Two fics posted inside a week. Who am I? What has this show done to me? Many thanks for Clare for the beta.

By shot number three, Ilya can feel his body again. By shot number six, he's buying rounds for the whole club, whooping and hollering—the king of the party. He's lost the first woman in the crowd, but there are others willing to grind against him on the dance floor. He doesn't remember when he switched from beer to hard liquor—probably when he watched Shane leave with his perfect Hollywood girlfriend. By now, Shane must be making sweet, boring love to her in his designer pillow fort.

Ilya downs another shot and gets another woman's tongue in his mouth. This used to be all he needed to get his head back in the game—get fucked up for a night and then get back in the rink. Not tonight. There's something crawling under Ilya's skin, like ants in his blood. The music, the lights, and the hands on his body are all starting to blur together. He needs to get out of here.

The freezing night air is a welcome shock to his system. Ilya pulls his beanie down over his ears and raises his jacket collar. He pats his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter, lights up after several tries, gloved hands cupped around the small flame.

That's when he sees the guy standing at the curb, probably waiting for his taxi. Whatshisname, Rose fucking Landry's actor friend from the bar. Ilya's seen his face while angrily scrolling through TMZ, staring at the celebrity couple of the hour until the roiling in his gut turned to the desire to smash his computer against a wall.

Ilya takes another long, slow drag of his cigarette and considers him. The guy is hot, gay as far as the tabloids know. And working with Shane's perfect woman on her new movie. He sounds like a terrible fucking idea. Perfect. Ilya feels like fucking shit up.

Another inhale, then Ilya grinds out the cigarette under his heel and walks over. "You are going my way?" he asks.

The guy, Miles—that's his name—startles, eyes bugging out for a second, before a slow smile crooks up his lips and he's giving Ilya a very obvious once-over. Bundled up in several layers against the January cold isn't his best look, but Miles doesn't seem to mind. "Am I?" he asks.

Ilya shrugs. "I want to fuck."

Miles laughs. His teeth are very white against his dark skin. "Hell yes."

The car ride back to the hotel is quiet. Miles has the good sense to shut up after Ilya pulls out his phone and ignores his attempt at small talk. "Meet me in my room in ten minutes," Ilya tells Miles when they get out of the car.

"What am I supposed to do until then? It's freezing out here."

Ilya gives him an unimpressed look. "You want my dick, you figure it out."

Ilya's gone out to get laid, so his roommate knows better than to expect to sleep in his bed tonight. It's a running joke among the guys: whoever gets to room with Rozanov on an away game has a 50/50 chance of getting kicked out for the night. 80/20 if Boston wins.

Barely inside the door, Miles performs another little song and dance about his balls getting frostbite out there.

"You can warm up by sucking my dick," Ilya suggests.

Miles peels himself out of his layers and kicks his shoes off. "Sure thing, boss. Hey, ever fucked while high?" he asks, waving a little bag of powder under Ilya's nose.

Ilya shouldn't. He hasn't done anything more serious than Molly in years, not since Dynamo Moscow said, 'Yes, we want you' when he was sixteen years old. There's no time like the present. Ilya remembers why he used to like it the moment the drug hits his system. Everything's clear sailing ahead, nothing can go wrong; Superman, no kryptonite.

He and Sasha used to get up to all sorts of shit while high when they were younger, but then hockey took precedence, and Sasha was being stashed away in a boarding school in Switzerland. They used to jerk off together for what felt like hours in the backseat of the old Bentley Sasha used to steal from his father's garage. Ilya was barely fourteen and high the first time he reached over and touched another boy's dick. Sveta had been in the Bentley's front seat, quietly giggling to herself.

Ilya feels so good, so right like this; the ants in his blood stop crawling all over him. He pushes Miles down onto the bed hard enough he bounces.

"Pushy, I like it." Miles grins up at him. Every single perfect Hollywood tooth is on display like the Cheshire Cat. He licks his lips. "Come on, show me that big cock of yours."

Ilya steps between his legs and arches an eyebrow. "Come and get it."

Miles sits up, pulls down Ilya's fly with eager hands, and worms his fingers inside and around Ilya's dick. "Fuck, you're uncut. That's so hot."

Miles accepts the condom without complaints. Good. Ilya doesn't fuck without a wrapper. He's not stupid. Miles shows off for him, rolling on the condom with his mouth, then smacking his lips, saying, "Minty, I like it," with a wink before getting to work.

Ilya closes his eyes and lets the sensation wash over him. He loves getting blowjobs; even when they're bad, they're still good enough to get him off. Miles pulls out all the stops: slurping and sucking outrageously as if he's auditioning for a porno, pulling off Ilya's dick to lap at his balls, sucking the globes into his mouth while his hand keeps busy on Ilya's cock.

He gets Ilya's dick hard in no time. Miles is showy about it, a consummate actor. It's a good performance, but it isn't… It isn't Shane. Not pretty eyes so dark they look inky black, a high flush on an even prettier face, or freckles Ilya wants to trace with his fingertips.

Miles is very into Ilya's dick, though, which is gratifying. Ilya is very fond of his own dick. He slides his hand around the back of Miles' neck, up into his hair, and frowns. Miles' head is shaved.

