just deep enough that it fills his mouth, big and silky and musky. He’s not sure what he’s doing here—he’s not giving Ilya a blow job—but his body wants this. The thump of Ilya’s pulse beneath his cheek and in the swollen vein that Shane can feel on his tongue. He sucks, very gently, in time with that pulse.

Remember. Remember the feel of him and the smell of him and the weight of him.

“Shane?” Ilya cards his fingers through Shane’s hair. He says it gently enough, but it makes Shane worry that he’s being weird. He pulls back and kisses the end of Ilya’s cock, then tongues sloppily at the slit of it until Ilya’s belly contorts.

“Shane, if you want this in your ass—” says Ilya warningly.

Okay. Okay, yeah, Shane wants that so fucking much. He reaches down to the strip of condoms on the floor and tears one off, then carefully rolls it down Ilya’s rosy length. Ilya watches his fingers, riveted. 

Shane thinks he does it pretty well considering he’s only ever done that to a banana before.

“Lube,” Ilya mutters, and Shane does as he’s told, first on Ilya and then, with a twisting reach behind, his own body. When he touches himself it feels… different. Softer, maybe a little puffy, but ready. Experimentally, he inserts a finger.

Oh. Oh, slick and soft and hot. And when he clenches, the power of it, the push, the expulsion he has to fight against. He grunts, and Ilya clutches hard at Shane’s thighs.

“Fuck, are you…? Are your fingers…?”

Shane opens his eyes and Ilya’s are locked on him, blazing blue in the slant of sunlight. Ilya’s mouth is open, his nostrils flared.

“Yeah,” says Shane. The new Shane, the Shane that Ilya Rozanov has created. “Yeah.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Another,” says Ilya, his voice cracking. “Fuck. Fuck! Look at you.”

Shane arches his spine, his breath coming fast. He twists three fingers together, holding down his smallest finger with his thumb, and hisses as he presses inside. He can’t do whatever it is that Ilya does, however it is that Ilya touches him. He’ll have to get Ilya to teach him.

“Three,” he says.

“Blyat, please, please,” begs Ilya, holding his cock up in offering. “Please, please.”

Shane smiles, slow and victorious, and knee-walks forward, positioning himself over Ilya’s body. Lowering, adjusting, and yeah, there, the liquid touch of Ilya’s lubed cock on his entrance makes them both moan. Ilya puts an arm behind his head, supporting it to get a better view, and the way that pose stretches out his pectoral and exposes the soft hair of his armpit is… it’s art. It’s just fucking art, and Shane stares, mesmerised, as he slowly sinks down. Down. Pauses, because it’s so fucking big and so fucking good and he’s in charge of this. He, Shane Hollander, is doing this. Down. Down, in, down, and then there’s nowhere else to go and he lets his thigh muscles go slack, lets his whole weight descend, and Ilya throws his head back with a groaning hum that turns into a loud moan and a string of Russian swearwords when Shane deliberately tightens around him.

“Fuck, Hollander, fuck, are you ready? You will move?”

Utterly ready to move, Shane begins a long, slow rhythm of rise and fall, revelling in every thrust. There’s a hot, pulsing throb in his stretched body that he’s certain will be with him for days and he wants it that way. Ilya’s staring down at the conjunction of their bodies, red creeping down his throat and spilling over his chest, and he strokes Shane’s thigh, then rolls a thumb over the bone of Shane’s hip, then reaches up to grab his chest. Touching everywhere he can. The mattress shifts and the bed creaks as Ilya bends his knees, starts coming to meet Shane at the apex of each thrust, and together they slowly speed the pace. Fuck, it’s good but Shane hasn’t managed yet to find that place, that spot, and he leans forward, taking his weight on one arm and rolling his hips into the rise, shifting and seeking and Ilya thrusts his hips and—

“There,” says Shane, and his voice comes out high and thready. “Oh shit there Ilya—”

Both Ilya’s hands come round to grab Shane’s ass, holding, guiding, giving him the perfect resistance, and Shane cries out as Ilya’s cock hits just right, time after time after time.  

Minutes slide like honey, all sunlight and birdsong and rhythm and pleasure, over and over and faster and faster until Shane’s thighs are quivering and Ilya mutters please, we move, I want— and Shane lets himself be rolled and manhandled in the insufficient space of this small bed until he’s underneath Ilya, his legs folded high and wide, his heels digging into Ilya’s back, and Ilya’s fucking him deep and true, his face only inches from Shane’s. They’re breathing fast and shallow and hot into each other’s mouths and staring, panting, drinking down greedy gulps of pleasure. Ilya’s flushed and sweaty, there’s a vein pulsing at his temple and he looks drunk with it. It’s the sexiest thing Shane has ever seen.

“You are close? I—I—,” Ilya stutters, and Shane nods as they simultaneously reach a hand down between their bodies to Shane’s weeping cock. His fingers wrap over Ilya’s and he guides the cadence and the twist and they move together with the same sweet synchrony they had on the ice, reading each other’s bodies and needs and knowing, just knowing where they are in this instant and where they’ll be in the next.

“Ohfuckshane,” Ilya gasps, and he shudders as he presses even deeper, tremors wracking through him. His eyebrows are high, eyes open wide and delighted, so beautiful. Shane’s pulled over the edge by the sight of it and falls, plummets, bliss racketing around his body and spilling, spurting, over and over.

Time stops for a long, golden moment, and then Ilya’s full weight comes down on him. Shane’s legs loll sideways, boneless and spent.

Neither of them speak.

That was it, that was the last of their time. Shane knows it and Ilya knows it and it’s rudely confirmed when Shane’s phone alarm trills loudly. Four o’clock. It’s fucking four o’clock.

“Blyat,” says Ilya into Shane’s neck.

Ilya strips the bed while Shane quickly showers; then Shane does a final check of his packing and reconfirms the location of his passport while Ilya takes his turn in the bathroom. They don’t say much. There isn’t time.

The bags are in the car. Ilya locks the door and then disappears into the overgrown wilderness of the back garden to put the key back in its hiding place.

There’s so much anxiety spiking through Shane. He checks his watch again. He hates being late, and they’re not late, but if they don’t get going they will be. Flights always make him tense, and he didn’t enjoy the journey last time. This time, he knows how long it is and how boring. And the thought of saying goodbye to Ilya is just miserable.

