Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

3+1 Things, Casual Sex, cliff: i’m probably bisexual but i have a job so idrc about that rn, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Oblivious Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Dumb Hockey Boys, hollanov is still endgame trust, Jealous Shane Hollander, fellas is it gay to touch your captain’s dick

Language:

English

Collections:

Heated Rivalry fics I like

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-26 Words: 14,165 Chapters: 1/1

say we won’t do this again

Summary

"Roz," Cliff says, trying to control his breathing. "If we do this—"

"We do not talk about it,” Ilya interrupts, even as his hands are already reaching for Cliff, fisting in his shirt. "We do not tell anyone. Nothing changes between us. This is—" He pauses, like he’s finding the words. "This is just tonight. Just this once."

Cliff nods. "Just tonight," he echoes.

And then Ilya is pulling him down, and their mouths come crashing together.

(3 times Cliff and Ilya hooked up, and the one time someone found out.)

Notes

i always wondered what it would be like if cliff and ilya hooked up sometime when hollanov weren’t exclusive yet. next thing i knew, i was writing this fic

some things i changed from canon: in the books, cliff is one year younger than ilya. i say fuck that and now cliff’s two years older because he just looks like that from the show. also, ik cliff wasn’t that close with ilya in tlg but i took a couple artistic liberties

happy reading!

Cliff Marlow is pretty sure he's a straight man.

He's never had any reason to think otherwise. From the time he was old enough to notice girls, they were always the ones who made his stomach flip, his palms sweat, his heart pound in that stupid, adolescent kind of way. He's mapped his entire understanding of attraction onto them—the curve of a waist, the softness of a laugh, the sweetness of their perfume.

He can trace it back, if he wants to. The first was his babysitter, back when he was eight. She was in college, over a decade older than him and impossibly pretty, with long honey curls that fell past her shoulders and smelled like artificial strawberries. He used to play with his action figures as he watched her study from the corner of his eye, her brow furrowed in concentration. She would chew on her pen, a glimpse of a pink tongue darting out, and Cliff had to quickly dart his eyes away.

The second was his older sister's best friend, who came over every weekend and was kind enough to play video games with him whenever his sister would be running late from her part-time job. Cliff can’t recall her name anymore, but he remembers the shade of her dirty blonde hair, how it would shine when the afternoon sun hit it just right. She'd let him win sometimes, grinning and calling him kiddo, and Cliff would go red in the face and pretend it was because he was angry about losing.

The third was in ninth grade. Alina-something. She was half-European, if memory serves him right—with hazel eyes and the prettiest smile Cliff’s ever seen—and he remembers the way her accent would slip on occasion and he would think it was the cutest thing ever. He spent an entire semester trying to work up the courage to talk to her, and when he finally did, she smiled at him, patted his shoulder, and told him she already had a boyfriend.

By the time he was fifteen, he had his first kiss. By the time he was sixteen, he was given his first blowjob. And by the time he was seventeen, he had his first girlfriend, who then broke up with him less than a year later because Cliff had been neglecting their dates for hockey.

Still, he remembers kissing all those girls, the waxy taste of their lipstick on his tongue, the give of their bodies under his calloused hands and thinking, yeah. It really can’t get any better than this.

Then, he got drafted to the Boston Raiders. Two years later, he met Ilya Rozanov.

Cliff had heard about the guy, of course. Practically everyone who gave a shit about hockey had. A rookie, nineteen and fresh off a plane from a country halfway across the world. A generational talent, who moved like he was born with skates on his feet. Cliff’s heard the media call him powerful, aggressive, a force of nature on the ice, but those labels made it sound like Rozanov was all raw talent and instinct, like some wild thing that happened to be good at hockey. They never talked about the calculating look he would get right before an impossibly successful play, or the way he'd bait defenders into chasing him, leaving lanes open for his teammates that they didn't even know existed.

So, yes. Rozanov was brilliant. Cliff’s never seen anyone like him. Except, of course, Shane Hollander, but Cliff could care less about Shane Hollander when Ilya fucking Rozanov was on his team.

They became friends pretty quick. It was easy, really, probably because Cliff didn't have to worry about Rozanov chirping him to hell or checking him hard enough into the boards to crack his ribs. On away games, they were roommates more often than not, sharing takeout as Cliff educated him on the beauty of Western blockbusters. They'd go to clubs together, and Rozanov would catch Cliff's eye from across the dance floor, winking at him as he disappeared with some girl into the crowd.

Somehow, Cliff grew to care about Rozanov more than he'd expected to. He would almost call Roz his best friend—except he doesn’t know anything about the guy's family, or his upbringing in Russia, or all the deep personal feelings he keeps locked and hidden in his chest. Oh, and his enigmatic Montreal Jane. Cliff had learned pretty quickly that those topics were off-limits.

But still. If Cliff had to name someone as his best friend, it would be Ilya. Ilya was his guy.

In 2014, they won the Stanley Cup, and Cliff felt like he was on top of the world. In 2015, they got knocked out of the playoffs way too soon, so Ilya dragged him to a bar to drink their misery away. And then, in the fall of 2016, Shane Hollander started dating Rose Landry.

And Ilya—

Ilya was different, after that.

1.

“The guys are going out tonight. You coming?”

The words are out of Cliff’s mouth the second Roz emerges from the bathroom, steam curling around him. His skin is still flushed from the heat of the shower, pink across his chest and shoulders, and his curls are dark and damp, tracking droplets all over the velvet carpet of their shared room. He's wearing nothing but shorts, a towel slung over one bare shoulder, and his eyes flick across the room as he looks for his shirt. It’s on his bed, under the covers, but Cliff won’t tell him that yet.

Roz shakes his head, not even looking at him. "Not in the mood. You go if you want."

Cliff bites back a groan. "Come on, Rozy. You're never in the mood anymore. You can't possibly be that bitter over Toronto beating us tonight."

Apparently, it’s the wrong thing to say, because Roz’s head snaps up, and his eyes go sharp—those pale, ocean-colored eyes that Cliff has seen go soft and bright and everything in between. Right now, they're piercing cold. "Leave it, Marly,” he all but scoffs. “I’m sure you can fuck off without me."

And Cliff really would leave it, if he cared less. But this is the fifth fucking time in the last two weeks that Roz has blown him off, and Cliff is starting to get pissed off. Because he knows something’s wrong. Roz has had his moods before, sure, but he’s never been like this in the last couple of years they’ve known each other. Cliff is certain he could help, except Roz won’t fucking talk to him.

“Fuck that,” he says, pushing off the bed and taking a step toward him. "What the hell is up with you lately? You've been weird, man. You're yelling at the rookies, making us do fucking suicides until one of us throws up—"

"Marly."

"You never go out with us anymore, and when you do, you only stay for an hour or two, making out with some poor girl before leaving her on the dance floor like some dick—"

"Marly."

"And when you're not angry, you go scarily quiet, and it's making me real worried, Roz!" Cliff is closer now, close enough to see the water still dripping from Ilya’s hair, trailing down his neck. "Are you sick? Dying? Or is this somehow about Jan—“

“Marly, stop,” Ilya cuts in, sharp and brittle, and Cliff has enough wit left to do as he says and clamp his mouth shut. Ilya’s shoulders are rigid, jaw clenched, and Cliff watches the way hands curl into fists at his side. Distantly, he thinks about how Ilya’s barely even dressed, and he feels kind of bad for yelling when the guy has almost nothing covering him. Ilya looks almost… soft, like this. But then he exhales, sharp and ragged as he frowns at Cliff, and the image is immediately blown away. “Fucking fine, I’ll go with you if you want me that badly. But I’m not staying long.” He shoots Cliff a pointed look. “Seriously, Marly, I am fucking tired.”

Cliff blinks. He didn’t think Ilya would actually cave.

“Yeah?” He tries to keep the hope out of his voice. Clubbing was always so much more fun with Ilya around. “You mean it?”

“I mean it.” Ilya shoves past him, smacking a hand against Cliff’s chest to shove him aside, heading for his luggage. “But you’re paying for my drinks.”

Cliff is already grinning. "Okay. Okay, yeah. That's—that's good. That's great." He steps back, giving Ilya space. "Get dressed, Rozy. I'll wait."

They head down to the lobby together, Ilya looking as put-together and dangerously charming as he usually does when they go out on nights like these, before everything went to shit two weeks ago. The rest of the team cheer once they step out of the elevator and spot him—like Ilya is some celebrity on Rose Landry’s calibre or some shit—but it’s a nice feeling, to see them all together about to get shit-faced drunk in a couple of hours. Cliff catches the strain in Ilya’s smile though, the tightness in his eyes, but he shakes off the worry and holds true to the belief that going out will be good for Ilya. He’s sure of it.

It’s almost three hours later, and Ilya hasn’t left yet, and Cliff is feeling quite fucking good.

He’s met this incredibly gorgeous chick—Juliette, her name is—and Cliff’s been alternating between buying her drinks, talking, and making out in the darkness of their booth while the rest of the guys either scatter around the club or leave with a girl hanging off their arms. Juliette, despite being from Toronto, is surprisingly a Raiders fan, and Cliff’s so thrilled about this blue-eyed, blonde knockout liking his team that he’s already holding on to the promise of her taking him back to her place.

