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Ilya had been having one of his worst birthdays ever. And honestly he’d had some pretty terrible ones, so that was saying something.
Boston had lost, Montreal had won, it had been a terrible game but he knew that he should still be out celebrating his birthday, in a club somewhere with his team. Drinking vodka, dancing, and flirting with someone. Instead, like always, he’d chosen not to tell anyone about his birthday at all, and no one in his team found out that he was turning 25 today.
He’d spent the day in a foul mood. There was only one thing that was going to possibly make things a bit better. Shane Hollander.
Ilya had realised earlier in the season that he’d be playing in Montreal on the very day of his birthday. And he was never going to miss an opportunity to celebrate in his own, hopefully very hot, very satisfying way.
In the end he’d kind of regretted not mentioning it to anyone, waking up on his own feeling strangely lonely. A couple of messages, but nothing from his father or brother, his coach or his team. Everyone would be focused on the game, as they should be. As he should be. And it wasn’t like he’d told anyone, so what else had he expected? So he’d gone about his usual business and his game day prep like normal. He’d tried not to think too much about Hollander and the arrangements they’d made a couple of days ago to meet later.
By the time he’d got to warm up he was actually hoping that his team mates would finally give up the joke, start cheering, and sing him happy birthday. But it didn't happen. And then they lost. Badly. And even if they had planned a surprise celebration for him later, everyone was in such low spirits after that they would have had to cancel it, anyway. Plus, it would've got in the way of his actual plans for the rest of the evening.
A bright moment of his day had been, as always when they played each other, competing with Hollander on the ice. Giving him shit. Pushing him to his limits. But Ilya had been overly tense, missing chances and being extra obnoxious to his opponents, getting himself into trouble with the ref multiple times. The crowd had been jeering at him with more fervour than ever, but tonight it had just made him more frustrated rather than spurring him on like usual.
And so by the time he was standing behind Hollander’s building, he was ready to just lose himself and forget everything about this whole fucking shitty day.
He was horny and tense and ready for any kind of release. He was also sort of angry, maybe mostly at himself but also, unreasonable though it was, at Shane Hollander. He had played perhaps one of his best games ever tonight, running rings around everyone. Including Ilya.
He was hoping that Hollander was ready for it tonight, that he wanted to take it hard. Ilya was not planning on going easy on him.
Then after they were done and he’d managed to get a few hours sleep back at his hotel, he would catch his flight, knowing full well that he would wallow in that usual brief feeling of satisfaction and warmth, that was always tinged with the inevitable frustration that what they had shared was also never enough. And though he knew he definitely shouldn't, he would be closing his eyes on the plane and recalling certain fleeting moments; Hollander’s gorgeous scent when he buried his face in his warm neck and kissed there. The sweet sounds he made around Ilya’s cock after he had dropped down to his knees. Kissing down his spine and making Hollander arch his back and sigh.
Sometimes he could still smell Hollander’s cologne on himself, or whatever soap he used, at least; those clean, fresh, sporty scents that were so Hollander but also so perfect. He’d taken to keeping whatever clothes he’d worn on for a day or two after, on the off chance Hollander’s scent would be on them. Sometimes it worked, but usually their clothes were off almost as soon as they were in the same room alone, so…
He pulled out his phone and sent a text. I’m here.
His hockey rival opened the door and quickly stepped to one side, looking around sheepishly as he always did. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and long shorts, and his hair was a bit damp from the shower. Ilya stepped in.
The door had barely closed before Ilya had Hollander pushed up against the wall, hands gripping his biceps. He pressed into him with his weight, while he took his mouth. It was so often like this, a desperate rush, like he was parched and drinking his fill from a well he knew would dry up in moments. Tonight he was even more thirsty than usual.
He slid a hand down in between their bodies to stroke Hollander’s growing length firmly through his shorts.
“Fuuuuuuck.” Hollander screwed up his eyes and pushed forward with his hips, searching for more friction.
“Mmm, already hard for me,” Ilya growled. “Were you thinking about me in the shower again?”
“Again?”
“I know you always do.”
Hollander pushed at his chest but Ilya just pushed back. He kissed him again, pressing his tongue inside, feeling Hollander get harder against his thigh. He reached his hand up and around the back of Ilya’s neck, threading his fingers through Ilya’s curls, tugging as they deepened the kiss further.