He can’t wait to see his parents again but also… god, what if they take one look at him and know, just know, what he’s been doing? 

What if word gets out about this, what if they lose their chances in the draft because someone finds out, what if—

No. He’s catastrophising. Nobody knows. He and Ilya are just good friends, that’s all anyone will think. He pulls out his cabin bag again and checks his passport, then double checks that his iPod’s where it should be.

A warm hand on his shoulder makes him jump. “Ready?” says Ilya, and Shane nods without meeting his eyes.

“Hey. Hey.” Ilya hooks a finger under Shane’s chin, lifting his head until Shane looks at him. “You are okay?”

“Yeah. Just… you know. Worrying about stuff.” He glances at his watch again.

“Plenty of time. What is word for worry about time?”

“Um. I don’t know. I just like to be punctual, I guess? Yeah, punctual. On time.”

“Okay, Mr Punctual. Your driver will get you there. Promise.”

Shane forces a quick smile. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

“Before we go… we take selfie?” says Ilya.

“A… a picture?”

“I think selfie is a picture, yes.” Ilya gestures at Shane’s bag. “We take, then you send to me.”

“Um. Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Shane hands him the iPod and Ilya stands close. He doesn’t do any crazy pose, or take off his shirt, or stick out his tongue or make the devil horns fingers. He just tilts his head towards Shane’s, and clicks a quick picture.

“There. Now, you need this,” says Ilya, and he hands Shane a small piece of paper, clearly torn from a notebook. It’s an email address. Shane looks at him questioningly.

“Email? You’re not gonna give me your phone number?” he says, only half teasing.

“No. Will need new number in America, so… this is better.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” says Shane, and then: “But mine won’t change.”

“No. You can send with photo. If you want,” says Ilya.

“If I want?”

“Yes. Then, when I come to America, maybe…”

Neither of them has made a move to get in the car. 

“Okay,” says Shane. “I, um. I can do that.”

Shane’s phone alarm goes off again, and Ilya laughs; he leans in and gives Shane a last, sweet, lingering kiss and Shane’s eyes close against the sunlight and the loss. 

These lips. These lips. He doesn’t want this to be the last time, but it probably has to be, right? This was probably just one of those holiday things people talk about. Not, like, part of real life.

Of course it can’t be part of real life. They’ll be professional hockey players soon, and professional hockey players don’t beg other professional hockey players to fuck them in the ass. 

Ilya goes around to the driver’s door and yanks it open.

“Ilya,” Shane blurts, and Ilya looks up.

Words crowd into Shane’s throat. Will I see you again, can we do this again? Are we friends, are we… something? Anything? I want to be. You’re amazing. I like you, so much.

“I…” he says. “I, um… I mean… Thank you.” It’s so insufficient. It’s pathetic.

Ilya nods, and Shane sees his throat move as he swallows.

“You are welcome,” he says.

They get in the car and Ilya turns up the music, reversing fast out of the gate. In fifteen minutes they’re on the Enthuziastov Highway, merging into the heavy streams of traffic. 

Half an hour later Ilya pulls into the drop-off zone outside terminal two. He gets out and helps Shane with his suitcases, and they’re surrounded by noise and cars and people and security guards and Shane can’t even hug him goodbye, let alone kiss him the way he wants to.

He holds out his hand instead and Ilya takes it, shakes it. His grip is strong and warm and his thumb rubs over the hairs on the back of Shane’s hand.

“See you at the draft,” Ilya says.

“Yeah. Yeah, see you at the draft. And, um. I’ll email you. With that picture.”

“Yes. Okay.”

They’ve held the handshake way too long now. It’s gotten weird. Shane lets go, blushing.

He enters the terminal through the huge glass doors and at the foot of the escalator he throws one last look over his shoulder. Ilya’s still there, leaning sunlit against his car, lighting a cigarette and squinting into the building. Watching, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. 

When he sees Shane turn around he takes the cigarette out of his mouth, and makes an off you go gesture.

Shane smiles. He squeezes the pocket of his cabin bag until he can feel the hard edge of his passport, and turns his back on Russia.

Chapter 10: In Which Ilya Rozanov Travels a Very Long Way

Chapter Notes

Recap: at the end of the summer training camp in Moscow, Ilya was one of the players chosen for the NHL draft, and he and Shane celebrated by going to Ilya's family dacha and indulging desperately for their last two days together... but at the end of last chapter the inevitable happened and Shane got on a plane to come home.

Everything might look quite different from this continent.

So here it is, the conclusion to this wee story and thank you so terribly much to everyone who's come along on this trip with me! You never know when you write something in a new fandom whether anyone will read, it's kind of like starting a new school -- but everyone here has been really nice, and a bunch of people from my last school transferred too which was an excellent surprise. :) Thank you all for making this so fun, I really appreciate you all more than I can say.

And a giant hug to my dear Strangeredlantern who reads everything first and gives me the confidence to keep going. XXX

SHANE

An eleven hour sleep makes you feel like a golem when you wake up. Shane’s head is heavy, his tongue a dead hedgehog. He runs it around his dry mouth, trying to generate saliva.

The sun is up, angling through the fine gap between his curtains. Plates clink in the distance, and he hears the low mumble of his father’s voice, the higher tones of his mother’s reply.

Home. He’s home.

Sleep evaded him on the flights again, but as soon as they got in the car he’d closed his eyes and been sucked down into it, surrounded by the familiar smell of his mother’s perfume and the dull, calming roar of the engine and the tyres on the road. It was nearly midnight when they arrived home and he’d stumbled straight to bed; they haven’t even had time to talk, really. Just hug. 

He needs to get up, go say hi and get something to eat. They’re going to want to hear everything. He’s got to give those sushki to his dad, and that nesting doll to Mom. They’re going to want him to upload all the pictures he took and go through them on the TV, he knows it. They’re going to want to hear about everyone he met and everything he did.

But they’re never going to know about the only thing that mattered.

He closes his eyes again and rolls onto his side, drawing his knees up in a tight curl. He can still feel it in his body, a faint dull burn.

Ilya Rozanov did that. Ilya.

Ilya.

Ilya kissed him, over and over and over. Ilya put his tongue in Shane’s mouth and his hands all over Shane’s skin. Ilya sucked Shane’s dick and came all over him. So many times. Ilya stared as Shane did the same thing.

