Work Text:
January, 2017
Ilya wasn’t expecting a text from Shane Hollander. Not when Svetlana’s halfway through her first bottle of vodka, he’s propped next to her on his apartment’s couch, and Hollander is in fucking Canada.
Jane: Come over.
Ilya wonders if it’s a mistake.
Lily: Where?
He waits. Shane sends him an address. A hotel, just on the border. He could make it, if he… He looks over at Svetlana. She’s draped across the couch, watching the tv, enraptured and in a mildly drunken haze. He thinks.
Jane: Room 416. We need to talk.
Ilya pockets his phone and tells Svetlana he’ll be back tomorrow.
-
Ilya pushes in the moment the door opens. Hollander closes it silently, his eyes dark. Ilya studies him for a moment.
“Are you drunk?” Hollander blinks.
“No.” His phone buzzes. He checks it quickly, already typing away. His mother, Ilya guesses silently. Or maybe his publicist? Rose? He pushes those thoughts away, shaking his head. No. No Rose. No publicist here. Just him. Him and Hollander. He walks forward. His hands settle on Hollander’s hips silently. Reaching under slowly, he leans in…
“We’re not doing this tonight,” Hollander blurts out quickly, looking panicked. Ilya’s surprised. Well, not surprised. Shane ran out on him last time. Ilya learned his lesson, no more tuna melts. No more first names.
“Why?” Hollander opens his mouth to say something.
“I…” he trails off, opening his mouth and then closing it again. Ilya thinks he looks like a fish. “I think…” Ilya suddenly recognizes this for what it is.
“You do not want to see me anymore?” Ilya asks, raising his eyebrows. His hands drop from where they were settled on Hollander’s hips, crossing over his chest. “You are done with me? Is that it?” His accent rolls around the words, makes them sound more sarcastic and jaded than they are. Teasing, somehow, in a moment like this.
“I’m not… done with you,” Hollander mutters. “I just need some space.” Ilya scoffs.
“Space.”
“Yes, space,” Hollander replies, looking up at him expectantly. Ilya hasn’t looked away in ages so Hollander looks down, awkward. “I… I’m not... I just need to be alone for a bit. A while. So– so don’t fuck with me, at the All-Star… I don’t know if I can…” He pauses, waiting for Ilya to say something, but he doesn’t. “I need space. Can you give me that?”
“Space?” Ilya repeats. Shane– Hollander was the one that texted him. Sent him this hotel address, his room number. And now he’s asking for space.
“Yes,” Hollander says. He reaches a hand out to grab at Ilya’s wrist, tugging on it to try and grab his attention. It works and Ilya blinks, looking down at his freckled hand. He looks back up and Hollander drops it.
“Okay,” Ilya agrees. And then, before he can stop himself, he asks, “Is it Rose?” Hollander blinks.
“Is what Rose?” Ilya doesn’t like it when Hollander acts stupid.
“Is the thing Rose. The space. Did you ask Rose to give you space?” Hollander looks more than uncomfortable.
“She’s not… we’re not…”
“Fucking? Everyone else thinks you are.” Hollander flushes, looking away, his hands fidgeting uselessly. Ilya’s eyes slide down his chest lazily, augmenting, documenting…
“We’re not,” Hollander says again, more firmly this time. Ilya’s gaze raises to Hollander’s eyes. He crowds a little closer against him, pressing him back into the door. He plucks the phone from his hand, tossing it.
“Yeah?” Ilya asks quietly. “Then what are you?” Shane swallows. His eyes flick down to Ilya’s lips, then back up.
“We… we broke up.” Ilya should be listening. But his face turns, his lips pressing against Shane’s cheek lazily. He likes the way Shane inhales, like he’s trying to push something down. Maybe he is.
“Broke up,” Ilya rumbles, sliding his mouth down, lips open and wet as he trails down Shane’s neck. “Why,” he murmurs, a low demand. Shane inhales again.
“We weren’t… compatible.” Ilya nods slowly.
“Compatible.” Shane nods stupidly.
Ilya doesn’t press it, not when his mouth is on Shane’s neck, and his hands are creeping underneath Shane’s shirt, and he can hear the way Shane’s breathing is a little bit deeper, a little bit more heated.
“Are we?” Ilya asks. His hands are moving up now, cupping, feeling.
“Are we what?” Shane breathes.
“Are we compatible,” Ilya says lowly, bringing Shane’s shirt up and over his head. His bare chest is heaving now. He’s drunk, Ilya can tell. Drunk, and stupid, and fucking hot, staring back at Ilya like this.
“I don’t,” Shane manages, “I don’t know.” Ilya pinches his side and he yelps. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“You do know,” Ilya murmurs, staring deep into Shane’s eyes. “So answer me. Or I pinch you again.” He squeezes lightly as a warning. Shane swallows. Ilya’s eyes catch on the way his throat bobs. His thumb smooths over the skin idly.