At some point a little past midnight, Juliette climbs onto Cliff's lap, kissing him heatedly, and Cliff is doing his best to focus on her. He's running his hands over the curve of her skimpy black dress, up to her waist and down to the bare skin of her plush thighs, feeling her warmth through the thin fabric. Her lip gloss is sweet on his tongue, her long hair falling over his neck like a curtain, and she's gorgeous and exactly his type.

They pull apart to breathe, and Cliff can see the question forming in her eyes, the anticipation of getting out of here and taking it a step further. He's already planning his answer, already thinking about the way she'd look sprawled across her sheets—

—when he spots Ilya on the dance floor, and something in Cliff's chest immediately goes cold.

Ilya is moving languidly to the music, in that effortless way that usually draws both men and women to him like moths to a flame. But there's something wrong. Even from across the club, Cliff can see it. Ilya is too relaxed, too loose-limbed, and there are hands all over him—a girl's fingers splayed across his chest, another's gripping his waist, someone else's trailing down his arm, which should be fine, Ilya likes attention after all. Except Ilya isn't doing anything to stop them.

He's just standing there, swaying, his head tilted back, his eyes half-closed. The wrongness of it makes Cliff’s jaw tighten, and he’s suddenly furious with himself for not checking in on his friend earlier, for letting them stay out this late.

His hands still on Juliette's waist.

"Hey," she says, her voice honey-sweet. "You okay?"

He looks at her. She's so beautiful. But all he can see is Ilya on the dance floor, and it makes Cliff feel uneasy.

"I'm sorry," he says, already shifting her off his lap. "I have to—I'm sorry. I have to go."

He doesn't wait for her response. He's already pushing through the crowd, shoving past bodies, his eyes locked on Ilya. When he reaches him, he grabs his arm—hard.

"Okay, that's enough."

Ilya's head turns toward him slowly, his eyes dazed but lucid enough to at least settle the pit of worry in Cliff’s stomach. "Marly?"

"Yeah, it's me." Cliff's voice is clipped. "We're leaving."

"But—" Ilya gestures vaguely behind him, looking around like he’s just remembered where he is, how many people are around him.

"Yeah, forget them. Come on, we need to get you out of here."

He doesn't wait for Ilya to argue. He pulls him through the crowd, out of the club, into the cool night air. Ilya stumbles, and Cliff catches him, one arm wrapped around his waist, holding him upright.

"Okay. Okay, I've got you."

"You are—you are very strong, Marly."

Cliff snorts. "Yeah, Roz, and you’re drunk as shit."

"I am not drunk. Russians do not get drunk. I have had—" Ilya pauses, clearly trying to count. "Three. Maybe five."

Cliff isn’t sure if he means drinks or entire fucking bottles, but he doesn’t question it. “You’re gonna regret this so bad tomorrow morning, man,” he says. He flags down a cab, shoves Ilya into the backseat, and slides in beside him. "The hotel. Quickly."

The ride is quiet. Ilya's head lolls onto Cliff's shoulder at some point, his curls brushing against Cliff's neck, and Cliff stiffens but doesn't push him away. He stares out the window, sobering up quickly, and tries to ignore the warmth of Ilya's body pressed against his.

By the time they make it back to their room, Cliff is exhausted, even though he’s had much practice with dragging a drunk Roz back to their hotels. Really, it was worse when Ilya was younger. But for now, he helps Ilya inside, guides him to his bed as he kicks off their shoes, and grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

"Drink," he says, pressing it into Ilya's hands.

Ilya stares at it. Then at Cliff. Slowly, he brings the bottle to his mouth, looking almost golden in the lamplight of their shared room. Ilya’s eyes never leave Cliff’s as he takes a tentative sip. His throat moves as he swallows, lips shiny with water, and Cliff forces himself to avert his gaze.

“Better?” he asks instead.

Ilya scoffs, placing the bottle away. “No,” he murmurs. “I feel like shit.”

Cliff resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Obviously, Roz. What happened to not staying out too late? I’ve never seen you get so drunk before.”

“It’s not the fucking drinks, Marly. I’m not as drunk as you think I am,” Ilya huffs. He stretches out across the bed, torso sinking into the mattress and shirt riding high enough to expose a sliver of stomach, his legs staying dangling over the edge.

He looks up at Cliff through lowered lashes, and Cliff feels pinned in place.

"You were with a girl earlier," Ilya says. "Why didn't you go home with her?"

Cliff blinks. "What?"

"The girl." Ilya's accent is thicker when he's drunk, wrapping around the syllables. "She was all over you. She wanted you to take her home. Why didn't you go?"

Cliff stares at him. "Because I thought you were shit-faced, dude. I couldn't just leave you like that."

Ilya's expression flickers, something unguarded crossing his face before the mask slides back into place. "I am a grown man, Marly. I do not need a babysitter."

"No, you need a friend." Cliff sighs. He suddenly feels tired and pent-up all at once, even more than when they lost against Toronto earlier. "Which I'm trying to be, by the way, but you're making it real fucking hard."

Ilya is quiet for a long moment. Then, "Do you really care that much?”

What a dumb fucking question. Like asking if the sky is blue, or if the earth is round. Cliff pinches the bridge of his nose, then leans back on his arms.

“Of course, Rozy. And I'm tired of watching you act like—" He gestures vaguely. "—whatever this is."

Ilya hums, searching Cliff’s face for… something. His gaze travels from Cliff's eyes to his mouth, lingering there for a moment too long. Then Ilya's tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and Cliff follows the movement without thinking. His eyes stay on the pink of Ilya's tongue, the shine it leaves behind, and he's so focused on it that he doesn't notice Ilya noticing.

"Marly," Ilya says.

Cliff's eyes snap back to his. "Huh?"

“Do you really want to know what’s wrong?”

“Fuck, of course, dude.” Again, what a dumb question. “I want to help.”

“Yes, well.” Ilya’s mouth twists. He shifts so that he’s sitting up, reclining back against his pillows as he blows out a breath, sparing Cliff a mere glance. “My Jane dumped me. She was at my place two weeks ago, we had great incredible sex, but then I asked for more, and then she fucking left. And now she’s dating someone else.”

Cliff blinks, processing. “Oh,” he says, a little stupidly. Shit, if that happened to him, he’d be making the rest of the team skate suicides too. He suddenly wants to find Jane, wants to shake her by the shoulders. "Oh, Roz, that sucks. I'm sorry."

"You Americans are just as bad as Canadians,” Ilya rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Why are you saying sorry for something that is not your fault?"

"Yeah, but..." Cliff shrugs helplessly. "You've been texting Montreal Jane for forever. Sorry she didn't see what a catch you are, man."

Ilya hums, and Cliff can see something shifting behind his eyes in real-time—a decision being made, a door opening just a crack.

"Catch," Ilya repeats, like he's tasting the word. "Do you think I’m a catch too, Marly?"

A laugh spills out of him, caught off-guard. "What kind of question is that?"

“A simple one." Ilya's gaze doesn't waver. He's still looking at Cliff with those ocean-colored eyes, still lounging on the bed like this is just a normal conversation to have, like it isn’t dangerously past midnight and they don’t have a flight to catch in the morning. "What does Cliff Marlow think about me?”

Cliff swallows. "I mean... yeah? Obviously you’re a catch. You're—" He gestures towards Ilya’s general direction. "You're you. You're the captain and star center of the Boston fucking Raiders, dude. You're rich, you're famous, you're talented. Any girl would be lucky to have you."

"So it is just my money and my talent."

"What? No, that's not—" Groaning, Cliff runs a hand through his hair. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" Ilya tilts his head, and there's something almost predatory about it. "Tell me, Marly. What makes me a catch?"

Cliff opens his mouth, then closes it. His pulse is picking up. This is such a weird conversation. But Ilya is staring at him with those heavy-lidded eyes, and Cliff can feel the room getting smaller, the air getting thicker, the alcohol from earlier thrumming underneath his veins.

"You're…" He purses his lips. "You're surprisingly funny, despite all the shit you say on the ice. You're loyal. You’re smarter than people give you credit for. You're an incredible captain, and you care about people, even when you act like you don't. And you're—" He cuts himself off again, throat tight.

"I am what?"

Cliff looks at him—at his captain, teammate, friend. At the way Ilya’s lips are slightly parted, the way the line of his chest peeks out from under the steep neckline of his shirt, the way his eyes are watching Cliff, tracking every movement.

"Hot," Cliff blurts out, before he can stop himself. Immediately, he thinks about shooting himself with a gun. Why did he say that?

But Ilya's lips simply curve into a slow smile. "Oh," he says, almost like he’s amused. "Really?"

"I—well, fucking look at yourself, Roz—"

"Marly." Ilya sits up slightly, leaning forward, his gaze locked on Cliff's. "If you think I am so hot... then why are you sitting so far away?"

Cliff's heart is pounding. He can hear it in his ears, feel it in his throat. "Dude, you are so fucking drunk right now."

"I am not that drunk, I told you this already." Ilya's voice is low. "I know what I’m saying, and I know what I am doing." He pauses, his tongue darting out to wet his lips again. "Do you?"

Good fucking question, Cliff thinks as he stares at him. Ilya can’t possibly be suggesting what he thinks he’s suggesting. And yet, Ilya fucking Rozanov is looking at him like that, like this is somehow worth the risk. He’s always had a nagging suspicion that maybe Ilya wasn’t the aggressively heterosexual macho athlete everyone thought him to be. After all that time spent in raucous clubs with the guy, Cliff was bound to notice the way Ilya’s eyes would sometimes linger on objectively good-looking men, the way he’d smile at them, shoot a wink when he thinks no one is looking.