Ilya… Ilya had sex with him. Ilya did that, Ilya wanted that. Handsome, confident, talented, wild Ilya Rozanov wanted him. Chose him. Fucked him. 

One Shane left for Russia, and another Shane came back. 

He’s hard. Shit. He presses the heel of his hand against it, and hears Ilya’s gravelled rumble. Fuck, Hollander, you are always hard, is so fucking good. And it's true, but Shane didn’t used to be like this. This is an Ilya thing, it just happens every time Shane is close to him. Or thinks of him. 

If Ilya were here, he’d have already rolled Shane onto his back. He’d already be kissing Shane with his sour morning breath and rutting against Shane’s hip as he took Shane in his big hand and—

There’s a tentative knock on the door, and it creaks open.

“Honey? It’s midday. You should wake up, or you won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

Shane lurches up, tugging the blankets over his lap to hide the evidence. “Yeah, thanks Mom. I’m awake.” He rubs a hand over his face, hoping he hasn’t gone all red. Shit, that was close.

“Can I bring you something to eat? Some coffee?”

“No, I’m gonna get up. Have a shower.” He’d been too tired last night. He hasn’t showered since… since the dacha. He stinks.

“Okay. When you come down I can make you something.”

“Sure.”

In the bathroom he strips while he waits for the shower to heat up, and examines himself in the mirror. There’s a red mark on his shoulder, maybe from Rozanov’s unshaven chin or maybe from one of those sucking kisses. His dick’s still half hard and he strokes it, watching himself as he does it because he’s a sex fiend now apparently. It swells deliciously. He checks the door—yeah, definitely locked. Better try to clear his mind. Yeah, that’s what he should do.

Hot water runs sooothingly over his shoulders and down his body as he jacks himself in the shower. Beautiful, he hears. Mmm, beautiful, Hollander. Ilya Rozanov said that while he was looking at Shane, naked, splayed. Ilya Rozanov said that about every part of Shane. He stared at Shane’s hole and said it was beautiful and then he touched it and kissed it and fucked it and—

Matters reach an embarrassingly swift conclusion, all over the tiles.

Once he can breathe normally again, Shane washes his hair and his body and squeegees the wall to make sure it’s completely clean. He brushes his teeth, shaves, and tones and moisturises his face. He gets dressed and checks himself in the mirror again.

Normal. Just like normal. Nobody will know.

“Afternoon, world traveler,” says his dad. His parents are both at the dining table, Mom on her laptop and Dad with a sudoku, and they’re both smiling up at him, so obviously happy to have him back.

“See, David? I told you he looks different,” says his mom, and Shane freezes.

“No I don’t,” he says.

She gets up and gives him a quick hug as she heads to the other side of the kitchen bench. “Sure you do. You’ve travelled the world solo. You’ve grown up, and your hair’s grown too, you need a cut. I can do it, or we can book in with Pete. I can try to get you an appointment this week?”

Shane runs his hand through his hair and feels Ilya’s fingers instead. “No,” he says. “I think I might, um, let it grow a bit.”

“Hmm, well, we might want to discuss that, because I haven’t mentioned it yet but there’s some exciting news—the Montreal scout called again and he’s keen to talk in person later this week, ahead of the draft.”

“He is?”

“He is. Now, what would you like to eat? I made bircher, and there are blueberries; or eggs? What do you feel like?”

“Um. Um, maybe just a smoothie?” He puts a hand on his stomach, which is lurching at the thought of food. 

He hasn’t even been thinking about the draft, but it’s actually so close—only a couple of weeks away. The event’s in Montreal this year, so whoever’s Montreal’s first pick is kind of a big deal, and they’ve been putting out feelers and watching him for a while now. It’s no big surprise that they want to meet, but nothing’s set in concrete. Nothing’s definite. Depends where they come in the lottery and who gets first choice. They’re not the only team that’s been in contact.

He needs to stop thinking about Rozanov and get his head back in the game. If that’s even possible.

“Is that him? Rozanov?”

Shane’s in the middle of the couch, between his parents. It’s late, the summer evening finally drawing to a close, and he’s known all day that they’d end up here going through all his photos. He’s half been dreading it and half yearning for it. Here they are now, looking at a gas station forecourt and a stupidly handsome guy in a tank top and track pants holding a pump in a hilariously suggestive pose.

His arms look incredible though.

“Yeah, that’s him,” says Shane, attempting to sound nonchalant and not like he’s obsessively attracted to this person, and certainly not like he was bouncing on his massive dick less than two days ago.

“Hmm,” says his mother, managing to imbue that small humming sound with buckets of disparagement.

“Someone’s a joker, huh?” says his father.

“What? Oh, yeah, he was just being silly. He’s pretty funny.”

“What’s his English like?”

“Good, he was one of the best. And hey, did I say? He’s coming to the draft. Him and Zaitsev and Oryol and Garanin.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s exciting. Were they all on your team?”

“Not Garanin. But the others.”

“So three from your team and only one from the other team?”

“God, Mom, you are so competitive. They didn’t get picked because they had the best English tutor.”

“Maybe, but I bet it didn’t hurt,” says his mother with a shrug, and his father laughs, shaking his head. Shane moves on to the next photo, in which Ilya is sitting on the steps of a pretty blue and white church, holding his hands in a prayerful position and gazing piously skyward. Somehow he manages to look like a Renaissance angel in the muscled body of an eighteen-year-old hockey player. His dad giggles.

He doesn’t giggle when they get to the boathouse picture, the one where Ilya’s flashing his abdomen with the hem of his tank between his teeth and a wicked expression on his face. Shane swallows. God, those pants were riding low. That happy trail is just… 

Saliva spurts under his tongue. Two days ago Shane’s cheek was nuzzling against that, and his mouth was full of Ilya’s—

“That was, um, a boathouse,” he says faintly, and moves on.

“Oh, that’s a nice one!” his mother cries. Onscreen, small Shane smiles a goofy smile, his eyes all crinkled up and his thumbs in his pockets. “That’s a lovely smile. Can you send that one to me?”

“Sure.”

“I love that. You look so happy.”

He does. But only because Ilya was making him laugh.

