Work Text:
Ilya has had a headache for months. He’d seen the team medic, he’d been to a real doctor, he’d had an MRI, he’d had electrodes put on his head, and countless tests done, and none of them had been able to tell him what was wrong. Inconclusive, the doctors said. He thought that was bullshit. So he told everyone the headaches were gone, and he played through the blinding pain. He was off his game. Maybe it was too many concussions, maybe it was something in him that was just wrong.
When he woke up in his own bed with no headache, he thought, he’d hoped that the headache was gone. But then he rolled over, and there was someone else in his bed, someone who wasn’t Shane Hollander, not that he’d ever gotten the chance to wake up next to him. He was panicking; he’d run through the possibilities in his mind- had he gotten drunk last night and invited someone over? No, he had gone to bed early, alone, and he would never have been as reckless as to find a stranger to fuck, not when he would have Shane tomorrow. Had someone snuck into his house and gotten in bed with him? It was possible, he thought, but not likely; he wasn’t that deep of a sleeper.
The man next to him was sleeping on his stomach. He was blonde, he had moles on his back. He reached out and touched his shoulder gently. Ilya felt like something was wrong, cosmically, inherently wrong. The man groaned and rolled over onto his back, and Ilya almost fell out of bed.
It was him.
Wearing his cross, his boxers, with his messy curls.
“What the fuck.” He shook his shoulder harder, and the other man (the other him) did fall out of bed. He hit the ground with a thud and immediately started shouting.
Ilya had wanted to ignore him; he’d wanted to pretend that this whole situation wasn’t real, but it was hard with the other Ilya swearing at him in Russian and shoving him until he finally cracked. Since they had woken up, they’d fought about everything, from breakfast and who could use the toothbrush to who was going to get to play against the Metros that night. Both of them stubbornly refused to mention Hollander.
The other Ilya was rude, he was hot-headed, he was, in no simpler terms, an asshole.
He hadn’t wanted to leave his phone behind with the other Ilya, but he didn’t have a choice. It was that, or come to blows with himself and show up to the game with a black eye. People would have questions, and he wouldn’t have any answers.
“Do not text anyone.” He said when he handed it over. The other Ilya had put his phone in his pocket. He was wearing his favorite joggers, and Ilya really, really wanted to hit him. He wasn’t used to seeing that look on his face anywhere but the mirror. He looked like he had something to hide.
“Not even Jane?” The other Ilya smiled at him. It was a shit-eating grin, one that he used to be especially proud of right up until this exact moment.
“I fucking mean it.”
“Hmm. We will see.”
Ilya probably shouldn’t have let the conversation end there, but he was late. And it was him. What could he say to Hollander that Ilya hadn’t already said?
***
Before the first intermission, the other Ilya, the one who was stuck at home, disobeyed direct orders. He was never good at following those, not even when he was a teenager, and his father told him to stay away from Sasha.
He watched the game from the couch, and when the commercials started, he rested the phone on his thigh. Shane would text him back. He always did, even though he said no sexting before (or during) the games.
His phone lit up.
Jane:
How did you send that message?
Lily:
Are you coming tonight?
Jane:
With or without you, probably
Lily:
Very funny. Come after game. I will be home.
The other Ilya said he might go out if the Rangers won. He liked to make Shane wait sometimes; it was part of the game that they played together, it was practically foreplay. He could have Shane over before he got home, if he was lucky. He could have him all to himself.
***
Shane was very confused. He was also, stupidly, a bit hurt. There was no way that Rozanov could have sent that message during the game; he’d been playing a shockingly clean game, and he hadn’t spent any time on the bench. Rozanov couldn’t have sent that text, not on his own.
Did someone else send it for him? Someone in the locker room? Did someone steal Ilya’s phone to try to figure out who he was? His hands shook until he got back onto the ice.
Rozanov slammed him against the boards two minutes into the second period.
“What are you doing?” Shane hissed. Rozanov was too close to him. He could smell his sweat, see it dripping into his eyes, and his breath puffed against the visor of his helmet.
“Playing hockey,” Rozanov said.
Shane knocked into him a few minutes later. “You know what I mean.”
And for a second, Rozanov looked like he really didn’t. “Sorry, I mean beating the Metros.”
“Fuck you.”
There were two texts waiting for him during the second intermission.
Lily:
So hot when you’re mad like this.
Come to my house after game.
***
Ilya wanted to scream. “Did you text Hollander?”
The other Ilya was lying back on the couch, his hands laced behind his head and his legs crossed. Ilya had been in such a rush to get home that the recap was still playing on the TV. He shrugged.