No one but Cliff, of course.

"Fuck you, Rozanov," he says, his voice rough. "Of course I know what I'm doing."

And then, before he can think twice about it, he’s already narrowing the space between them. As he sits on the edge of Ilya's bed, he’s close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough to see the way Ilya’s pupils are blown wide, swallowing the pale blue-green of his irises.

"Roz," Cliff says, trying to control his breathing. "If we do this—"

"We do not talk about it,” Ilya interrupts, even as his hands are already reaching for Cliff, fisting in his shirt. "We do not tell anyone. Nothing changes between us. This is—" He pauses, like he’s finding the words. "This is just tonight. Just this once."

Cliff nods. "Just tonight," he echoes.

And then Ilya is pulling him down, and their mouths come crashing together.

Cliff quickly discovers that kissing Ilya Rozanov isn’t that different from kissing a girl.

His lips are pink and plush, soft in a way that Cliff has only ever associated with the girls he's kissed before. The same give, the same warmth, the same addictive taste. Ilya’s clean-shaven too, so there’s no stubble there to distract Cliff that, yes, he really is kissing a man. His hand finds its way into Ilya's golden curls, and they're surprisingly soft too. Fleetingly, he thinks back to the babysitter he had when he was eight, how she and Ilya had the same textured locks. But Ilya doesn't smell like strawberries and artificial sweetness. He smells like vodka and cigarettes and the lingering scent of hotel bar soap, and Cliff should hate it, should be repulsed by the roughness of it, but instead it just makes him want… more.

Ilya's mouth opens under his, and Cliff deepens the kiss without thinking, hardening in his pants when Ilya makes a broken sound, low and rough, nothing like the breathy little sighs Cliff is used to. It's needy though, just as needy like all the other girls he’s had under him. Tentatively, he sucks on Ilya’s tongue, and Ilya lets out a moan, his hands gripping Cliff’s biceps like a lifeline. Cliff can feel the start of drool pooling past Ilya’s lips. And—okay. That’s fucking hot.

His hands find Ilya's waist, and his fingers press into the dip there—a subtle inward curve that he wants to encircle. He's expecting softness, the pliant warmth he's so familiar with, but instead he finds hard muscle and sinew. Ilya is all angles and strength, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, a body built for a powerful sport. But somehow, under Cliff's hands, he goes soft. He melts into the touch, arching into Cliff's palms like he's been waiting for this, and it sends a heady rush of power straight to Cliff’s dick. How many people have had Ilya Rozanov like this? How many people have had Ilya so pliant, so willing under them, or has Cliff saved a country in his past life to be the first?

He can feel Ilya’s own erection pressing against his thigh, and it makes Cliff groan into Ilya’s mouth. It’s wrong, it should be wrong, but Cliff has never felt so intoxicated in his life. Ilya's hands find the hem of Cliff's shirt, fingers slipping underneath to press against the skin of his stomach. His palms are warm, a little rough, and Cliff shudders at the contact. Then Ilya is pulling at the fabric, tugging upward, and Cliff breaks the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere in the darkness of the room.

Ilya's eyes travel down his chest, gaze dark and lust-drunk, and when they meet Cliff's again, there's something hungry in them.

“Fuck, Marly,” Ilya exhales, wetting his lips. “I feel like one of your girls right now.”

Cliff laughs, breathless.

His hands find Ilya's shirt, rucking up the fabric clumsily until it bunches under Ilya’s armpits, and Cliff takes him in—the broad planes of his chest, the hard lines of his stomach, the way his skin is flushed a pretty rosy color all over, made golden under the lamplight. Russians do not blush, Roz had said once, and Cliff internally scoffs. His eyes trace the sharp cut of his hips, the dark tuft of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.

Fuck.

He wants to touch all of it, wants to map Ilya's body and mark all the similarities and differences between Ilya and all the girls he’s hooked up with before. Maybe they’re not so different after all.

So Cliff leans down, pressing his lips right above Ilya's sternum, and Ilya's breath hitches. The sound is quiet, almost shy, and Cliff files it away somewhere safe. He presses his mouth lower, trailing kisses down Ilya's chest, tasting sweat and warmth and something so distinctively male. He stops himself just in time from wrapping his lips around one pink, pebbled nipple, because that’s—that’s pushing it. So what if Ilya has tits like a girl? Cliff gets away with squeezing one though, feeling the softness of it, his fingers brushing over an areola, and Ilya makes a punched-out breathy sound in return. His hands find Cliff's shoulders, holding tight, and Cliff can feel the slight tremor in his fingers.

"Marly," Ilya whimpers—fucking whimpers, holy shit—and his voice is wrecked, absolutely wrecked.

Cliff wonders, once again, how many people have heard the Raiders’ dear captain sound like this. He hopes he’s one of the chosen few, but with the way Ilya sleeps around, he knows it’s a futile wish.

Mouth traveling lower, Cliff traces his tongue over the ridges of Ilya's stomach, teeth scraping lightly over his hipbone. Ilya's hands are in his hair now, tugging, pulling, and Cliff finds himself quite liking the sensation of it.

"You are—" Ilya starts, letting out a shaky breath. "You are fucking killing me."

Cliff grins against his skin. "Good."

Ilya knees his side. Cliff squeezes his hip harshly in retaliation, and he watches as Ilya’s mouth drops open in a silent groan, like a fucking porn star.

It’s weirdly easy to be making his way down Ilya's body. He blows a breath into his navel and Ilya twitches, which makes Cliff hum in satisfaction. When his mouth presses against the trail of hair that leads to the waistband of Ilya’s jeans, he feels Ilya’s grip on his hair tighten.

"Marlow, I swear to fucking god…”

Cliff looks up, and the sight nearly takes his damn breath away. Ilya's chest is heaving, his eyes dark and blown wide, his lips swollen and red. He looks undone, and Cliff has never wanted anything more right now in this tipsy haze than to be the one to take him apart.

"Use your fucking words, Roz," he says, voice rough.

Ilya stares at him for a long moment, and then his lips curve into a slow, wicked smile.

"I want you to stop talking," he orders, hands falling from Cliff’s hair to his shoulders, and, fuck, it’s the same tone of voice he uses when they’re at practice and he’s Captain Ilya Rozanov, not just Roz, Cliff’s best friend and the man currently half-naked under him. "And I want your hands on my dick."

Well. Cliff doesn't need to be told twice.

He makes quick work of pulling Ilya’s pants down to his ankles, until Ilya’s left in just his black boxers. He stops for a moment, because Ilya's thighs are truly something to look at, thick with muscle and dusted with dark hair. Again, they’re nothing like a girl's—no shapely curves, no smooth skin.

But when Cliff's hands land on them, fingers pressing into the plush flesh of his inner thigh, Ilya shudders. His breath catches, high and sharp, hips jerking involuntarily.

Cliff looks up at him, surprised. "You're sensitive here?"

"Fuck you," Ilya mutters instantly, eyes glinting in the dark.

Cliff laughs. "I'm going to take that as a yes."

He leans down, pressing his mouth to the skin where his hands once were, and Ilya’s gasp turns into a groan as Cliff begins to nip at the muscle. He knows better than to leave marks, although… would it really be so bad? The rest of the guys would probably think some chick did this.

Tentatively, he moves his hands again, sliding them higher, until his fingers graze the very inside of Ilya's thighs, just a hair away from his leaking dick. Ilya's breath hitches, a choked groan escaping his throat, and his hips roll up into the touch.

God, that’s hot.

He knows Ilya’s getting impatient though, and Cliff has had a lot of drinks tonight, so before he can decide whether it’s a bad idea, he presses Ilya’s thighs apart and latches his mouth to the inner flesh, sucking just hard enough to leave a faint bruise. The action has Ilya squirming, like he can’t decide whether he wants to lean into the touch or pull away from Cliff’s mouth, and it turns Cliff on in a way he should probably reevaluate.

And then, finally, Ilya throws a bottle of lube at him.

Where Ilya got this, Cliff doesn’t ask, but he drizzles the liquid into his palm and wraps his hand around Ilya’s cock, watching his face as he does. Ilya must be more keyed-up than he thought, because his eyes flutter shut immediately, lashes dusting his scarlet cheeks. His mouth falls open, and he makes a sound that Cliff feels in his fucking chest.

"Fuck," Ilya breathes.

Strangely enough, jerking Ilya Rozanov off doesn’t feel as unnatural as Cliff expected. It’s just a dick. Granted, it’s the only other dick that Cliff’s touched that isn’t his own, but still. He tries not to look too hard, but Jesus Christ, Ilya’s big. Not as big as him, but his cock is a heavy weight in Cliff’s palm, and oh—he thinks Ilya might be leaking a little. He tries to get Ilya off in the way Cliff personally likes, moving his hand up and down and up again, a little sloppily, because he guesses Ilya might like it wet and messy. He’s proven right when Ilya's back arches beautifully into his touch. His hands find Cliff’s arm and digs into the muscle as he groans, but Cliff doesn't mind—he likes the sting, the proof that he's the one doing this.