There aren’t that many photos. Shane’s not much of a photographer and besides, they were at the rink most of the time. There are a couple of blurry drive-by shots of St Basil’s and one he took of their room just before they left. It looks terrible, full of half-packed cases, and Ilya’s bed is completely unmade. Luckily it’s not properly in focus or you’d probably be able to see the fresh come smears. Shane can never go back to that hotel, ever, after the things they did to their bedding.

“Not the tidiest roommate, huh?” his mother says. “Didn’t that drive you crazy?”

“It was okay, we didn’t spend that much time in the room.”

Well, we did after the first couple of weeks, but we were too busy doing sex stuff to worry about housekeeping.

The last picture takes him by surprise. Stops his heart for a second. It’s the only picture of him and Ilya together; that last snap, at the dacha, just before they got in the car.

Just before their last kiss. That Shane in the picture is so fucking lucky. He’s about to share the sweetest, most delicious kiss and he doesn’t even know it. Shane’s heart literally aches.

“Where’s that?” asks his dad, oblivious.

“Um. Yeah, that’s… that’s at his family’s cottage, just east of Moscow. It’s called a dacha. He took me there on the last weekend.”

“Oh, yeah, I know that word. That was nice of him. I thought dachas were fancier, though.”

“Not this one.”

“That lawn hasn’t been mowed in a while.”

“No. No, they, um. They don’t use it much any more. I think… I think they used to when he was a kid but then his mom died.”

“Oh, god,” says his mother. “Oh no. That poor boy. How old was he?” She leans against Shane  and wraps her hand around his arm as if she needs to touch him, to connect, to reassure herself that they’re both alive.

“I don’t know. He didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh my. Shane, that was an honour, to be taken there. You get that, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

“Maybe if he’s coming for the draft, we should invite him to our cottage.”

“Um. Maybe. I don’t know if he’d… want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“I mean, I don’t know if he’ll want to, uh, you know. Be, like… friends.”

“Why on earth not? Don’t be ridiculous, honey. He took you to his family cottage. He took you to his home, he introduced you to his father. You’re already friends.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I guess.”

It’s so much more complicated than that.

All day it’s been bubbling away in Shane’s brain. Should I email him? Or would I just be being a pain? Would it be better if we’re both gonna be drafted to just… cut things off, let it drift? He can’t want to keep doing what we were doing once we’re both in the NHL, that would be crazy. We can’t do that. Can we? No. It would be madness, right?

It’s all too much. He says, “I think I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Sure, honey, but—”

His mother squeezes his arm and looks meaningfully at his father, who clears his throat.

“Listen, buddy… we need to ask you something about your time away.”

Sirens go off in Shane’s subconscious.

“Because we noticed something, and we’re kinda worried about it.”

“I didn’t do anything,” says Shane, like a goddamn idiot.

“No, well, we’re not accusing you of anything, and you know we love you and we’re not judging you, but… well, we both noticed that you kind of smell like—”

Oh fuck, what? Sex or lube or come or—

“—cigarettes. So is there something you want to tell us?”

Shane feels his face crack into a massive grin. “Oh! Oh, no, don’t freak out. So many people there smoke. And Ilya, I mean Rozanov, he smokes sometimes, and all my stuff just started to smell like that, but I’d never, it’s so gross. And bad for your lungs. Like, no way.”

The relief on his dad’s face is instant. “Well, okay. Okay, that’s great to hear, son.”

“I knew you were too smart to do such a stupid thing,” his mother says. “And that Rozanov should know better. He’s an athlete! He’s never going to reach his full potential if he doesn’t take care of himself!”

“I told him that! It’s like, literally the first thing I said to him,” says Shane, which is embarrassing but also true.

“Well that can’t have been much fun, sharing a room with a smoker. He didn’t smoke in your room, did he?”

“No, no of course not.”

“Yuck,” says his mother decisively, and kisses him on the cheek. “Well, I’ll do laundry tomorrow and we can get rid of that smell, hey?”

Shane nods.

When he gets up to his room he puts all his dirty clothes in the hamper, except for one t-shirt. He folds that carefully and puts it in a plastic bag up on the shelf at the top of his closet.

He wonders how long it’ll keep smelling like Ilya and cigarettes and Russia.

Something about the fear of losing that sense-memory wakes him in the night, his body clock still out of whack. The luminous hands on his watch tell him it’s just after three, which means it’s mid-morning in Moscow. For half an hour he lies there, forcing himself to be still, but it’s hopeless.

All he can think about is Ilya, and what might come next.

He gives up and turns on the bedside light, getting his laptop from the desk and climbing back into bed before logging into his email.

Hi Ilya this is Shane. I mean you probably figured that out. 

I’m home safe and the flights were good. Really long. I don’t know if you’ve booked your flights to Montreal for the draft yet but I would recommend a layover in London maybe? Otherwise it’s really tiring unless you can sleep on the plane. Can you sleep on planes? I can’t.

He doesn’t even know if Ilya’s ever been outside of Russia before. But Alexander and Svetlana obviously travel heaps. Yeah. Rozanov must’ve.

I’m sending you that photo you asked for and also my phone number (below). When you get here you’re gonna want to get a new SIM but maybe wait until you know what team drafts you because plans are different in Canada and the US. My plan is pretty good so I can give you the details if you want.

Oh god, he’s such a boring loser. Phone plans? Really? He deletes that part.

I showed my parents the photos. They were worried I’d started smoking because they could smell all your stupid cigarettes on me lol.

Nope, Ilya does not want to hear about Shane’s parents or be nagged about smoking. He deletes that too.

When are you arriving? If you would like to be picked up from the airport when you get to Montreal let me know because I owe you :) Send me your flight details and I’ll be there.

Yeah. So what if it’s a couple of hours’ drive? That’s a good plan. And hey, Shane might as well just head down to Montreal a day or two early, right? Maybe he can meet up with the Metros’ management team again if they’re serious. Yeah, if he does that then picking up Ilya is just a good, normal, friendly offer. Yeah. That’s good. He wracks his brain for other suitable topics of conversation.

Have any teams been in touch? I’m meeting with the Montreal guy soon but also Toronto. Ottawa were in touch but they’re pretty bad so Mom says

WHOA NOPE. He, Shane Hollander, is a sexy adult man who has sex with sexy Russians. Well, one anyway. Point is, he’s not someone who’s constantly doing whatever his mom thinks is the best idea. He backspaces. Sorry, Mom.