“You can look. I did not.”
“Liar,” Ilya said.
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Then why did Hollander ask me why I was texting him?” Ilya asked, switching from English to Russian. Even after all these years, learning English and living in Boston, Russian tasted like home. It was easy, and talking to someone who could understand him without having to translate everything in his head before speaking was a relief, even if the other Ilya might be a hallucination. (He was about seventy percent sure he was real. It was hard.)
“I don’t know. Why didn’t you ask him?” The other Ilya wasn’t looking at him. He rubbed the cross on his chest and took a deep, patient breath.
“I don’t ask Hollander things. You know this. You are so fucking annoying. I need to get rid of you.”
“Who said we are getting rid of me?”
“I did. Because I’m the-” There was a knock on the door. “Fuck. Fuck.” It had been enough years, enough time between them that Ilya could recognize the way that Hollander knocked, short and tense. It almost sounded repressed, if a knock could be repressed.
“I have to get rid of him. Stay.” He pointed a finger at the other Ilya, like he was a dog that he hadn’t figured out how to train. The chances that the other Ilya listened were almost zero.
He knocked again. Ilya opened the door, just a crack. He wondered if Hollander could tell that he hadn’t showered after the game, or if he could tell that he rushed home after they’d won.
“Go away, Hollander.” Hollander, on the other hand, was pink-cheeked and shiny, freshly showered. His hair was still wet. Turning him away was the hardest thing that Ilya had ever done. He opened his mouth to say something, to protest, to tell him he’s an asshole after he’s taken an Uber this far away from his hotel.
“Shane?” The other Ilya had not listened.
“Is someone else in there? Rozanov.” Hollander asked. His eyebrows were furrowed. There was a tiny wrinkle in the middle of his forehead that Ilya thought was very, very endearing.
“No, go home, Hollander.”
“He is liar. Shane. Please.” Ilya needed Hollander to leave so he could kill the other one as soon as possible.
“Who is that?” Hollander was strong, and when he wanted something, he was stubborn. Ilya wrestled with him over the door, both of them pushing it in opposite directions. Ilya would have won, he fucking would have, but the other Ilya snuck up behind him and gave the handle one swift yank in. Hollander stumbled through the threshold, thrown off balance.
“You came.” Ilya didn’t want to put a name to the expression on the other Ilya’s face when he saw Hollander. He didn’t want to look it in the eyes, to say how he looked because he was afraid that he would find it reflected in him.
“What.” Hollander sounded faint.
***
“Come inside.” Shane had dropped his phone, his jaw, he would have dropped to his knees if he wasn’t so shocked.
“You. He. What the fuck?”
“Come inside.” The Rozanov from the game grabbed him by his upper arm. Shane could tell that he was the Rozanov from the game because his curls were stuck together with sweat. He had a cut on his eyebrow and a bruise on his jaw. Shane had done that (or, he’d been involved); he was so angry, so confused about how Rozanov was texting him that he’d been rougher than usual on the ice. He’d set a bad example for his team, and Rozanov was so good at pissing them off.
“Is he?”
“I don’t know.” They both said. It was creepy. It was… Shane didn’t know. He felt like his brain was overheating. The other Rozanov, the one who had helped him open the door and called him Shane, was smiling at him. It was a smile that he didn’t think he’d seen before.
“Is he your… clone? I don’t know. Rozanov. What the fuck is going on?”
“Why did you come?” Rozanov, the one from the game, looked like he was at his wits’ end. Shane had never seen him look like this either, so tired and vulnerable.
“Why do you think I came?”
“You- You said. I said not to text him.” He was barely looking at the other Rozanov.
“I waited long time to see him.”
“Yes, I fucking did too. You are selfish.”
“I miss him.” The Rozanov, not from the game, said. There was something soft in his eyes. Rozanov looked disgusted. “And you are me. So you are selfish. Shane is smart, maybe he can help.”
“I don’t… I don’t know about help.” Shane was torn. Either this was a shared hallucination or both of them were real, this was real. The one not from the game was still smiling. The naked affection on his face, the newness of it, made him want to run toward him and away from him at the same time.
“You should go.”
“No.” Shane and the other Rozanov said. They looked at each other, surprised, and it was almost comical.
“He came a long way. I want him to stay.”
“I want to stay.” Shane echoed. What was he doing, involving himself in shit like this? It shouldn’t be possible- stuff like parallel universes, or time travel, or cloning is science fiction. But there was another Rozanov standing in front of him, looking lovestruck, and Shane wanted to stay.
“My own fucking house.” Rozanov shook his head. He leaned against the kitchen counter heavily, like everything about this exhausted him.