Ilya's hips are moving now, chasing the rhythm. He’s making all these sounds too, filthy and desperate and borderline needy, and what a fucking vision that is. Cliff squeezes a little harder, thumb briefly brushing over the slit, and that’s all it takes for Ilya to come undone. He paints Cliff’s hand in streaks of white, and it’s Cliff’s name that he moans.

And then, he slumps back into the pillows, panting and flushed and staring up at Cliff in a daze.

"Okay?" Cliff asks, his own dick painfully hard and straining against his underwear.

Ilya's laugh is shaky. "Yes. Not bad, Marly.” He winks, and with how ruined he looks, it’s fucking erotic. “For a straight dude.”

They stay there for a moment, breathing together. Just as Cliff is starting to feel a little awkward about his own erection, about the way he’s still hovering, Ilya shifts, sliding a hand down Cliff's chest and guiding him to sit against the headboard until their positions are switched. His fingers find the waistband of Cliff's own shorts.

"Okay," Ilya murmurs, glancing up. “My turn.”

And, well. There are worse things in the world than having Ilya Rozanov’s pink lips wrapped around the head of Cliff’s cock.

Cliff isn’t even surprised to find out that Ilya’s a fucking natural when it comes to giving head. He glances down with a low groan and catches the way Ilya’s lashes flutter, mouth stretching around Cliff’s length. It's glistening, and soft, but Ilya’s tongue is wet and hot and Cliff thinks in one fleeting moment that Ilya looks quite pretty like this. If he closes his eyes and cards his fingers into Ilya’s curls, it almost feels just like any other chick.

When Ilya swallows him in a little deeper—no gag reflex apparently, Christ, how many dicks has he sucked before?—it takes all of Cliff’s willpower to not shoot his load straight down Ilya’s throat. But he’s tipsy, and he’s fucking horny, and when Ilya does something wicked with his tongue, licking the precum on Cliff’s slit, he feels himself tipping near the edge of his release.

“Rozy,” he rasps, breathing heavily, tugging at Ilya’s hair. “Get off, I’m close.”

He feels Ilya pause, and something like mirth shines in his eyes. That’s all the warning Cliff gets before Ilya takes him impossibly deeper, until his nose practically brushes against Cliff’s pubes, and it’s so fucking hot and so fucking new because no girl has ever deepthroated him like this that Cliff comes so hard he thinks he blacks out for a second.

He doesn’t miss the way Ilya swallows it all down, only coming up to finally breathe, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Ilya’s tongue darts out to lick the corner of his mouth, Cliff’s cum still at the pink tip.

He slumps headfirst into the bed with a grunt, and Ilya follows with a breathless laugh. Eventually, Cliff comes back to himself, and he’s all too aware that he really just had Ilya Rozanov, the Raiders’ beloved star player, suck his soul through his dick.

Ilya is sprawled beside him, looking positively debauched, his curls a mess against the pillow. He looks... better, kind of. Less angry, less tense, a softness around his eyes that wasn’t there before.

It’s with Heraculean effort that Cliff forces himself to move. He grabs a towel from the bathroom, wets it, and returns to the bed. Ilya watches him, tracking his movements like he's trying to figure out what Cliff is going to do next.

"Here," Cliff says, and he’s glad his voice comes out normal. He starts cleaning Ilya's ridiculously toned stomach, his thighs, his hands moving in careful, efficient strokes. He tries not to think too much about it. He’d do the same to any of his hookups, after all. He gives Ilya another glass of water, picking up his discarded clothes and haphazardly putting them back on as Ilya drinks.

But then Ilya’s staring at him again, still very much naked, and Cliff feels the awkwardness settle into his bones like a second skin.

"Uh," he starts, a little stupidly. He clears his throat. What the hell do people usually do after hooking up with their teammate? "Well, that was—"

Ilya squints, the softness in his expression hardening into something guarded. "What, are you going to leave me now too?"

Cliff's eyes widen. "What—no! Fuck you, Roz, of course not." He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "I was just going to say that this whole thing was... you know. Not bad."

Instantly, he cringes at his words, and he only feels better when Ilya’s glare fades into something more amused. “Gee, thanks,” he says, lips twitching. “I feel very flattered right now.”

“Oh, shut up. I just mean I’ve never—“ Cliff waves vaguely between them—“done this. With a guy.”

Ilya's hums, looking away. "Do you regret it?"

Cliff pauses. He thinks about it. He’s pretty sure his sexuality hasn’t suddenly changed overnight. It’s not like touching Roz’s dick for a bit suddenly makes him gay, even if it is a nice dick on an objectively attractive guy. He likes girls, has always liked girls, and he's pretty sure he'll keep liking girls. But… he also didn't mind doing all this with Roz tonight.

"Nah," he says finally, offering a small shrug. "It was fun. And like I said, you're hot, Rozy, so it's not all that bad." He pauses, then adds, feeling the need to clarify, "But, uh, for the record... I'm not into guys like that."

Ilya blinks at him. Then, slowly, he shakes his head, his curls moving with the movement. "You are so fucking weird, Marly,” he huffs, but it’s not a cruel sound. “Don’t worry, we won’t have to do this again.”

Cliff exhales. “Yeah,” he nods, finally slumping against his own bed. “Yeah, I was thinking the same."

"No hard feelings," Ilya continues, meeting his eyes. "We are still friends. We are still teammates. But this was—"

"A one-time thing," Cliff finishes.

Ilya nods. "A one-time thing."

2.

It was not a one-time thing.

Cliff doesn’t think he should be blamed the next time it happens, though. He suppresses that night with Roz into the backburner of his mind. He continues playing hockey, and they win more games than they lose, and Roz isn’t actively trying to kill anyone in practice anymore, so Cliff silently pats himself in the back for being a good friend and helping Roz out, even if it was technically just jerking the guy off. Roz starts going out with them more often too, and they’d down a couple shots together until Cliff eventually drifts off. He’d find a cute girl to drink with, and they’d make out, and then he’d take her home before taking her apart.

True to his word, nothing changes between him and Roz. Not that Cliff thought it would, but he’s grateful nonetheless. He still sees Roz in the showers, sees the water tracing the moles of his back, the line of his shoulders, down to the curve of his ass, and does not think about how all those muscles felt under his hands. He doesn’t even look, because Cliff is normal like that.

Over a month later, the Raiders are scheduled for a game against Montreal. It’s a small mercy that this is the last game before their Christmas break, and it’s set on home ice, which infinitely makes the situation even better. Still, games against Montreal are always brutal, and this one is certainly no exception. Boston scrapes out a win—barely, by a single goal scored by Roz in the last four seconds of the game, which consequently makes the entire stadium erupt in cheers. And Cliff, exhaustion temporarily forgotten, is already on his way to Ilya, because god was that goal a fucking beauty, when—

“Fucking Rozanov,” Comeau sneers loudly, spitting into the ice, still in the exact same spot he was in before Roz stole the puck from him. “Think you’re so special just from one goal? Daddy must be so proud of his little fag—“

Cliff’s fist connects with Comeau’s jaw before he even knows he’s swinging.

For a moment, he almost doesn’t realize it’s actually him beating Comeau up right now. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s heard that word. It’s been hurled around for as long as he’s been playing hockey, and he’s never done anything about it. Roz isn’t even doing anything about it, and Cliff could see him already flipping Comeau off before Cliff’s primal brain took over and his gloves hit the ice.

Still, the impact is satisfying—a sickening crunch that sends Comeau stumbling backward. Cliff is vaguely aware of the referees closing in, of his teammates shouting, of the chaos erupting around him. Comeau manages to land a few hits—a split lip, a cut above Cliff's eye that sends blood streaming thinly down his face—but Cliff barely feels it. That is, until Ilya’s skating to his side, firm hands on Cliff’s shoulders and pulling him away.

“Marly! Jesus, fuck, what’s gotten into you? Leave it, it’s fine!”

Cliff lets himself be moved away, breathing raggedly. Comeau’s still glaring daggers at him, pulled to the side by Shane Hollander, and Cliff can feel the blood dripping down his cheek, can taste copper on his lips. But Ilya is standing in front of him, scowling like Cliff’s a fucking idiot. He smacks Cliff on the head—with his gloves already off, thank fucking god—before pressing a thumb to the cut above Cliff’s eye. Ilya makes a face.

“Is it bad?” Cliff asks.

“No,” Ilya huffs. “But that was very fucking stupid.”

He lets Ilya absentmindedly wipe the blood off his cheek, until Ilya’s knuckles are stained with red. Distantly, Cliff is aware of Hollander a few feet away, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. Cliff has always thought of Hollander as an ice-cold, untouchable presence, the kind of player who didn't let anything get to him. But right now, Hollander looks like he's about to explode. His eyes are burning with something that Cliff can't quite name, and they're fixed on Ilya.

No—they're fixed on Cliff.

Hollander is glaring at him. Actually glaring, his eyes darting from Cliff’s face, to Ilya’s hand, to the line of Ilya’s lips, then back to Cliff, all while looking like he’s trying to blow Cliff up with the sheer power of his mind.

What the fuck?

Cliff frowns, confused. If Hollander’s gonna be mad at him for beating up his teammate, maybe he should teach Comeau not to be such a complete asshole.

The refs finally get control of the situation. Comeau is escorted off the ice, and Hollander is right behind him, his jaw tight and shoulders set in a rigid line under his gear. Cliff watches him go, still confused about why the Montreal captain seems so personally offended by Cliff defending his own.