…but they’re pretty bad so I haven’t been too responsive to that. Anyway I bet you will be snapped up. I’ll be telling everyone how good you are :)

Nope, not that either, too many smiley faces, is he a twelve-year-old girl? More backspacing.

Okay well it’s the middle of the night so I better try to get back to sleep. Thanks again for all your

He pauses here. There are so many things he wants to say thank you for but most of them are straight up pornographic and there’s no way he can commit them to writing. 

Thanks again for all your help over the summer, it was so great getting to know you and I’m looking forward to playing with you in the future.

Is that a double entendre? He’s not sure. Fuck it, he’s gonna leave it in. He attaches the photo and hits send.

ILYA

It’s a cloudless, moonless night and the lights of Montreal glitter below like a sea of yellow starlight as the plane descends. Zaitsev leans across Ilya, trying to get a better look. He’s salty because Ilya got the window seat on both flights, but that’s just the luck of the draw. He tried to get Ilya to swap but Ilya told him it was very important to be in the right seat in case they crashed so that their remains would be sent to the right families. He said this with great earnestness but Zaits just punched him in the arm.

Zaitsev’s father is in the aisle seat. He’s a great big guy with a massive beard, a hockey legend in his own right, back home. Because he was coming, Ilya managed to talk his own father out of it, though honestly it didn’t take much convincing. His father has no appetite for uncertainty. When—if—Ilya gets picked, and if he’s allowed to start with the NHL team this season instead of being shuffled off for a preparatory year in the AHL, then his father might be willing to turn up and bask in the light of his son’s achievements. But who knows? That fucking injury might still be on people’s minds.

A voice comes over the intercom. “Hello everyone, we hope you’ve enjoyed your flight with us today. We’re cleared now for descent into Montreal, so it’s time to turn off large electronics and return your tray tables and seats to the upright position. Please ensure your seatbelt is fastened and any hand luggage is safely stowed in the overhead lockers, or under the seat in front of you. We should have you to the terminal right on schedule.”

It’s great how easy it is to understand all that, now. Especially in that soft Canadian accent.

Ilya shifts in his chair and pushes ineffectually at Zaitsev, who’s still craning out the window. “Fuck off, will you?”

“Vlad!” Zaitsev senior rumbles, and his son sighs heavily and settles back into his own seat, which is objectively the worst one. Nobody likes the middle seat, especially in a row with three guys their size, and the Zaitsevs make even Ilya feel dainty. God, he can’t wait to get out of this thing and straighten his legs. Flights this long are a torture, even with the stop they had in London thanks to Hollander and his boring practical advice.

Hollander. 

Ilya sighs.

Fucking Hollander.

Ilya’s looked at a map and he knows how far it is between Hollander’s home and Montreal. It was crazy of him to volunteer to come get Ilya from the airport. So crazy that for three days, Ilya hadn’t answered his email.

Because he knew—he still knows—that seeing Shane Hollander again and trying to be friends is a terrible idea. He’s gone over the reasons in his head, over and over and over, and they’re fucking good reasons.

To start with, Ilya’s deeply unsure whether he can stomach the idea of being just a friend—a casual acquaintance. How the fuck would he resist? How could he just sit there, not touching, not kissing, not shoving gorgeous freckled Shane Hollander against a wall and grinding against him, making him sigh and go all black-eyed and loose and desperate? It was spectacular and Ilya’s salivating and ravenous every time he thinks about it.

So friendship sounds like an impossible prospect. Ilya would be bound to capitulate and try for more, no matter how ill-advised that is—and it’s very fucking ill-advised.

Because there are no out players in the big hockey leagues. None, zero, not a single one, which is statistically deeply improbable, but Ilya, a Russian rookie on a visa, isn’t going to be the one to stand up and say yo boys can we just chill and try to be cool about guy-on-guy because I love me some dick. Ilya knows what hockey players are like, they’re basically fast asshole fighting machines with tiny monkey brains and more testosterone than they know what to do with, and the worst thing you can be called on the ice (not to mention the changing rooms full of muscular naked men) is a fag. If it got out, it would be a fucking disaster for both of them.

But for Ilya…

Yeah, for him it could be the biggest disaster of all. He can’t do anything that might make him lose his spot or he loses his visa; and if he loses his visa he has to go back to Russia, with everyone knowing why, and that would be fucking diabolical. The repression is tightening, year by year, invisible ropes around his soul. Who knows, soon it could be full on illegal. There’s no telling what would happen to him back home if it got out. Nope, not an option.

And yet. Gospodi, and yet.

Ilya has never known a person like Shane Hollander or a feeling like this. It’s fucking consuming him, it’s all he can think about. Those eyes, and the way his face can be so still and yet tell Ilya a thousand stories in a moment. The freckles. That fucking body and the way it loses every inhibition and just melts under Ilya’s hands. 

That’s the most incredible bit. Ilya’s been with a fair few people but never, ever, anyone who was as made for fucking as Shane Hollander. That was his first time, in Balashika, his first time, and it was insane—Ilya’s never come so hard, never lost himself so utterly in another body. And then Hollander wanted to do it again! And the next day, again! He’s out of this world, the most fabulous wanton thing, and yet—he’s completely oblivious. He’s got no idea how incredible he is, absolutely none. It’s like Ilya accidentally unearthed the Koh-i-Noor diamond, and it was just walking around the world looking like a pretty but fundamentally ordinary rock and nobody knew what was underneath!

What if someone else finds him? What if Ilya does the sensible thing and stays away and has to spend the rest of his life in hockey watching someone else with Hollander, knowing what an incredible thing he is? Ugh, what a fucking horrible prospect.

So, yeah. After three days of telling himself not to, Ilya did something really stupid and wrote back.

Hello Hollander. Okay, you can come to airport. Flight arrives on 28th at 10:10, at nite not morning. Have hotel.

(At this point he’d originally written Want to stay with me? but came to his senses in time. Not in writing, never in writing.)

Thank you for photo. Did your mom like photo by boat house? Me not you.

He didn’t even know how to sign it off so he left it at that.

Hollander didn’t reply for a few days, but of course he wouldn’t, because Ilya had taken so long  with his reply and Hollander would have been madly calculating the socially correct timing for an email response to an International Fuck Buddy, and Ilya is his only data point. It is too adorable. Ilya could’ve predicted down to the hour when the reply was going to come.