Ilya pulls Miles off his dick by the back of his neck. "On the bed," he says, "hands and knees."

He preps Miles' ass. He doesn't understand guys who want to skip that part. It's so hot for Ilya to get his partner to a point where their legs fall open, where they're greedy for Ilya's dick. It doesn't matter if it's a man or a woman. Ilya loves every part of sex, and he is damn good at it. No matter if it's a pussy, a cock, or a hole—it's an all-you-can-eat buffet, and Ilya is going to gorge himself.

He especially loves getting his fingers into Shane. Getting that tight little hole to relax and ease open for him, getting Shane to loosen up. He's far too high-strung. Ilya shakes his head. Miles— he has his fingers in Miles' ass, who's moaning and performing 'eager slut' for him. It's objectively hot. Ilya needs to get his head in the game.

He shouldn't be thinking about the sweet generosity of Shane's body, the anxious pulse of blood under his skin, or the determined look he gets before he gives in and goes after what he wants; how much he loves what Ilya's doing to him at any moment. Ilya gets off on Shane's reaction to him every time, the way he moves into every touch, so openly trusting that he's in good hands. It does something to Ilya's head, that trust.

Miles clenches his hole around Ilya's fingers. "Come on, enough, get your cock in me."

So Ilya does. He pushes his cock in, starts fucking Miles in earnest, hard and fast, chasing another high.

Things almost immediately start to fall off a cliff. He's breaking out in full-body cold sweats. Ilya wipes his brow and hikes Miles' hips up higher so he tips forward onto his forearms, head down. That's better. Ilya can't see Miles' face anymore; he's just a body, just a hole for Ilya's cock.

"Yeah, fuck that ass." Miles moans, rocking his hips back. "Fuck, Rozanov."

Miles' voice is overlaid in Ilya's mind with the breathy, overwhelmed way his name is pushed out of Shane's mouth when Ilya is inside him. Ilya wants to teach Shane how to say his name the Russian way, where to put the stress. He loves annoying Shane even into cursing him the wrong way. He would accept any way Shane wanted to say his name, as long as he would not stop. Ilya's stomach drops, nausea rising, hard and fast. It's all wrong. The voice, the man. He wants Shane.

He wants to hear him say Ilya's first name again and wants to be back on his couch with Shane. This time Shane would stay in his arms, forehead to forehead as their breathing slows; this time Shane keeps smiling. Ilya wants to lay Shane down and cover him with his whole body and hold him, saying his name again and again until they fall asleep. It's sickening how much he wants it.

His skin is crawling with it, and for the first time in his life, Ilya's dick fails him. He can feel the icy grip of cold sweat on the back of his neck. He's going soft. Ilya screws up his face—fucking game time—and tries pushing all thoughts out of his head. It doesn't work. Shane is there, an endless flickering reel of his body, his smile, his eyes, his mouth. He fucks Miles furiously. "Blyat!"¹ he explodes in frustration, and Miles groans. "Yes. That's so hot. Give it to me."

Ilya slams himself backwards, away from the tight clench of Miles' body, jerking his cock furiously. Fucking useless. This is not happening.

"You can fuck my mouth if you want," he hears Miles say through the ringing in his ears. "That would be so hot."

Ilya's fully soft now. His limp dick flopping uselessly. He tears the condom off with a snarl.

"Hey, man, it happens." Miles is still ass up, looking at him with his head on his folded arms. "Coke does that to a cock sometimes. Want another hit?"

Ilya recoils. "Get out."

"Seriously?" Miles sits up. "I didn't even get to come."

"Get the fuck out," Ilya pronounces every syllable.

Miles makes a disgusted noise. "Fuck of the century, my ass. What a disappointment you turned out to be."

Ilya lies on the rumpled bed and stares at the ceiling, listening as Miles gathers his clothes, gets dressed. Finally the door falls into the lock. Then there is silence—vast and empty—crawling with things Ilya can only glimpse out of the corners of his eyes, waiting to lunge if he pauses for just one second, just one moment to gather his breath.

This is why he stopped touching cocaine. The comedown is hell. Ilya's marinating in his own cold sweat, feeling like his heart's about to punch through his ribs. It makes him feel like a piece of dog shit left on a street corner. Disappointing? Ilya wants to laugh. Konechno², he is good at that. He has a lifetime of practice.

It all comes back to him now like a nightmare: that one time—the last time—it had made him think his mother had the right idea by ending it all, that it must be nice, being gone from this world. He had thrown up until he thought he might die anyway. Cocaine never feels as good as the first time and only for a few precious moments. Then it drags you down into the depths without mercy.

Ilya's hand finds his mother's necklace, presses the golden cross against the hammering pulse in the hollow of his throat, wills his brain to stop churning and his heart to slow. It doesn't work. He can only lie there and endure.

It's fitting, in a way. He gets that good high now from being on the ice, from winning, but most of all from his fleeting moments with Shane. Of course it wouldn't last; he was stupid to even think for one second he got to have that.

¹ Blyat = Бляьт = think expletive "fuck", not literally but in usage here
² Konechno = конечно = obviously, naturally

Kudos and comments adored. Constructive criticism welcome. Or join me being unhinged about the boys on tumblr.