"Go," Ilya says, tugging at Cliff's arm. "You need to get that looked at."

Cliff lets himself be led off the ice. The game is over anyway, and the handshake line is happening without him. He can hear the crowd still buzzing, the announcer's voice echoing through the arena, but it all feels muffled.

The Raiders’ medic, Lauren, takes one look at his face and sighs. "Sit."

Cliff sits. Lauren cleans the cut above his eye, dabs at his split lip, asks him a few questions about his vision and his head. He answers most of them on autopilot.

"You're lucky Comeau didn’t hit you so hard," Lauren says eventually, pressing a butterfly strip over the cut. "No concussion. You'll have a nice shiner for a few days, but nothing permanent."

"Great," Cliff mutters. Then, because his mother and sisters raised him better, “Thanks, Lauren.”

Lauren pats his shoulder with a small smile and sends him on his way.

By the time he makes it back to the locker room, most of the guys have already cleared out, probably excited to get back home and finally rest after their series of intense games. The room is quiet, the faint smell of hockey-athlete sweat and soap still lingering in the air. And there, at his stall, is Ilya—hair still damp from his shower and curling at the ends, a towel slung low around his waist as he rummages through his bag for clean clothes.

Cliff clears his throat. "Rozy."

Ilya glances over his shoulder, then turns fully. His eyes scan Cliff's face, taking in the butterfly strip, the swelling around his eye. "You look like shit," he snorts, and Cliff rolls his eyes.

"Thanks," he says dryly. "You really know how to make a guy feel special."

Ilya's lips quirk into a small smirk. He turns back to his bag, pulling out a shirt and pulling it over his head. Cliff’s stare snags on the fabric stretching across his shoulders before he looks away.

"Hey, so,” he starts, dropping onto the bench beside Ilya's stall. "The break starts tomorrow. You doing anything for Christmas?"

Ilya shrugs, not looking at him. "Not really. We celebrate on a different day in Russia, remember?"

“Oh, right.” Cliff frowns. "So you're just going to... sit around in your apartment? Alone? How about Svetlana?”

“Sveta’s in Russia for a family thing,” Ilya waves a hand. “I don’t mind being alone, Marly. I will survive."

And, yeah, Cliff knows that. He’s seen Ilya survive through fractured ribs and overworked muscles and the fucking Sochi Olympics, so he knows Ilya would probably like a day alone for once. Still, it’s the holidays! His mom always drilled into his head that the holidays should never be spent alone, not unless it can’t be helped. The words are out of Cliff’s mouth before he has the chance to second-guess it.

"Come to my place," he says.

Ilya stops mid-motion, halfway through putting his pants on. "What?"

Cliff shrugs, finally shucking off his sweaty gear. “Tomorrow, on Christmas Eve. I'm spending Christmas Day with my family, but the night before, I'm free." He glances up and catches the furrow in Ilya’s brow. "We can play video games, get drunk, order takeout. Whatever you want."

Ilya stares at him. "You… want to spend the day with me?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

The furrow in Ilya’s brow deepens. He pulls his pants up all the way, just as Cliff grabs a towel and gets ready to hit the showers. He’s almost convinced Ilya won’t answer him, and he’s fine with that, really—he was just offering—but then Ilya turns to him with a thoughtful look. His shoulders relax, just a fraction.

“Fine,” he relents. He stares at Cliff pointedly. “But I’m bringing my own vodka.”

Cliff grins. "Whatever you say, Roz.”

Ilya arrives at Cliff's place the next day in the late afternoon, shoulders hunched against the bitter December cold and a paper bag of vodka clutched in one hand, as promised. He’s dressed cozily, immediately draping his snow-glazed coat across Cliff’s very nice couch. Cliff lets him.

It’s familiar, having Ilya here. The takeout Cliff ordered an hour earlier had already arrived just a couple minutes ago—fried chicken and pad thai and more spring rolls than two people, even as athletes who burn a bajillion calories for a living, could reasonably eat laid out across Cliff’s coffee table. Ilya takes one bite of his pad thai and the moan he lets out as he sinks his teeth in is, frankly, quite obscene. Cliff just rolls his eyes at it, except Ilya notices, grinning as he kicks Cliff lightly on the ribs.

They eat on the couch, sprawled out languidly, plates balanced on their laps and napkins scattered across the table. It's nice to let go of their athlete diets for one night.

“Fuck,” Ilya says at one point, biting into a vegetable spring roll. A bit of the sauce dribbles down the corner of his lips. “Marly, when I die, bring these spring rolls to my funeral. I swear I’ll come back to life just from the smell alone.”

They watch movies after the food is cleared away; Cliff introduces Ilya to Fight Club, which Ilya finds deeply amusing for reasons Cliff can't quite parse. He keeps muttering things under his breath in Russian, and when Cliff asks what he's saying, Ilya just gestures vaguely and says, "Nothing. The American masculinity is just very funny to me."

Cliff doesn't know what that means, but he lets it slide.

They watch the first two Fast and Furious movies after that—apparently, there are seven in total, which Cliff finds strange because does the world seriously need seven of these films?—and Ilya’s commentary is incessant. Cliff finds himself laughing more than he's focusing on the screen, and he’s glad to see Ilya's guard down for once, likes the way his friend allows himself to relax in Cliff’s space.

They’re playing Chel when it happens.

Cliff is, admittedly, a little bit of a sore loser, and Ilya knows it. Ilya says it's because Cliff’s been babied by his three older sisters, but Cliff would like to point out that Ilya is just fucking relentless. Who the hell gets this competitive over video games? Ilya Rozanov, apparently.

So Ilya takes advantage of it mercilessly, winning round after round with a self-satisfied grin that Cliff wants to wipe off his face. He can feel Ilya cheating somehow, he just has to prove it.

“Marly, you are like a sloth,” Ilya laughs, scoring yet another goal. It’s been almost an hour of this, and somehow, Ilya still hasn’t run out of chirps to say. “My babushka has faster reflexes than you, and she is dead.”

Cliff feels his eye tick. “Go fuck yourself, Roz.”

“No, I’m serious. How are your thumbs so slow? Do you even use them for anything besides holding your beer? Actually, don’t answer that.”

Cliff doesn’t, because he’s too busy trying to get the puck into Ilya’s net. He tries elbowing Ilya hard in the ribs, but Ilya doesn't even flinch—just nudges him back with his shoulder, hard enough to make Cliff's aim go wide.

"See?" Ilya grins. "So easy to distract."

”Yeah, because my captain’s a fucking asshole.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. And still, I’ve won three rounds in a row.”

“Because you keep distracting me! Jesus, Roz—“ Cliff bats Ilya away, again, just as Ilya starts nudging his thigh with a socked foot. “I am going to kill you, actually.”

“Marly!” Ilya gasps in mock offense. “Is that any way to treat a guest?”

Cliff rolls his eyes, except he loses control of his character in that split-second and Ilya scores again, throwing his hands up in victory.

”Another one! Marly, come on, it’s like you’re not even trying.”

“Rozanov, I swear to god, I’m going to shove this controller up your ass.”

”Kinky.” And Ilya’s grin is just so insufferable, and the way he elbows Cliff in the ribs is also insufferable, so Cliff just shoves him back with his shoulder powerfully enough to make Ilya’s character successfully veer off the ice.

“Hey!” Ilya complains, and now he’s lunging his entire body into Cliff’s left side, ready to ram into him full-force, but Cliff sees it coming in the split second before it happens. Cliff might not be faster, but he’s definitely bigger, and he’s been losing at this stupid game for the last hour, so he moves before he can think.

He catches Ilya's wrists mid-lunge, twisting them into the soft fabric of the couch. The momentum topples them both, sending the controller skittering across the floor. Cliff ends up on top, his weight pinning Ilya into the cushions. He grins triumphantly.

“Done messing with me yet?” he asks, and Ilya gapes up at him.

“Oh.” Ilya blinks, lips parted. His cheeks look pink in this light. But then he narrows his eyes, starting to writhe from under Cliff. “So, this is your strategy? Distracting me with your big body?”

“How are you still so annoying?” Cliff huffs, and he’s already moving, about to release Ilya from his grasp, but—

There’s something hard poking his thigh.

Cliff frowns, gaze darting down. And, yep, that’s definitely a bulge in Ilya’s sweatpants. Wow, okay.

“Rozy, are you seriously getting hard right now?”

“Well, there’s a big, strong athlete pinning me to his couch,” Ilya replies dryly, surprisingly calm given the compromising position they’re in. Cliff is suddenly very aware of the grip his hands have on Ilya’s wrists. Ilya isn’t even fighting him off. “I am just a man, Marly.”

“Uh…” Cliff shifts, but that just makes Roz’s fucking dick pressing against his leg even more prominent. He tries to think of the best way to handle this situation—what would he do if Roz was pinning him down, and Cliff inappropriately popped a boner?—and eventually lands on: “Do you need help with that?”

Ilya stares at him, lips twitching, except Cliff can’t tell if it’s into a smile or a frown. “Wow. What happened to this being a one-time thing?”

“Hey, I was just offering,” Cliff tilts his head, gesturing towards the hallway of his apartment. “You know where the bathroom is, if you need to jerk off.”