“So are you guys…” Shane’s face twisted up again. “Are you… No offense. The same? Or are you different? Is this like a time travel situation, or is he you?” He pointed at the Rozanov that wasn’t injured, the one that hadn’t been at the game, then the one that had.
“The same.”
“Mostly.”
“I missed you.” The one that hadn’t been at the game slid an arm around his shoulder and kissed his neck. Shane stiffened, just for a second, before he relaxed into it. Rozanov was never- had never been this affectionate with him, not openly, not outside of his bed.
“I-” Shane coughed, “missedyoutoo.” The Rozanov at the counter snorted, and Shane felt bad for a second, almost. There had to be an easier way to think about them, to distinguish them. “I don’t want- well. You guys are your own people. I’ll call you Ilya,” he said to the one with an arm wrapped around his shoulders, the one that reminded him of a cat butting its head against his shins. “And you Rozanov, if that helps.”
Rozanov glowered at him.
***
“Did you notice anything different before this happened?” Shane was sitting on the couch between them, doing a good job at not having a panic attack. Ilya felt like he was on the verge of one himself. He had felt that way since he woke up this morning.
“Headache.” Both of them said. The other Ilya, the one who had gone to the game (the one who definitely hated him, and what did that mean?) was acting like they weren’t the same person. He was acting like he was a stranger, like he had no right to talk to Shane.
Shane leaned forward. His posture was the same as when he took notes on games: focused and single-minded. “For how long?”
“Five months.” Ilya let the other one answer.
Shane looked taken aback. “Shit, really? You didn’t tell me.”
“Oh, yes, sorry, Hollander, I had headache and couldn’t fuck you three months ago.” The other one was sarcastic, he was meaner, and he always cut to the bone. Ilya supposed they were different after all. He felt different. His headache was gone, yes, but every time he said what he meant, it felt like a weight was being lifted from his chest. He didn’t usually do that.
“Sorry,” Ilya said. Reading Shane was an art, one that he was good enough at, and there was a quirk to his brow, a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t usually there. Ilya knew something was wrong, but he wasn’t really sure what. He put his arm around Shane again. The other Ilya gave him a look, venomous and cold, and put a hand on Shane’s thigh.
“Rozanov.” Shane turned to the other Ilya. “Am I hallucinating?” Rozanov laughed, it was the first time that he’d seen him smile all day.
“No, I don’t think.” He said, and Shane gave one tight nod. “He would be less annoying if this was imagination.”
“Then, I missed you, too, Rozanov.”
“I am sorry you came all the way. I did not mean- he did not mean to lead you on.”
“Is that what this is?” Shane cocked his head. Ilya was rubbing a thumb on the nape of Shane’s neck, along his hairline. The other Ilya’s hand was still on his thigh.
“He sent you dirty texts, yes? This is why you were so mad at me?” The other Ilya gestured at his eyebrow, the bruise on his face.
“Yes.”
“He should have known better.” The other one said, and Ilya laughed. “This is our face. Not just his.” A fraction of tension left Shane’s shoulders.
“Were you ready for me?” Ilya leaned his head on Shane’s shoulder. Shane sucked in a breath, like he was starving for oxygen.
“Yes.” He whispered.
“Do you ever wish he would let us help him?” Ilya asked the other one. There was something crackling between them, electric and burning hot.
“Impatient.” The other Ilya said. Shane let out another breath. It whistled from his nose, sharp.
“Do you want to know what it’s like?” Shane asked. He was still, like he was afraid he would scare one of them away, as though either of them could be scared away. He was asking Ilya, not the one he was calling Rozanov. Instead of answering, Ilya kissed his neck again, his adams apple, the soft skin behind his ear. He knew what Shane was asking. He had to think about it. “Do you?”
“Yes.” And Shane finally kissed him, like a reward or like salvation. Shane took his jaw in his hand, opened his mouth, and kissed Ilya while the other one watched. It felt as good as he remembered, as good as the first time and every time in between.
Shane broke the kiss first, “Help him. Please, Rozanov,” he said. “I want to watch.”
***
Shane lay down on Ilya’s bed, on his navy blue sheets. He was still wearing his underwear; he didn’t want to be tempted to touch himself, and he didn’t want to waste this. He kissed Rozanov, he let himself be dragged under the tide, taken by him, and claimed. He had been waiting for this for months. He had been so anxious on the ice, so confused when he got to Rozanov’s, but he knows how to do this. He knows how to do this with him, how to allow himself to surrender to whatever is between them.