Okay I’ll be there. And yeah Mom did like the photo—OF ME.

What hotel are you staying at?

S

That time, Ilya hadn’t answered at all. Which was cowardly, he knows. But by then it was only a couple of days before he was due to depart, and he was so desperately conflicted about the whole situation that it was a hundred times easier to simply not engage.

Clanks and groans echo through the fuselage as the wheels are lowered, and the lights come closer, closer, closer.

Maybe Shane Hollander will be waiting for him. Maybe he won’t. Ilya’s not sure which outcome he’s most scared of.

Customs takes ages. Luggage collection takes even longer. By the time they head out to the Arrivals hall, Ilya’s stomach is in knots and he’s desperate for a fucking cigarette. There is nowhere to smoke here. It’s all so bright and clean and everyone’s so smiley, it’s fucking weird.

Zaitsev’s dad says, again, “If he’s not here, just come with us.”

Ilya nods and flashes a quick grimace of a smile. He’s not even staying in the same hotel as them so it’s a dumb suggestion, but he knows the guy’s just being nice. 

The doors slide open. There’s a whole audience of people standing there, scanning the new arrivals, and Ilya looks across them, eyes flicking from one to another to another until—

Oh god, he’s so fucking cute it hurts. Standing there with a bit of paper with Ilya’s name on it, his face split in two with a smile so wide and contagious that it stretches Ilya’s mouth the same.

“Yo, Hollander! Where is my name, douchebag?” shouts Zaitsev, and he pulls Hollander into a bear hug, slapping him on the back.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t know you were on this flight too, or I would’ve—but yeah of course, I can take you to your—oh, hi, hello sir, um, privet, good to meet you, menya zovut Shane Hollander—”

Ilya hangs back, just a little. He doesn’t want to share this moment, and he doesn’t know how his treacherous body will react if Hollander tries to hug him the same as Zaits.

Hollander is looking at all their luggage. It’s a lot, because Ilya and Zaitsev don’t know when they’re going home, so they brought massive amounts of gear. “Um, I think we can fit it in,” he says. “Yeah, I mean my trunk is pretty practical, and maybe if we put one in the middle of the back seat—”

“No, no,” says Zaitsev senior. “We get cab. Is okay.”

“No, seriously. We can fit, there’s no need. Come on, this way.”

“Is okay, we—”

“I insist, sir,” says Hollander firmly. He looks  at Ilya over Zaitsev’s shoulder, and a shudder runs down Ilya’s spine when their eyes meet. “Ily—I mean, Rozanov’s seen my car. It’ll fit, right?”

Ilya has no memory whatsoever of whatever dull vehicle it was in that tiny iPod picture that he saw for all of three seconds, two months ago, since all he was looking at was the happy face of its new owner and the way his hair was sticking up at a ridiculous angle in the wind. He nods, regardless. “Very sensible car. Very boring, very practical, fit whole team in there,” he agrees.

Does he want to squeeze into the back seat with Zaitsev and a suitcase? No. But is he scared to death about being in the car alone with Hollander? Unfortunately, yes.

Once they’ve dropped the Zaitsevs off at their hotel, Ilya moves into the front seat, still warm from the massive frame of Zaitsev senior. Shane fastens his seatbelt and pulls away from the portico.

“Okay,” he says. “Um. What hotel are you in? You didn’t tell me.”

No. He’d asked, and then Ilya just hadn’t replied. What a dick.

“Fairfield,” he says.

Shane looks across at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes? Is problem?”

“No, it’s just funny. I’m there too. What are the chances?”

“Well, is close to convention centre, and not too expensive, so chance is probably good.”

“Bullshit, there are so many hotels, it’s a cool coincidence.” 

Yeah. Fucking serendipity. Does Ilya have to fight his own predilections AND fate? Blyat!

Shane indicates right, and pulls out  into the traffic. He’s a very sensible driver. His hands are glued at ten and two and he’s constantly looking in his mirrors. His profile, unfortunately for Ilya, is still the most perfect human face imaginable.

Ilya says, “Why you stay in hotel? You do not go home tonight?”

“No, I thought… I mean, it’s a pretty long drive and I thought I’d just come a bit early. I’d be here for the draft event anyway, obviously, so it’s no big deal just to come a day or two before and, um. I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d like to, unh. See some of Montreal, or whatever.”

He’s not looking at Ilya. It is so fucking hard not to reach across and grab his thigh. He’d squeeze that solid muscle and then slide his hand up it until the side of his fingers brushed against—

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, makes a noncommittal humming sound and says, “Nice name sign. At airport.”

A little laugh. “Yeah, I know, it was dumb. But it was so nice to see my name when I arrived in Moscow, you know? I just thought you might like it too.”

“Not dumb,” says Ilya.

Not dumb. Kind, sweet, thoughtful, funny, uncool, adorable.

Fuck. Fuck.

Shane hangs back while Ilya checks in, then joins him as he heads to the elevators.

“What floor are you on?”

Checking the key card in its little cardboard wallet, Ilya says, “Eight.”

“Oh. I’m, um. Higher.”

The elevator doors close. Only Ilya pushes a button. They ride in silence to the eighth floor, but it’s the noisiest silence ever. Ilya’s blood is rushing in his ears, his whole body is thumping. 

They roll Ilya’s cases down the world’s longest corridor; Shane’s taken one and Ilya’s just let him, because it’s their excuse, right? It’s why they’re both going to his hotel room. Efficient luggage handling. Yeah. Right.

The lock clanks open with a swift flash of green light. Inside it’s much nicer than their room in Voskresensk. Much less mustard coloured for a start. A huge, sleek white bed takes up most of the room, and a lamp in the corner casts a warm pool of light over a table and two blue armchairs.

“It’s, um. Pretty much the same as mine,” says Shane, behind him.

“Nice,” says Ilya, and he digs his fingernails into his palm. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s in a hotel room with Shane Hollander and Shane Hollander’s voice and the clean delicious smell of him and he’s losing his mind. He can’t even pretend to be normal about this. He’s got to get rid of Shane before he abandons all pretence of control and just fucking ravishes him. 