“Hm.” Ilya hums noncommittally, and then, faster that Cliff could even take in his next breath, he’s moving. One moment Cliff is on top, his weight pinning Ilya to the couch. The next, Ilya has twisted his hips, hooked a leg around Cliff's, and flipped them both in one, swift motion. Cliff's back hits the cushions with a soft oof, and suddenly Ilya is straddling him, strong thighs bracketing his hips, warm and solid and very, very present.

Cliff's hands fly to Ilya's waist on instinct. His fingers press into the dip of Ilya's hips through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and he can feel the heat of him, the weight of him settling into Cliff's lap.

"Roz," he breathes. "Are you—are you sure? Have you not found anyone since... Jane?"

Ilya's expression flickers before it smooths into something else. "Do not talk about Jane while I am on top of you, Marly." He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head. "Do you want to?"

Cliff laughs, shaky and a little unhinged. "Whatever you want, Rozanov,” he says, and he means it.

Ilya doesn't kiss him. Instead, he rolls his hips, going straight for the kill, and Cliff's breath catches in his throat. Ilya works his hips like a fucking stripper. The clothed friction on Cliff’s hardening cock is maddening, even through layers of fabric—Ilya's sweatpants against Cliff's, both of them hard and wanting and so close to what they both need.

Cliff tightens his hold on Ilya's waist. He wants to move, to buck up into the pressure, to flip them back around and take, but he holds himself still. He lets Ilya set the pace, because he guesses Ilya might need this more than him. He lets Ilya take control.

And Ilya does. He rocks against Cliff in a steady rhythm, his head falling back with a low groan, exposing the golden column of his neck. His hands are braced on Cliff's chest, fingers curling into his shirt, and Cliff can feel every shift of his muscles as Ilya grinds against him, every tiny hitch of his breath.

The friction builds, slow and hot, and Cliff’s dick twitches in his pants.

"Rozy," he gasps.

Ilya's eyes meet his, dark and heavy-lidded. "Hm?"

Reaching up. Cliff grabs Ilya by the chin, tilting his face down. There’s just the faintest hints of stubble now, not clean-shaven like the first time. But Ilya’s got the same hypnotic gaze, the same flushed cheeks, the same soft, pouty lips.

"C'mere," Cliff murmurs, and then he’s kissing him.

It’s different from before, mostly because Cliff can’t blame the alcohol anymore for letting himself get this far with a man, because he’s fully, completely sober this time. Ilya's mouth opens under his willingly, and Cliff tastes him, tastes the salt of his skin and the remnants of the food they’ve just had. When Ilya makes a soft sound against his lips, Cliff doesn’t hesitate to swallow it whole.

"Fuck," he breathes, once they finally pull apart.

Ilya whistles. "You know, you’re not so ugly when you’re like this, Marly.”

"God, will it kill you to shut up?”

Ilya's smirk widens. He rolls his hips again, harder this time, and Cliff's head falls back against the cushions. It’s so little but the sight of Ilya on his lap is almost too much, and Cliff can feel the tension building in his gut.

Ilya leans down, his mouth brushing against Cliff's ear. "Do you want to come like this?" he asks, his voice low and rough.

Cliff groans. "Yes. Fuck. Yes."

He feels Ilya's fingers finding the drawstring of his sweatpants, tugging at the knot with clumsy desperation. Cliff watches him work it loose, watches the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Then Ilya is pushing the fabric down, doing the same for his own pants, and Cliff's hands are on Ilya's bare hips, and Ilya's hand wraps around their dicks, not large enough to encircle them both, but still—

It’s rough, is Cliff’s first thought. His living room is also well-lit, meaning that, unlike the last time they did this in the darkness of their hotel room. Cliff has a clear visual of Ilya’s dick, hard and uncut and flushed red. Just like last time, he tries not to stare at it, but it’s proven difficult to do when said dick is literally pressed up against his own, and he has to try very, very hard not to think about the slight size difference. He’s almost not expecting the drag of it when Ilya strokes his hand upward, the dry slide of skin on skin, and that’s when he realizes they don’t have any lube, because Cliff’s bottle is all the way in his bedroom, tucked safely in the second drawer by his bed. And that’s way too far away.

He sees Ilya pause, brow furrowing, and Cliff knows he's realizing the same thing.

But just then, Ilya spits into his palm, quick and practical, and Cliff's brain short-circuits.

The sight is obscene. The feeling of it is obscene, because Ilya’s slick hand wraps around them both and now Cliff’s got his captain’s spit on his very hard cock. But the friction is better now, wetter and sloppier and undeniably hot. His hips buck up into the contact, and Ilya lets out a sharp breath that might be a laugh or might be a moan. With the way they’re half-clothed and grinding desperately against each other on his couch, Cliff feels like a fucking teenager again, like the first time he made out with his ex-girlfriend and then proceeded to eat her out.

They find a rhythm like that, messy and uncoordinated. Ilya's hand moves between them, thumbing the head of their cocks, smearing their precum all over each other, until Cliff is groaning and tightening his hold on Ilya’s hips. It’s not elegant. It’s certainly not practiced. The sound of it fills the room, wet and slick and desperate. Ilya moans softly, his forehead pressing against Cliff’s. Their breath mingles, and Cliff could almost kiss him again if they accidentally brush lips.

He’s not sure how long it lasts. Minutes, maybe. Seconds. Time has gone syrupy and strange, narrowed to the stroke of Ilya's hand and the flex of his thick thighs around Cliff's hips. He's close, so close, and he can feel Ilya trembling against him, can feel the stutter in his rhythm.

"Roz," he gasps.

Ilya's answer is a wrecked sound, half-moan, half-word, and then Cliff feels him tighten, feels the hot slick of him against his stomach, and that's all it takes.

He comes with a groan that he feels in his chest, his head falling back, his grip on Ilya's hips hard enough to leave bruises that would definitely be noticed. Thank god they don’t have any more games this week. Ilya's hand keeps moving through it, frenzied and relentless, and Cliff has to push him away gently when it becomes too much.

They sit there for a minute, maybe two, breathing hard, their skin sticky and damp. Ilya's forehead drops to Cliff's shoulder, and Cliff can feel the thrum of his pulse against his own skin.

"Messy," Ilya murmurs, and Cliff can almost hear the smile in his voice, so he scoffs.

"Fuck off."

When Ilya lifts his head, his cheeks are splotchy, lips swollen, but his eyes have gone guarded again. He stares at Cliff warily, and a moment later, he’s climbing out of his lap. Cliff lets him go, tucking himself back into his pants. Ilya does the same.

”Do you regret it now?” Ilya asks. Cliff blinks.

”No,” he answers honestly. That’s all it takes for Ilya to relax again, slumping against the other end of Cliff’s couch.

3.

Ilya starts acting differently again three weeks later.

Cliff’s not sure what could possibly have set him off this time. But Ilya’s been agitated all throughout morning practice, cursing the boys more than once for being at the wrong place at the wrong time and making the rookies look like they’re five seconds away from pissing their pants. Carmichael skates up to him at one point, asking what the fuck’s going on with Roz, and Cliff just shrugs. He doesn’t have an answer.

Coach calls him and Ilya over almost immediately for a post-practice meeting, wanting to go over a new strategy and a few changes now that Hammersmith is put on IR from a nasty concussion after they played Buffalo earlier this week. Cliff pays attention—it’s his fucking job, after all—but he can’t ignore the way Ilya is concerningly wired-up from where he’s sitting just a few feet away. Still, it must not be obvious to anyone but Cliff, because Coach doesn’t call him out or say shit like, Rozanov, do you have a stick up your ass or what? By the time Coach finally dismisses them, the locker room is empty.

Ilya trudges over to the bench, sinking heavily into it. He makes no move to get undressed, and there’s a furrow between his brows that Cliff wants to flick away with his thumb.

He nudges Ilya with his knee. “You okay?”

”Fine,” Ilya grunts, almost instantly. God, he’s such a bad fucking liar.

Cliff considers him, hesitating. He pulls off his sweaty jersey and wonders if it’s something family-related, because Ilya always gets into a worse mood whenever his brother, father, or the Russia of it all is involved. Cliff doesn’t know any of the finer details, except he’s gathered enough to know that Ilya’s father is neglectful at best and his asshole brother asks him for money constantly, like a fucking leech. It won’t kill him to ask. Probably.

“Is it your brother?”

Ilya snorts, before waving a vague hand like he’s brushing the thought aside. “No.”

”Your father?”

”He’s fine.”

“Is it… Svetlana?”

This time, Ilya looks up, regarding Cliff with the shadow of a smirk. “What is this, 20 questions? She’s fine too.”

Okay, well. That’s all the Russia-related aspects of Ilya’s life that he knows. Maybe this is about… Montreal Jane? But Cliff’s certain they’re a thing of the past. Maybe Ilya’s still hung up on her, for whatever godforsaken reason? He doesn’t understand why his captain—who’s probably hooked up with five hundred women by now and can have any girl he wants fawning over him—would be so hung up over just one chick, but. Well.

”Is it—“

”Marly, stop,” Ilya interrupts with a dramatic groan. “You are making me feel worse.”

“So you do admit you feel like shit!”

“I do not feel like shit." Ilya rolls his eyes, gaze sliding away. "It's just—it’s All-Stars this week." He shoots Cliff a pointed look. "I do not want to go."

