Chapter Text
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Crystalline
Ilya is standing up high in the stands, watching the players move across the ice; the smooth motion and the slicing noise of the blades, the crisp air, all of it has him in a swirling haze of memory. A torrent of moments, his childhood in Moscow passing by him like watching the world go by as a passenger on a train.
He imagines himself down there; not him as he is now, but as he was at six or seven when he first put on skates. Gliding across the ice like he was floating.
"See something you like?" a cool voice says from behind him. Without turning around, Ilya laughs. Scott Hunter is an asshole and, worse, an inconsistent player.
"How could I, with your ugly mug around," he snipes. Hunter chuckles. Down on the ice, Shane bends forward to pant after a rough set of drills. Finally, Ilya turns around. Hunter is leaning against one of the huge concrete support pillars, arms crossed, the picture of fake casualty and barely-concealed anxiety. He must be done training for the day, because his hair is damp from the shower and he's dressed down in sweats and a long sleeve henley. "What do you want, Hunter?"
"I just noticed you all alone up here, thought I should check in. Been hearing all sorts of rumours about you, Rozanov."
For a second his ears ring. His heart thuds once, then resumes its usual strong, steady beat. "Like what?" he asks, as if he couldn't possibly care less. He rolls his eyes and mirrors the other man's posture, crossing his arms and leaning back.
Hunter drops his arms and takes three steps closer. He leans forward and drops his voice. "Word on the street is that the secret girl you've been texting for the last two years isn't a girl at all. I even heard it might be another player."
Hunter opens his mouth to continue when Ilya marches up to him. He grabs the soft cotton henley and pulls him even closer. "You better tell whoever's making shit up that this isn't high school, got it? There is no girl. There's no boy. If you think I'm hooking up with a rival player you're an idiot."
Scott's hands come up to push against Ilya's shoulders, creating some space. "Look, Red Scare, I'm just trying to help you out."
"How is this helping?"
"I don't give a fuck if you're screwing every player down there, Rozanov. This is America. But people are talking and people are noticing that something is up with you. So be careful." With that, Hunter spins on a heel and gives a casual wave. As he turns the corner, heading for the stairs, Ilya punches the concrete pillar he'd leaned against.
The water swirling in the drain is pink. Ilya is hissing through his teeth, watching his split knuckles turn purple and yellow. He leans to grab some paper towel and crushes it down against his hand as he pulls it from the running tap. The door opens and he sags in relief when Shane walks in. "The fuck happened to you, Rozanov?" he asks, voice just this side of casual. His friend… Pike, follows him into the bathroom and quirks a brow at Ilya before walking to a urinal. Shane stands at the sink, washing his hands next to Ilya.
"Is no big deal," he answers. He gives a half-hearted, one-armed shrug. Pike finishes, washes his hands, and leaves while Shane lingers, drying his hands slowly. As the door slams shut, he reaches out to grab Ilya's wrist and look under the paper towel. He winces. "I'm fine," Ilya says.
Shane looks up, directly into his eyes, and then higher still, like he is looking up to God. "This isn't fine, Rozanov. Come with me."
He follows, out to the stairwell. "Wait for me here. I'll be right back, okay?"
"Whatever," Ilya says. Shane frowns. "Okay, I'll wait here. Just hurry up, Hollander. My hand fucking hurts and I want a drink." Shane leaves. What he really wants is a cigarette. He wonders if he'd have enough time to smoke, then realizes that his pack is in his jacket, in the locker room. "Of course," he says to himself.
Shane returns a couple minutes later with a backpack, from which he grabs a first aid kit. Ilya rolls his eyes. "Oh for fuck's sake," he says.
Regardless, he lets Shane delicately handle his hand as he cleans and dresses the wound. Once he finishes he pauses, just holding onto him. He drops his hand but Ilya reaches out, catching him by the collar and pulling him in to kiss him. Shane Hollander kisses like he has something to prove. Like when he was a teen some girl told him he was a bad kisser so now he tries as hard as he can to prove her wrong. Every time their lips meet it is something explosive. He does not get this nearly often enough. "Stop," Shane whispers, pulling back and breathing heavy.
"I just wanted to say thank you," Ilya says.
"Not here… I'll text you the address of my hotel. Come by tonight. I… I've missed you, Rozanov."
He watches smoke rise from the cherry of his cigarette. The street is empty and dark. It must be past midnight, and he hasn't worked up the nerve to walk across the street to the hotel. The smoke spirals out into the sky, fading away as it does. The orange light from the streetlight above him is coalescing in his vision, becoming more and more opaque. Often, Ilya and his mind are in entirely different places. He is standing outside of a hotel in Calgary, but his mind is in Moscow.
He is ten, panting with his hands on his knees, and as his coach berates him for losing a second on his last lap all he can think is how much he loves the ice. People are hard to read, passionate and unpredictable. The ice is a mirror. The ice is a foundation. The ice is a road out of here.
He is sent off, his lessons over for the day. As the shower steams around him, Ilya thinks about America. He has never been there, but the movies his mother loves to watch all make it seem so… shiny. To Ilya, Russia is boring. Anywhere seems better than the streets of his childhood. Of his entire life.
The other kids don't understand him. They think him slow, and rude. He is self-admittedly awkward, but the ways that they communicate just baffle him.
"Ilya," a boy says from behind him. Sasha is glaring, arms crossed. When they were younger, the two of them were best friends; lately Sasha has been running around with older boys. "Gregori says you are a faggot," he says. At first, Sasha is frowning, but then his cheeks slowly stretch into a wicked smile. "Is it true?"