Ilya was different; he felt off-balance around him. He felt like the first time Shane put on skates, like he deeply and desperately wanted to understand, wanted to know what he was doing so he could just move.
Rozanov muttered something in Russian to Ilya when they climbed into bed with him, and Ilya had nodded.
Shane wanted this. He wanted them both, he wanted to see what they would do together. Ilya Rozanov was so beautiful, one of him was enough to take away Shane’s breath. He would worry that two was too much, but he doesn’t think that Ilya Rozanov- any iteration of him- would ever be too much.
Ilya crawled between his legs and kissed him again, and Rozanov ran his fingers up and down his cheek and over the scar on his shoulder. Rozanov had always been obsessed with that scar, but nowhere nearly as obsessed as he was with Shane’s freckles.
He could feel them both everywhere, was all-consuming. It was better than anything he’d ever imagined.
“Get on your hands and knees.” Shane scooted back to the headboard and let his knees fall open wide. His mouth went dry when Ilya did it, bracing himself on either side of Shane’s hips. He was kneeling between Shane’s legs.
Shane wished he could see better, but Ilya’s face was pressed to his chest as Rozanov touched him. His breath was warm, he was familiar. His hair tickled Shane’s face, and Shane buried his fingers in his curls and gave them a gentle tug.
Shane had never asked, but he didn’t think that Ilya had done this before. Something clenched in his chest as Ilya buried his head in his neck and cried out. Rozanov was focused, single-minded. He was watching Shane as his fingers worked Ilya open.
Shane knew what it felt like, Rozanov’s fingers scissoring in and out of him, teasing his prostate.
“How many is that?” Shane asked.
“Two.” Rozanov was still watching him, he wasn’t touching Ilya anywhere else, and Shane felt sorry for him. He kissed Ilya’s forehead, the side of his cheek, he soothed his hands down his back and squeezed his biceps.
“That’s good. You’re doing a good job.” Shane meant it; he knew what this was like, the first time. Rozanov and Ilya both moaned. “Another one.”
Ilya’s arms were shaking with the effort of holding himself up. He tensed when Rozanov pulled out enough to add a third finger before relaxing into it.
“I want you,” Shane said to Rozanov, his face twisted up in concentration. He was beautiful, Ilya was beautiful. He was more and more sure that this was real. Ilya’s breath was humid on his neck. He was pressing sloppy kisses to Shane’s neck, he could feel the sweat on his forehead. Shane could tell that Rozanov had finally stopped teasing him when Ilya bit down on the meat of his shoulder. It hurt, it felt so good Shane could barely believe it. Ilya was giving up on holding himself upright, his stomach was brushing Shane’s cock with every twist of Rozanov’s fingers.
Rozanov asked Ilya something in Russian, and Ilya nodded, fast and emphatic.
“Da, yes. Yes.”
“Fuck him,” Rozanov said to Shane. Shane’s fingers stilled in Ilya’s hair.
“You. I’ve never.”
“I know.” Rozanov smiled at him. “He knows. Is okay.”
“Okay,” Shane thought about it. “Yes. Yes, I want to.”
“I will stop now.” Rozanov withdrew from Ilya slowly, one finger at a time, and he whimpered. Shane wasn’t jealous. He was surprised that he wasn’t. This was just Rozanov. It was Ilya. He had both of them. He felt so lucky, so safe here with both of them. It almost embarrassed him how strongly he felt it.
***
Ilya wanted Shane inside of him so badly that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t considered it before. His arms felt weak from holding himself up for so long, and he felt empty without his, Rozanov’s, fingers in him.
He kissed Shane’s chest, he licked and sucked at his nipples, and Shane arched his back into it like he always did. He kissed down Shane’s stomach and to his boxers, where a patch of pre-come was blooming over the head of his cock.
“Lift for me.” Shane did. He pulled his underwear down and took Shane in his mouth. He tasted as good as he remembered. He wished that the other Ilya would finger him again, that the hollow emptiness inside of him would go away. Now that he felt it, now that he knew what it was like, he was worried he would never be able to forget it.
Shane grabbed his hair, then let go, before Rozanov’s hand guided it back.
“Don’t worry,” He said. Ilya would have kissed him if he hadn’t been worried it would cross some imaginary line in the sand between them; he was so fucking grateful. When Shane’s fist clenched in his hair, his vision went fuzzy around the edges. He moaned around the head of Shane’s cock, and Shane gave his head a sharp yank.
“Stop. I’m- I don’t want to. Yet.” Shane panted, and Ilya licked his lips.
“Tell him, lay on his back.” The other Ilya said.