“Oh.” Cliff frowns. "Wait, but why? I thought you loved the All-Star Games."

Ilya shrugs dismissively. "Don't feel like it this year."

Weird. Cliff bites the inside of his cheek, trying to piece it together. He racks his brain for what's different about this year's All-Star Game, what might be important enough to piss Ilya off, and that’s when it clicks.

"Oh, dude." He lets out a low whistle. "Hollander's on your team this time, isn't he? And he's captain, too." He shakes his head. "No wonder you feel horrible. Guess I'd be in a shitty mood too if the guy I hated most was my captain."

Ilya freezes.

It’s just for a second, probably less than, but Cliff catches it all the same. But Ilya rearranges his posture and simply hums in response, a noncommittal noise that doesn't quite land. His eyes are fixed somewhere on the floor, and when glances up at Cliff, something in his expression shifts—softens, sharpens, all at once.

"A distraction would help," Ilya says quietly.

Cliff stares at him. "Huh?"

"I need a distraction, Marly,” Ilya replies, finally meeting his eye, but his gaze is unreadable. “Can you be that for me?"

Cliff's throat goes dry. Maybe it’s because he spent the last few years learning each and every one of Ilya’s moods, his microexpressions, but immediately, he knows what Ilya is asking. He can see it in the way Ilya's gaze flicks down to his mouth, then lower, lower, lower.

"Here?" he asks.

“Do you want?” Ilya asks, and Cliff takes a quick inventory of the room—the empty stalls, the quiet hallway, the distant hum of the building settling around them. Oh. They're alone.

He reaches out, his hand landing on Ilya's shoulder and squeezing. "Come on," he says, his voice coming out steady. "The showers."

Ilya stands, pulling off his undershirt in one fluid motion, letting it fall to the floor. Then his hands are at his waistband, pushing down his compression shorts without hesitation.

Cliff doesn’t mean to, but he ends up watching him. Ilya is completely unselfconscious, standing bare in the middle of the locker room. He doesn't look back at Cliff—just starts walking toward the shower room, his footsteps echoing in the empty space.

Cliff has to force himself to move. He strips off the rest of his clothes quickly, but he grabs a towel from the rack and wraps it around his waist, before deciding that’s a stupid thing to do considering it’s just the two of them and Ilya’s seen him naked countless of times in the shower before. Still, he grabs another one too—because he knows Ilya won't bother—and hangs their towels on the first hook he sees.

He makes it three steps into the shower room before Ilya’s hand lands on his chest, pushing him against the cold tile, and the next thing he registers is Ilya’s wet mouth on his.

They can’t use alcohol as an excuse for this, can’t even use their clothes as a barrier for what they’re doing, because now they’re ass-naked in the shower room that they see each other in practically every single day. The shower spray accidentally switches on as they fumble around with each other, soaking them wet. There’s nothing to hide behind now, and Cliff can feel every inch of Ilya's body pressed against his—the warmth of his skin, the hard planes of his chest, the brush of his hard cock against Cliff’s own.

Ilya kisses him like he's trying to crawl inside his skin, deep and demanding and more desperate than the last two times they fell into this position. His hands are in Cliff's hair, gripping tight, and Cliff's hands find Ilya's hips, pulling him closer. The tile is cold against his back, but Ilya's body is so warm, and he can't think about anything else.

"Fuck," Cliff exhales against his mouth.

Ilya makes a rough, broken sound, and his teeth graze Cliff's bottom lip. “Touch me,” he gasps, looking up at Cliff with hazy eyes. “Please, Marly.”

Cliff moves embarrassingly quickly.

He grips Ilya's hips and turns him, pressing Ilya's chest flat against the cold tile. Ilya's hands slam against the wall to brace himself with a choked moan, his head dropping forward, and Cliff can see the way his shoulder blades shift beneath his skin, the curve of his spine, the water still beading down the countless moles littered on his back.

"Like this," Cliff says, his voice rough. "Okay?"

Ilya's answer is a ruined moan, and his ridiculously perfect ass presses against Cliff’s dick, making him think absurd thoughts, like bending Ilya over and spreading him apart, just for Cliff to see. Jesus. He needs to calm down.

"Yes. Fuck,” Ilya breathes out, and even from behind, Cliff can spot the flush spreading to the tips of his ears. “Just—fucking touch me."

So Cliff does as he’s told, his hand sliding down Ilya's stomach, over the sharp dip of his waist, until he finally wraps around his cock. Ilya's hips buck forward into his grip, and the sound he makes—low and wrecked—echoes off the tile.

"Shh," Cliff murmurs, his mouth close to Ilya's ear. "You're gonna get us caught, Rozy."

Ilya's laugh is shaky, flustered almost. "There's no one here."

"You don't know that."

Ilya's hand fumbles behind him, finding Cliff's wrist. His fingers are trembling as he guides Cliff's free hand up to his mouth. Cliff blinks, confused, until Ilya parts his lips and takes two of Cliff's fingers into his mouth with a soft groan.

Cliff's entire brain fucking blue-screens.

The warmth of Ilya's mouth, the wet slide of his tongue, the way his eyes flutter shut—Cliff can't breathe. He can't even think. All he can do is watch as Ilya sucks on his fingers, needy and desperate, making a mess of himself.

"Roz," Cliff chokes out. “Jesus, fuck, you—you’re such a slut.”

Ilya's only answer is a pleased hum that vibrates around Cliff's fingers. His hips are still moving, rocking back into Cliff's grip, and Cliff's hand is still wrapped around him, moving in time with the rhythm.

It's almost too much. The heat of Ilya's mouth, the drag of his hand, the downright pornographic sounds Ilya is shamelessly making, muffled around Cliff's digits. Cliff can feel Ilya trembling against him as he continues stroking his dick, the spray from the shower making the slide of skin-against-skin easy.

"I'm close," Ilya gasps, pulling off Cliff's fingers just long enough to speak. "Marly, shit—"

"I've got you," Cliff says, his voice rough. "Let go. I've got you."

Ilya's body arches, his head falling back against Cliff's shoulder, and he comes with a helpless moan. The sight of it—of Ilya Rozanov falling apart in his arms—is enough to have Cliff impossibly hard, and he milks Ilya through it, the water from the shower still running. Steam curls around them, and Cliff's hand grows slick with Ilya's release.

Ilya pants, catching his breath. Cliff doesn’t even have time to catch his own when, in one fluid movement, Ilya shifts. He turns in Cliff's arms, his chest pressing against Cliff's. When he looks up at Cliff through wet lashes, his eyes are dark and glassy.

"Your turn," Ilya murmurs.

Cliff barely has time to process the words before Ilya is sinking down, his knees hitting the cold tile with a soft thud. He stares up at Cliff, his pink lips parting slightly. Oh.

"Rozy," Cliff croaks, his voice cracking.

“Get yourself off,” Ilya instructs, looking like absolute sin as he kneels in front of Cliff. “C’mon, Marly, finish in my mouth.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Cliff swallows hard, trying not to think too hard about it. He just moves his hand to stroke himself, too impatient to be slow, and Ilya's eyes track the movement like he's memorizing it.

"Look at you, Captain,” Cliff groans out, the hand on his dick turning sloppy. There’s no finesse in it, but he can’t help himself, not when Ilya looks like that, all blushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. “On your knees for me, fuck—what would the other guys think if they saw you like this?”

Ilya’s breath stutters, but he stays still, pliant. Waiting. And Cliff is so close to coming already, his orgasm coiling hot and tight in his gut, and Ilya is just watching him, kneeling there like he has all the time in the world.

"Shit," Cliff pants. "Roz, I'm going to—"

Ilya leans in, his mouth opening, and Cliff has enough brainpower left to direct his cock to where Ilya wants him most. A second later, he comes with a silent moan, his cum spilling into Ilya's tongue, landing on his cheeks, his lips, and Ilya takes it all, his eyes never leaving Cliff's.

When it's over, Ilya pulls back, his pink mouth slick and shining. He wipes it with the back of his hand, and when he smiles, its small and wicked.

“So,” Cliff starts, right as soon his soul comes back into his body. He helps Ilya up, grinning faintly at him, and doesn’t look at the start of purple bruises blooming on Ilya’s knees. “Was that good enough of a distraction for you?”

Ilya laughs, a disbelieving kind of sound. "Yes." He pulls back just enough to meet Cliff's eyes, and there's something strangely soft in his expression, even as he bumps roughly into Cliff’s shoulder. "Thank you, Marly."

Cliff shrugs, nudging Ilya right back. "Anytime, Roz."

Ilya returns from the All-Star Game happier than Cliff’s seen him since November. Huh. Maybe playing with Hollander wasn’t so bad after all. He sees clips of them all over Twitter, of the Hollander-Rozanov duo, sees the way Ilya smacks a cheeky kiss into Hollander’s helmet, and he wonders.

One month later, and they don’t do it again.

Two months later, and they still don’t do it again.

Three months later, and Cliff runs into Hollander on the ice—a clean hit, by all means—and Hollander does not get up. Ilya is mad, and scared, and Cliff hates himself for making his best friend feel that way. He doesn’t even understand why Ilya cares so much—maybe he and Hollander became unlikely friends during All-Stars or some shit—but it makes guilt crawl through Cliff’s veins all the same.

Four months later, Ilya bruises his ribs, and they get knocked out of the playoffs.