“Yeah,” he croaks. “We’re compatible.” Ilya considers kissing him then, but restrains himself.
“How compatible?” Shane swallows again, looking away helplessly. Ilya pulls him back in with his eyes.
“Very.”
Ilya rumbles in response. “Show me.” Shane’s eyes widen at that.
“What?” he asks, and Ilya has to hold back a laugh at how fucking virginal he sounds. Ilya leans in, in case he didn’t hear.
“Get on your knees. And show me.”
For all the shit he talks about Shane Hollander, to Shane or his teammates, the press or his friends, Ilya can recognize obedience when he sees it. Shane listens, and he obeys, which is part of what Ilya loves about him. He doesn’t even nod, just slinks down, his hands cupping Ilya’s body as he moves. Ilya doesn’t waste a lot of time either, one hand going to Shane’s hair, and the other tugging down his sweatpants. He’s already straining against his boxers. They’re not designer, like Hollander’s Calvin Klein bullshit, but they work. Especially for this, they work. Shane is already nosing against his crotch, mouthing over him, his hands digging into Ilya’s hips. Ilya groans softly, his hand clenching over the back of his head. Shane takes the hint, tugging his boxers down, down, until he’s staring at Ilya’s cock.
“Fuck,” Shane whispers, leaning in to lick at the tip. Ilya bites back a groan.
“Fuck,” Ilya echoes. “Hollander,” he says, and Shane takes that as his cue, taking him in his mouth slowly, bobbing his head down. Ilya pants, letting out little, almost inaudible noises, rocking his hips. Shane knows exactly how to take him, exactly how to swallow, move his mouth and groan until the vibrations make Ilya tremble. He pulls back suddenly, gripping at the base of his cock and closing his eyes.
“Fuck,” he whispers again, and Shane noses along his thigh desperately. He grabs Shane by the shoulders, hauling him up and kissing him aggressively.
He pushes his shoulders into the door, and Shane doesn’t know what to do with his hands, one moment grabbing at his hair, the other feeling at his arms, the next trying to pull down his pants. “Are you drunk?” Ilya asks him between kisses, pulling him back and into the hotel room, pushing him down onto the bed.
“I had some wine,” Shane pants back, and Ilya hums knowingly, pulling off his shirt.
“I can taste it. On your lips.” He crawls onto the bed, kissing Shane again and again, dipping his tongue into his mouth greedily. “Red,” he murmurs, his hand traveling to Shane’s belt, throwing it across the room. “Mmm… good wine,” he mumbles against Shane’s lips, a slight smile on his face. Ilya’s hands go down to Shane’s pants, pulling them and his underwear down and away. Shane kicks them off, hooking up a leg to grind against Ilya.
“Fuck,” he breathes as their cocks brush against each other. “Fuck,” he breathes again, closing his eyes and leaning his back against the pillow.
“Ilya,” he whispers, and Ilya feels his pulse jump at the sound of his own name.
“You have lube?” Ilya asks quietly, biting down on Shane’s shoulder and rubbing at his thigh.
“Yeah,” Shane says distractedly. “In my… in my suitcase.” He nods over at the bag, tossed lazily on the ground.
“Why aren’t you staying in your apartment?” Ilya asks as he shifts over the bed, leaning over to grab the lube and a condom. He rips it open with his teeth, warming a good amount of lube in between his fingers.
“Didn’t want to,” Shane replies simply, his eyes following Ilya’s movements lustfully. They drop closed at the first press of Ilya’s fingers against his entrance, his back arching as he lets out a soft gasp. Ilya’s focused from then on. For all his chirping during games, and all the shit he loves to talk to the press, he goes silent when he wants something. Really wants something. His left hand is holding one of Shane’s legs up in the air, his right hand slowly pistoning a finger in and out.
“Ilya,” Shane says breathlessly and Ilya has to close his eyes to hold himself back. From saying something stupid. From doing something stupid. He pours some more lube onto his hand, watching Shane tense when he presses another finger in.
“Ilya,” Shane breathes again, one of his hands grasping at the bedsheets.
“You want more?” Ilya asks, crooking his fingers. Shane gasps and he does it again. “You want me?”
“Yes,” Shane manages, his eyes opening. God, he gives Ilya this look. Like he can’t live without his cock. Like he can’t breathe without Ilya inside of him, like he needs it.