Shane looked at him nervously, then back at Ilya, who was lying between his legs, drunk with sex. The other one nodded. “Lie on your back,” Shane said. He sounded nervous.
“It is ok, Hollander,” Rozanov nodded again. Ilya went. Rozanov handed Shane a condom from his bedside table and set a bottle of lube on the bed next to him. He rubbed Shane’s shoulders and kissed his back. “Go up,” Rozanov said. Shane kneeled between Ilya’s legs. He kissed his knee, the mole right above his kneecap, and Rozanov tore the condom open and rolled it onto Shane’s cock.
“Can I-?” Shane asked. Ilya wanted nothing more in that moment.
“Yes. I want you to fuck me, Shane. Hollander, please.” Shane took himself in hand and lined himself up with Ilya’s entrance. He pressed in, and the heat and thickness of him made everything fade around Ilya. It was so much, it was better than the other Ilya’s fingers, it was everything.
“Put your legs up.” The other Ilya said. He tapped Ilya’s knee, and Ilya lifted them, hooking his feet around Shane’s shoulders. Shane fell forward onto all fours. He pressed his forehead against Ilya’s and kissed him. His tongue was in Ilya’s mouth, tracing his gums and licking into him. The kiss was wet and sloppy and something that Shane only allowed when he was especially fucked-out. Their chins were slick with spit, and Ilya sucked on Shane’s tongue. Shane moaned into his mouth.
“Fuck.” Shane licked the shell of his ear and bit down on his earlobe once, hard.
***
Ilya gave his cock one, two strokes. He kissed the back of Hollander’s neck again. “Can I?” He asked.
He shouldn’t feel proud, watching Hollander fuck someone else, but he does. The other Ilya, the one who showed up this morning in his bed, is bent in half underneath Hollander, and he’s never considered that this might be something that he wanted, not before this.
He was still loose and slick from whatever he did before he got here. Ilya hoped that next time, Hollander would let him help. That this would feel less like a hookup and more like what it really is. (What is it? What is it supposed to be? What does Shane want it to be?)
“Yes. Fuck me. Please, Rozanov.” He was panting, his back was slick with sweat. Rozanov doesn’t need to be asked a second time, not this time. He doesn’t want to make Hollander beg for it.
He was kneeling behind him, lining himself up and pressing in. The force of it pushed Hollander closer to the other Ilya, and they both let out punched out gasps. He knows what he can take, but he doesn’t want to push the other Ilya too far. Not this time. (God, will there be another time? Will he still be here tomorrow? Ilya doesn’t think he wants him to be.)
Hollander was tight and hot, and he wanted to bury himself in him forever. He wrapped an arm around his stomach for leverage and drew out and back in again. Ilya knew that he had hit his prostate when he let out a whimper, high and drawn out.
“I will help.” He rolled his hips, and he could feel Hollander moving to match his rhythm under him. He was close already. There was something about this, about Hollander doing what he said, taking charge because he asked him to, that made something burn in the pit of his stomach.
He felt his balls drawing up, tight, and the world around them erupted in static. He came harder than he could remember coming before. Hollander let out the most beautiful sound, something soft under his breath, and followed after him. He fucked the other Ilya through his orgasm, leaning back and taking his cock in hand.
It took a few strokes, less than ten, and the other Ilya was coming too, shooting thick ropes of come on his own chest. Hollander collapsed on top of him, panting hard into his neck. Ilya lay down next to them and wrapped an arm around Hollander’s waist. The sheets would need to be changed. He wondered if he could convince him to stay.
He imagined for a second, so clearly it hurt, waking up tangled together with him, the other Ilya on the other side of him.
He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t. Shane wasn’t-
“Will you stay?” The other Ilya asked. Hollander raised his head. His hair was matted down to his forehead. He smiled, so brilliantly that Ilya wanted to cry.
“Yes.” There were unshed tears in his eyes. There was come drying on the three of them, and the other Ilya had asked Hollander- no, Shane, if he would stay, and he had said yes. Ilya couldn’t believe it.
Shane got up to shower, and Ilya changed the sheets. He thought that the other Ilya had fucked off to watch TV again, but he came back with a Gatorade and set out a pair of Ilya’s joggers for him to borrow.
Ilya didn’t want to fall asleep, he didn’t want to think about everything he could have if he were brave enough to take it. He doesn’t want to think about everything that he assumed Shane wanted, that he didn’t want.
***
When Shane woke up, there was only one Ilya in bed with him. He could have checked the kitchen and the living room, but he knew the other Ilya was gone.
“I like you.” He whispered to the room. It was quiet. The sunlight was slanting in. He felt like he could say it now. He felt like Ilya would say it back.