Five months later, Scott Hunter kisses a man on center ice after winning the fucking Stanley Cup, and Cliff thinks, good for him. Then he wonders if Ilya’s seeing this too. He wonders if Ilya feels relieved, maybe, that he’s not alone.

The summer passes, and they don’t do it again.

It is here when Cliff realizes that what he and Ilya did was, officially, a three-time thing. He doesn’t miss it, not really. It was just a hookup. When Ilya returns to Boston after the summer, he’s lighter, more playful. He looks so happy. It’s so different from all the times Ilya would come back from Russia, with tired eyes and sullen cheeks that he always blamed on jetlag.

Cliff almost wants to ask if Ilya’s gotten back together with his Montreal Jane. He’s only ever seen Ilya this happy when Jane was involved. But he’s not sure if Jane is still part of Ilya’s forbidden topics, so he doesn’t push. His captain’s love life isn’t any of his business.

He doesn’t mind it, obviously, and he doesn’t see or treat Ilya any differently considering what the both of them did. He’s just happy for his best friend.

Even if he doesn’t know the exact reason why.

+1.

Four years later, Cliff is standing in Ilya Rozanov's backyard in fuckass Ottawa, watching his best friend dance with Svetlana after getting married to Shane fucking Hollander.

The wedding is beautiful—intimate and warm and lively in a way that only a backyard wedding can be—even despite the absurd lack of chairs. There’s string lights across the yard, casting everything in a soft golden glow, and the music is a mix of something fast and something Russian that Cliff doesn't recognize but finds himself tapping his foot to anyway. People are scattered everywhere: the entire Ottawa Centaurs roster, Scott Hunter and his boyfriend, Rose fucking Landry (who caught Cliff's eye earlier and winked, and Cliff had frantically searched up whether Rose Landry was seeing anyone right now), Svetlana, who's been glued to Ilya's side all night, and two of the Metros. None of the other Raiders are here, because Ilya had more or less stopped contacting them once he left Boston, so Cliff feels even more honored that he gets to even be here, witnessing this entire moment.

He’s excused himself from the dancing earlier, finding a quiet spot near the edge of a table where he can just lean back and observe. Ilya’s been devastatingly happy all day, from the way he laughs, bright and loud and unapologetic, to the way he moves, all loose-limbed and tipsy. Ilya's tux jacket has long disappeared, and the first three buttons of his shirt are undone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks good, really, like a man who’s gotten everything he's ever wanted.

Cliff watches him spin Svetlana; she giggles as she stumbles into his chest, and Ilya catches her with an ease that speaks to years of friendship. He thinks about how different this is from the Ilya he used to know. This Ilya is light. This Ilya is free. Hell, this Ilya is in love. Openly, adoringly in love.

He’s so focused on the sight that he doesn't notice Hollander approaching until the man is standing right next to him.

"Hey," Hollander greets, a drink in hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Cliff says, glancing at him before he turns back just in time to watch Ilya stumble into one of Pike’s hundreds of kids. "Just taking a bit of a breather." He pauses, then adds, "It's nice, seeing him so happy. I’m really happy for you both."

Hollander smiles, small and genuine. "Thanks. And I'm glad you kept in contact with Ilya after he left Boston. It was..." He bites his lip, searching for the right word. "Hard, adjusting to Ottawa. I think he would have felt lonelier, without you."

Immediately, Cliff feels guilty. He supposes it wasn’t Hollander’s intention, but he thinks about all the times he could have reached out more, could have called more often, could have asked Ilya to hang out instead of waiting for Ilya to make the first move. But after Ilya had signed with Ottawa, he couldn't help feeling a little betrayed. Ilya had been his captain, his best friend, and then he’d just… left. Moved to a different country, to a different team, without ever really explaining why.

Cliff had his suspicions, of course. But Ilya never told him. And Cliff never asked.

"Yeah, well," he says, shrugging. "He's my best friend. Doesn't matter how far away he is. He always will be."

From the corner of his eye, he can feel Hollander studying him, something appraising in his gaze. "You really care about him," he says. It's not a question.

"Of course."

Hollander nods slowly, his eyes darting from Ilya—who has stopped dancing to talk to Wyatt Hayes, laughing at something the goalie had just said—to Cliff, then back to Ilya. Cliff glances at him, catching the way Hollander’s dark brown eyes narrow slightly.

"So, Cliff," Hollander says, and there’s something in his tone that has Cliff tensing up. "I need to ask you something. And don't take this the wrong way, but..." He pauses, his gaze sharpening. "Have you ever slept with my husband?"

Cliff's head snaps toward him so fast he nearly breaks his neck.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He gapes at Shane, his pulse skyrocketing, because what the fuck how did he find out I thought Roz and I were taking this to our fucking graves, except his fleeting moment of panic is immediately noticed, and Hollander’s jaw drops and nearly leaves a dent on the floor.

"You did?" he exclaims, and Cliff finally gets his throat to start working.

“No!” he denies, except the look on Hollander’s face tells him he doesn’t believe Cliff at all. He tries to backtrack. “I mean, not exactly…?”

”Uh-huh.” Hollander stares at him. God, Cliff needs to do something before his best friend gets divorced on the same day of his marriage. Not that he thinks Hollander will divorce Ilya, with how disgustingly in love they are, but still. “Care to expound on that?”

”Okay, well. In my defense,” he starts, holding his hands up placatingly. He spots a flurry of red from his peripheral vision, remembers the Google search he still has pulled up on his phone, and a lightbulb immediately switches on in his head. “You were dating Rose Landry at that time! And Roz was, well. He was, uh… angrier during those few months.”

“Oh.” Hollander’s frown deepens, though mercifully, it looks less like he’s about to throw Cliff out of their beloved home and more like he’s deep in thought. “So… you slept with Ilya while I was with Rose.” His expression immediately turns unhappy as he says it, like the words taste sour in his mouth. It would almost be funny if Cliff wasn’t on the receiving end of it.

”I mean, kind of?” he grimaces. “I think Roz just needed it as a distraction.”

Hollander's eyes dart back and forth between Cliff and Ilya, who’s still obliviously on the farther end of the backyard, and there's something possessive in his gaze—a territorial edge that Cliff has never seen on the usually composed Montreal captain before.

"What do you mean kind of?" Hollander asks slowly, raising a brow.

Cliff swallows. "It’s just—" He runs a hand through his hair, trying not to feel like he's digging his own grave. "I've, uh, touched his dick. And… other parts of his body.”

"Wow," Hollander deadpans.

"And he sort of sucked me off?"

”How do you sort of suck someone off?!”

”Okay, well, the first time—“

Cliff swears he can see Hollander’s eye starting to twitch. “The first time?”

”Listen, you two weren’t even together!” he finally protests, throwing his hands up in surrender. “We only hooked up thrice, and all of it was casual. And Roz was the one who asked me, and obviously I said yes, because duh, he’s my best fucking friend—“

Hollander inhales sharply. "Cliff, I’m trying so hard not to throttle you right now—“

“—and I just wanted him to be, you know, less miserable. Look, man, I’m only trying to explain my side here.”

For a long moment—fifteen seconds, really, but it feels like a lifetime and a half—Hollander simply stares at him, like if he does it hard enough he might he able to drill a hole into Cliff’s head. Cliff can almost see his brain churning. His skin is starting to itch in his suit.

“And you didn’t… feel anything, after?” Hollander asks. “Like, you just—got over it?”

Cliff frowns. “Well, yeah. We both agreed to it, but we also agreed that it didn’t mean anything. It really was just a hookup, Hollander.”

"Oh.” Hollander purses his lips, swirling his drink absentmindedly. Cliff’s just about to think he’s good to get the fuck away from this conversation when Hollander looks up and says, “When was the last time?"

“Uh…” Cliff pauses, thinking about it until the memory resurfaces. “January. Like, four years ago. It was right before that one All-Stars game. He was all wound up about—" Oops. He stops, realizing too late what he's about to say.

Hollander’s gaze doesn’t let up. "About what?"

Oh, fuck it. "About you, probably. He was stressed out and jumpy and—look, I didn't know it was about you at the time, but in hindsight, it was always about you. Seriously, Hollander, it was always you."

Cliff guesses he might have said the right words, because something in Hollander's expression shifts—the jealousy softening, just slightly, into something else. Finally, Hollander’s shoulders relax, just a fraction.

"You really didn’t feel anything for him back then?” he asks, still a little wary.

“Of course not, dude. Hell, I’m straight.”

The disbelieving look in Hollander’s eyes is back. “You are? Even after…. Ilya?”

Cliff shrugs. “Roz is just a friend. I mean, he has a nice dick, yeah, and an impossibly fat ass—“

“Cliff, I wasn’t joking about throttling you—“

“—but he’s just a friend. I swear, Hollander, I have zero romantic feelings for the guy. Plus, Rose fucking Landry is ten feet away from us and I really want to ask if she’s single once we’re done here.”

Hollander stares at him. Again. Jesus, this guy’s eyes are a little unnerving when they’re all narrowed like that.

“Okay,” he says slowly, nodding like he finally understands—thank god. “Okay, then. You know, you’re a little weird, Cliff.”

Cliff blinks, surprised, before he feels a small grin tug at the corner of his lips. “Yeah,” he says, glancing back at Ilya. “I’ve been told that before.”