“Tell me.” Ilya crooks his fingers again, then scissors them. Shane’s halfway through the sentence (“I want–”) before Ilya adds a third finger, and then he shivers, moaning.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “I want you.” Ilya rewards him with one more crook of his fingers before pulling them out, wiping them on Shane’s thigh. He rolls the condom on silently, pumping his cock a couple times, just to prepare himself. He doesn’t need the fanfare, but he does need to fuck the man in this bed right now. He leans down, nosing at Shane’s neck as he slowly guides his dick to Shane’s entrance. He rubs the tip against him. Shane hisses. He starts to press in slowly, and Shane inhales, body tensing in anticipation.
“Are you OK?” Ilya mutters against Shane’s ear. Shane huffs at the ceiling.
“I’m fine.” He rocks his hips slightly. Ilya nods. Kisses his neck. Then he pushes all the way in. Shane cries out softly, almost like a prayer, and Ilya can’t help but kiss him. One of his hands hooks under Shane’s left leg, pulling it up, higher, and the other is holding Shane’s hip, keeping him in place as he fucks him back into the bed. Their mouths are pressed together, not exactly kissing, but sharing saliva and breaths nonetheless. Ilya moves a little faster, the rhythm comfortable, the bed starting to thump against the wall, but he doesn’t mind. He’s gasping for air, fucking harder, faster into Shane as he feels a low heat spread through his body. Shane won’t fucking shut up. Where Ilya’s quiet and focused, Shane’s loud and completely wrecked. His neck cranes as he moans out Ilya’s name (“Jesus, fuck, Ilya, fuck–”) and some other curses, moving his hips back to meet each thrust eagerly. Every time Ilya hits the right spot, Shane lets out this noise, like he got a little glimpse of heaven. Ilya groans and fucks him harder.
“You gonna come?” Ilya growls, his mouth dropping down to Shane’s ear. “For me? Untouched?” He pushes even harder against Shane’s leg and lets out a satisfied noise when Shane whimpers.
“Ilya,” Shane manages, eyes closing. “Fuck, fuck, I…”
“Come for me,” Ilya commands and Shane whimpers again.
“I can’t,” he gasps, his hips jerking uselessly. He reaches down for his cock but Ilya slaps it away, shaking his head.
“No. You come. Untouched. Now.” Shane gasps for air again, his eyes rolling back in his head. His body starts to clench, starts to tense up as he arches, and he cries out.
“Ilya,” he gasps. “Ilya!”
“Сейчас,” Ilya grits out, “сейчас.” He slams inside of him, grabbing his hips and holding him still as Shane comes all over his chest, gasping and twitching. Ilya grunts, gritting his teeth. He pulls out hurriedly, tugging the condom off and tossing it away, grabbing his cock and jerking it rapidly, staring at the sight in front of him.
Shane. Covered in his own come. Fucked out.
Shane. Legs spread wide. Licking his lips with his pupils blown wide.
Shane. With his messy hair and Ilya’s name escaping from his lips.
“Shane,” Ilya groans when he finishes, shooting ropes over Shane’s already dirty body, completely covering him in it. Shane lets out a little noise, reaching for him as Ilya grunts, falling into bed beside him. They lay there in the silence for a moment.
Ilya sighs and looks over, before grabbing his shirt from off the ground and throwing it at Shane, wiping up their mixed come from his chest. Shane mutters a “Thanks,” before throwing the dirty shirt away. He grabs the sheets from the bottom of the bed and tugs them up to cover himself, dropping his head against Ilya’s chest. They lay like that for another moment. Then another.
“Cabernet,” Shane mumbles then. Ilya’s running his fingers through his hair, feeling idly. He raises an eyebrow. Shane looks up at him. “It was cabernet. The wine. I was with Rose.” Ilya stiffens and Shane’s quick to supply, “She broke up with me.”
Ilya pauses.
“Because you are not compatible?” Ilya asks slowly. Shane nods.
“Mm,” Ilya says after a moment. He looks at the wall, still stroking Shane’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he offers. Shane doesn’t respond.
“...It’s fine.” He traces some letters onto Ilya’s chest. Ilya tries vaguely to decipher them, but his English speaking is a lot better than his writing. Plus, he’s not really looking to expand his English vocabulary right now.
“I’m still sorry,” Ilya then says. “For… not giving you space.” Shane scoffs.
“Shut up. You were never going to give me space.”
“You think so little of me. I am a gentleman.” Shane scoffs again and Ilya’s lips quirk.
“Yeah. Such a gentleman.” Ilya’s hand idles in Shane’s hair. He pauses before getting this next sentence out.
“Do you really want space?” he murmurs. Shane pauses.
“...No. Do you?” Ilya shakes his head. They lay there in silence again. Shane looks like he wants to say something. Ilya doesn’t let him, shifting to turn off the lights.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs into Shane’s ear, tucking their bodies together. “We talk in the morning.” Shane doesn’t reply, only nods, his body pressing back against Ilya.
Safe. Warm and safe.