“I… I need shower,” he says. “Long flight, yes?”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, sure. I just… I wondered, are you, like, hungry?”

Surprisingly, Ilya is. “Mmm, but I don’t want to go out,” he says. “I can…” There’s a tray of nuts and shit on the bench, and he waves vaguely at them.

“Oh, yeah but no, those are super expensive. We could get, um… room service? I didn’t eat dinner, I thought I’d wait and see if you…”

It’s fate. It’s fucking fate, right? There’s no point fighting it. Ilya is too tired and enfeebled by half-suppressed lust to fight it.

“Okay. I shower, you choose me something Canadian,” he says. 

He just has to get a closed door between the two of them, and maybe jack off to restore his sanity, and then when he comes back out, food will give them something to do. Food will make something normal between them, instead of… whatever the fuck this is. This thick strange tension that’s stopping him even meeting Shane Hollander’s eyes.

SHANE

The shower is really loud. Shane checks out the room service menu and orders some touristy stuff. Poutine, a burger. A couple of beers in case. He closes the curtains and takes off his trainers. He puts on the tv and then turns it off again. The shower’s still going. He takes off his hoodie. He checks his phone. He checks his hair in the mirror.

He has no idea what to do with himself, and the anxiety is ramping up like crazy. What the fuck is he doing here? He’s being so weird. He should never have suggested coming to meet Ilya at the airport. And now it’s so late and here he is hanging around in Ilya’s hotel room like a fucking stalker.

And Ilya hasn’t done one fucking thing to imply that he wants Shane in his room. He didn’t hug Shane hello, even after Zaits did. He barely spoke in the car. He didn’t say Hey want to come to my room and hang out, he didn’t try to kiss Shane when the door closed, he hasn’t even looked at him. He didn’t even reply to Shane’s last email.

Ugh. Fuck. Shane is messing this up so badly. He’s such a loser. He knows this is a terrible idea. He knows it is, and Rozanov knows it is, and Rozanov is just trying to be nice and let him down gently and Shane is being weird as fuck.

He’s got to get out of here while he’s still got even a smidgen of dignity left. He puts his trainers back on and grabs his hoodie.

He taps on the bathroom door. “Hey. Hey, um? Rozanov?”

The shower turns off. “Yes?”

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna go, okay?”

“What?”

“I ordered you some food. It’s probably too much. Sorry. I’ll pay for it. Sorry, listen, I’ll um. Yeah. Bye.”

The bathroom door is flung open, so fast that Shane startles backwards. Ilya’s body is still wet, his hair all dripping tendrils, and he’s fastening a towel around his hips. 

“No,” says Ilya, and their eyes meet.

Shane stops breathing, a bolt of lust shooting through his body.

Ilya shakes his head. “We eat? Yes?”

Dropping his gaze feels like the safest thing to do for several seconds, until Shane realises he’s literally staring at Ilya’s chest—at the creamy skinned swell of his pectorals, and the scattered patterns of moles, and the sparse hairs around his pink nipples—and licking his lips. 

Oh shit, he’s such a freak.

Ilya steps closer and there’s a strange expression on his face, something a little bit torn. A little bit angry, a little bit desirous. Unbearably magnetic. His hands come up, and one wraps around Shane’s neck, cradling his jaw; the other cups his cheek. 

The touch liquifies Shane’s mind. The world and all its worries recede like the tide, and all that’s left is… this. Them.

And it’s everything. Shane can’t resist it and he was an idiot to ever think he could.

Ilya blinks, slow, and the muscle at the side of his jaw moves as if he’s grinding his teeth.

“I know it is bad idea,” he says. “I know. But…”

“But what?”

“But I want to kiss you.”

Shane closes his eyes. He lets his head loll sideways into that strong grip, and his hands find Ilya’s waist.

“I want that too,” he mumbles.

“It is not… sensible.”

“No. I know.”

“Do you do things that are not sensible?” says Ilya, running his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip and tilting his hips into Shane’s grip.

“Not usually. But… but maybe this.”

Shane looks up, and Ilya’s eyes are the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. Ilya is the loveliest thing he’s ever seen; and he needs to kiss him, needs it more than he needs air. 

The sound that punches out of him when Ilya’s mouth touches his is obscene and guttural. Ilya’s jaw opens, a delicious devouring kiss, and his tongue is slick and hot and the most perfect, most intimate thing imaginable.

This was not some holiday distraction. This is… real, and it is intense, and Shane would run any risk in the whole world just to have this. Ilya’s belly presses against his, wetness leaching through Shane’s t-shirt, and they’re both hard already.

Shane runs his hands over Ilya’s damp chest, clutching at the broad muscle of his pecs, and Ilya hums into his mouth. 

“Is very bad idea.”

“So bad.”

“I do not care.”

“No. Me neither. I know it’s not sensible, but I never—Ilya, I never thought—” Shane clamps his jaw shut, stopping it all spilling out. I never thought it could feel like this, I never thought I’d want something this much, I never thought I’d be this insane about kissing someone, let alone a guy, but now…

One thing will stop the torrent. He drops to his knees on the hard tiles, and there’s that beautiful trail of hair wandering down over Ilya’s incredible torso, disappearing into the towel that’s leaving no story untold about Ilya’s enthusiasm. Shane looks up at him and untucks the towel, though he doesn’t release it. “Can I?”

“Blyat, yes, god, fuck,” says Ilya, his eyes hooded with lust; and Shane slowly pulls the towel down and away, like he’s unwrapping the best Christmas present ever. He lets it drop and runs his palms up the back of Ilya’s solid thighs, up to clutch at his incredible ass, round and strong and as perfect as his cock. Fuck, he’s so gorgeous! That line of muscle arrowing down to his groin is unbelievable, and the soft pale deliciousness inside his thighs, and the round heft of his balls!

It was only a few weeks ago that Shane last had this, but it feels like a hundred years. Maybe next time he will take it slow, tease Ilya the way Ilya loves to tease him, but not tonight. Tonight he needs, so much, and he just takes what he needs. 

Ilya’s cock fills him, stretches his jaw and his lips enough to be a challenge, enough to feel like victory and completion. Shane’s eyes close in pleasure, his eyebrows crash together and he can’t hold back a pathetic squeak. He suckles and licks and can’t stop fucking salivating, so much that as he moves up and down the spit escapes from the corners of his mouth. He’s distantly aware of it, but the part of him that would normally worry about it has been murdered by the goodness of Ilya Rozanov’s incredible self under his hands and pushing gently into his mouth.