He doesn't even hesitate. He punches Sasha in the cheek and storms home, a spill of rage slowly spreading like wine or blood.
"Are you going to come in?" Shane says from across the street. Ilya's eyes snap away from the silhouetted buildings and over to him, standing just outside the hotel doorway, bathed in the soft yellow light, cheeks ruddy and hair damp. Ilya drops the cigarette and steps on it, then walks across the street.
The elevator doors close and instantly Shane is on him, pressing their lips together with a desperation that lights a spark in Ilya's gut. He reaches up to run his fingers through Shane's dark hair, grabbing and tugging at the back to tilt his head so he can bite at his neck. Shane moans, then says, "no hickeys. I'm getting breakfast with my mom."
Ilya chuckles, but returns to instead kiss him; hungrily, messily, honestly. He pulls back and says, "you don't have concealer?"
"Shut up," Shane says. Then he pulls Ilya forward to kiss him again. The doors open and they spring apart, panting. They walk through the empty hallway to Shane's door.
Inside, they both pull off their shirts immediately. Shane's hands are on him, running up his abs to spread across his chest as he pushes Ilya's back against the door. They shift to rest on his clavicle, thumbs hovering above and then toying with his nipples as they kiss again.
This is honesty and authenticity. This man, in this room right now, this is who Ilya really is at his core. Never before, with no one else has he ever felt so natural and free. Comfort is the word. Shane makes him comfortable.
Ilya shoves his hand down the front of Shane's pants, wrapping his fingers around the length of his hard cock. He strokes downward to slide his foreskin down, so on the upstroke his pinky can catch the sensitive ridge of his head. "Fuck," Shane says, against his lips.
"Do you want to?" Ilya asks. Shane smiles. Ilya drops to his knees, tugging the sweats down as he goes, and wraps his thumb and pointer finger around the base of his dick. He takes him into his mouth, moving forward until his lips reach smooth skin. When he pulls back it is slowly, and he cherishes every pant and whine he drags out of Shane.
"Jesus Christ," Shane mumbles. As Ilya reaches the end of his tactical retreat he pulls his mouth away.
"Actually my name's Ilya Rozanov," he teases. His hand works over Shane's dick for a moment before he leans in to keep sucking.
Shane's hand rests on Ilya's forehead and he gently pushes him back to rest against the door. He starts to fuck into the wet heat of his mouth, and Ilya moans. "Fuck, fuck," Shane says, like a chant or a mantra.
Ilya's fingers are gripping Shane's thighs hard enough to bruise. He keeps fucking forward, bottoming out so that Ilya is deep throating him and then pulling back as he gags only to do it again.
His thighs are shaking when he steps back, his dick shining wet with drool, Ilya's lips flushed and puffy and tears soaking his lashes. Ilya stands and picks Shane up, carrying him to the bed and dropping him, only to straddle his chest. He looks down at his own thick cock resting between Shane's collarbones and on his throat. He reaches down to rest his hand on the top of his dick and then frots forward along Shane's skin. After a few strokes he moves forward so he can return the favour, sliding his dick into Shane's mouth from above and fucking it.
With less experience, Shane is more sensitive to gagging, so Ilya is gentle and slow. He only pushes too far once, before finally, finally, moving down the bed to just look at this beautiful body in front of him, spread out like a sacrifice. "Lube?" he asks. Shane leans over and fishes around the bedside drawer, handing Ilya the bottle once he finds it.
With one hand, Ilya works some lube over his own length. The other methodically works fingers into Shane's tight hole, stretching him, working his prostate. On one stroke in particular Shane bucks his hips up and cums all over his own stomach hands free; Ilya does his best to commit the place and motion to memory.
He holds up a condom and Shane nods, so he rolls it on before he leans down, pressing their swollen, fucked mouths together, and thrusts forward. Shane's head tosses back as he moans, loud, and Ilya sets a quick pace immediately. His hips slap rhythmically against the soft skin of Shane's muscled thighs and he kisses him deeper, messier. Unrestrained, he fucks Shane hard enough that he goes nonverbal, making soft whines instead of his usual cursing.
Ilya can feel that spark, from their initial kiss, now a conflagration all throughout his body. Like his blood is boiling. Like there are coals down deep in his gut. His rhythm grows sloppy, so he reaches between Shane's legs and works his hand over his cock frantically, off beat with his thrusts. Shane is shaking all over. "Ilya," he cries out, and then he falls over the edge. He crushes his eyes shut and buries his face in the bed next to Shane's neck and cums. He keeps stroking his cock until he goes silent and cums on himself again.
Ilya collapses, forward, still buried inside, and just breathes, his muscles loose, his cock occasionally twitching from the sensitivity and the clenching heat of Shane's tight ass. Shane's cum spreading between their abs, matting down the hair on Ilya's stomach.
Shane chuckles, tilting his head to kiss Ilya's near his ear. "Holy shit," Ilya gasps. Then they laugh.
Shane's head is on his chest, the blanket pooled around their waists. His left hand is drawing lazy circles on Ilya's skin. At first, he was sure that this was just sex. But through the past few years he has found such a serenity in these moments that he knows it's more. "You hungry, Hollander?" he asks. Shane shrugs sleepily.
"Could go for some food. I've got some frozen dinners in the mini fridge," he answers before yawning.
"Fuck that," Ilya says, "I'm ordering burgers."
Shane huffs a quiet laugh, his breath washing across his chest. "I want curly fries," he says. Ilya smiles as he slides out from the bed to find his jeans and grab his phone.
He walks nude through the room and feels Shane's eyes on him the whole way, even though when he turns to head back, his eyes are closed. "No sleep yet. Food and then round two." Shane laughs.