“Gospodi, Hollander,” groans Ilya. He’s stroking Shane’s hair and cupping his chin, his thumb gently wiping away the saliva. “You are…”

He falls silent. Shane looks up at him. I am…?

“You are… I cannot say no. I cannot stop. I think about you, I think about this, I think about Balashika.”

Shane hums, mmmmm, a wordless agreement and admission.

“Is so stupid. Is big risk.”

This time Shane’s mmmm is more querulous. He pulls back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“It doesn’t have to be. I’d never tell.”

“No, but—”

“I know we’ll both be busy. Wherever we end up, we’ll… our paths will cross, right? Sometimes we’ll be in the same city? Sometimes?”

He’s not sure how he lurched from I have to get out of this room to please please say you’ll keep fucking me just occasionally but he did, and he doesn’t fucking regret it. He can’t lose this, he can’t, it’ll kill him. He knows that now.

“I mean, I don’t care if there are other people” (he does) “and obviously it’s not like, you know, a relationship or anything” (it’s the only one he wants in the whole world) “but it’s, like, fun, right? This?”

Ilya’s hands, one in Shane’s hair and one under his jaw, tug him to his feet. He pulls Shane close, running his palm up under the back of Shane’s t-shirt, and kisses him, slow and deliberate, sweet and intense.

“Shh, Hollander. Shh. Is okay. I want this, too. Okay?”

Shane digs his nails into Ilya’s back, gripping, claiming, kissing. There’s a flock of birds in his ribcage. He could pull his ribs apart and they would fly out into the room, a wild and joyful murmuration, carolling and wheeling. He nods. He doesn’t know what “this” is. But they can figure that out, right?

“Okay,” says Ilya. “Now take off your—”

There’s a knock on the door. “Room service!”

“Fuck, shit,” Shane hisses, pushing Ilya away and grinning as he wipes his face again. He closes the bathroom door, untucks his shirt to hide his… evidence, and lets the server into the room. 

The young guy pushes the trolley over to the table. If he notices that Shane’s shirt is all wet, or that his hair is on end, or that he’s pink-cheeked and swollen-lipped, he doesn’t show any sign of it. “Having a good evening, sir?” he says, proffering the slip for Shane to sign.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am, thanks.”

“Great. Enjoy.”

“For sure,” says Shane, smiling like a madman.

The door closes. Another opens. Ilya Rozanov, naked and shameless, stalks across the room and pulls Shane down onto the bed.

EPILOGUE - ILYA

It’s like they’re already famous, even if they haven’t played a single NHL game yet. The room’s invisible behind the bright TV lights and the flash of photographs. Beside Ilya, Shane is calm and distant, wearing a very ugly tie and a polite professional mask. His hair makes him look like an accountant, and Ilya would love to mess it up.

It’s so bizarre, the way he’s all these different people. The killer on the ice, the quiet polite young athlete in front of the press, the gorgeous wanton in Ilya’s bed. He’s a freak, and Ilya loves that about him, so he’s not going to do anything to jeopardise this beautiful serious fiction that Hollander’s cultivating. He keeps his face stiff and professional, same as Hollander. Yup, this is all they are. Two very serious rookies. Hockey is their whole life. Da, yes, certainly.

There is no way two such serious young athletes could be fucking like slutty rabbits. It would be preposterous.

Six of them are all lined up at this long table, mic’d up and ready to be interrogated. Their name cards are set up in the order they were drafted.

A reporter says, “So, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, our first and second picks in today’s draft. Welcome to the NHL!”

“Thank you, Rob,” says Hollander. (Of course he knows all the reporters. Of course.) “It’s an honour to be here.”

“You spent the summer in Russia, right? Tutoring incoming draft prospects?”

“I did. It was a great opportunity. There are some amazing players coming out of Russia. And of course the formation of the KHL will raise the standard even higher.”

“And that’s where you two met. Ilya, how did that go?”

Ilya nods. “Good. Hollander is very good teacher,” he says into the microphone. “Very, ah, very… give me word, Hollander, when teacher make you work very hard.”

Shane looks over and the corners of his mouth quiver. “Strict,” he says, and the reporters laugh.

“Yes. Very strict. I work very hard, make teacher happy. ”

There’s a cloth over this table, and nobody can see their legs. Ilya angles his thigh until their knees touch and he’d swear he can feel an electric charge from the body beside him. Yeah. He knows how to make teacher very fucking happy.

Someone else says, “We hear that in Russia, Ilya, you centred Shane on the ice. Is that because you’re the better centre?”

“Yes,” says Ilya. “Of course.”

“Sorry, sorry, but that's not quite true!” says Shane, with a delicious frown. “I only did that in the final games, before the draft selection, so that Ilya—so that Rozan-n—so that all the Russian centres could show the selectors what they can do. Which is a lot. They’re great players. But he’s not a better centre than me.”

Ilya leans forward again. He’s noticed that if you lean into the mic and stay silent for a second you get their attention. “We will see who is best when I get the most goals this season,” he says, with a wink.

“Well, it certainly seems like we’re going to see some serious rivalry between you two. No love lost, huh?”

Ilya’s confused. Lost love? What? He glances across at Shane.

But Shane’s smiling, shaking his head. “Rivals on the ice, sure,” he says. “But friends. Good friends. Ilya made me so welcome in Russia. It’s an amazing country, and I have so much respect for the Russian players. I hope I can show Ilya some of my home in return. I think… I mean, I hope we’ll see a lot of each other.”

Under the table, Shane’s shoe taps against Ilya’s.

“Sounds like you made quite the impression on each other,” says someone else. “Congratulations again.” 

The questions move on down the table. “Vincent, how do you feel about your new team?”

Shane takes something out of his pocket and puts it on his thigh, there under the table; he taps it nonchalantly with his fingertip, although he’s looking intently at the player who’s currently talking.

It’s a white cardboard pocket, embossed with the hotel’s logo. There’s no keycard inside it; but there is a room number, scribbled in a clerk’s hasty scrawl.

1410.

Ilya gazes solemnly into the lights, suppressing a grin.

It’s going to be a fucking good year.