Oh yes, Ilya thought. It was going to be good tonight.
“Stop. Stop,” Hollander said suddenly, pulling away. Ilya kept going, lips trying to reconnect. “Rosanov.”
“What?”
“Just… stop. Come upstairs would you? Into the kitchen.”
Ilya looked down at him, eyes still focused on his target of those lips. He could tell that Hollander was trying to regain some kind of composure. All Ilya wanted was to get them both naked and have his body writhing underneath him.
“Why? The bedroom is much more comfortable. I will show you. I know the way.” He began tugging at the hem of Hollander’s t-shirt, trying to expose his skin, but his hand was batted away.
“Just for a minute.”
Ilya huffed. But Hollander was looking at him with those earnest, determined eyes. “Okay. A minute.”
Hollander took him by the hand and then led him up the stairs to his loft apartment on the top floor, and Ilya took a moment to admire the rear view. At the door to Hollander’s apartment, he quickly bent to kiss his neck, and snake his hand around to check what might still be going on in those shorts.
“Will you stop?” Hollander bitched.
Ilya laughed against his skin and let himself be led inside. Hollander dragged him in the direction of the large, modern, stark kitchen, and Ilya took off his jacket, draping it on a stool, and shucked off his shoes.
“Wanna drink?”
“No, I’m good.”
Hollander was now sporting a mischievous smile, and Ilya couldn't help but smile back in response, even though he was wishing they could move this on quickly. Ooh, maybe he wanted to be taken on one of these marble counters. But it would be very cold against his bare ass, maybe not very comfortable. Perhaps he needed to grab something from the fridge; something that Ilya could cover him in and eat off him, or he wanted to grab some ice. Ilya knew a few good tricks with ice cubes. He would teach him.
Ilya used his long legs to catch up to an impatient Hollander and wrapped his hand around his waist, pressing his body closer from behind. He focused on the back of Hollander’s neck, the freckles there that he wanted to brush his lips over.
Ilya dropped his hands reluctantly and stood at the island counter as Hollander opened the fridge. That stupid little smile was still on Hollander’s face as he reached in and pulled something out.
A… cake?
Ilya didn’t understand at first. They were going to eat? Hollander needed extra energy for their session? Yes, he’d burned too many calories tonight on the ice. Good idea.
“Um…” Hollander placed the plate down on the counter. He looked a little awkward, unable to completely meet Ilya’s eyes. “Happy birthday.” It was framed as a sort of question.
Ilya realised he was frowning, his brow furrowed like it did when Hollander was using too long English words. Hollander had bought him a cake? How had he even known? He fixed his face, feeling his jaw slacken, and looked at the man across from him.
He was unable to speak. Words seemed to suddenly jumble in his mind.
“I, er…” Hollander ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking down at the cake, then back at Ilya. Ilya looked at the cake again. It was chocolate. Double chocolate. Maybe triple. His favourite. There were sprinkles.
“Thank you,” Ilya managed to choke out, his throat suddenly a bit dry. “How did you know?”
“It was…” Hollander was blushing suddenly. “I don’t know. On the internet?”
“That I like chocolate cake?”
“No, dumbass, that it was your birthday today.”
“You Googled me?”
“No.”
“Is okay.” Ilya Googled Shane Hollander all the time, but was not about to admit this. His search history, if it was leaked and somehow made public, would be mortifying. “You are obsessed with me. It’s fine. I get it.”
Hollander rolled his eyes, but was still smiling. “Fuck off.”
Ilya smiled back. He stepped forward so he was leaning over the countertop.
“It looks good.”
It did look good. Rich, thick chocolate frosting, carefully smoothed in circles. A singular candle in the centre. Writing in dark chocolate icing, the script a little messy. Happy birthday Ilya.
Ilya.
He stared at it. He felt his cheeks get warm and his heart clench.
Hollander had bought him a birthday cake?
He heard the flick of a lighter, and the candle was lit.
“Make a wish,” Hollander said.
His eyes snapped up, his breath catching as a memory suddenly hit him, out of nowhere. His mother saying those same words to him, in Russian. The last time he’d heard them, only a few months before she’d died. It had been his twelfth birthday. He’d received new skates after school, but his father had not made it home for dinner. His brother had been out of the house, with his friends. It had just been the two of them.
He had looked at her across the table, at her beautiful, beautiful face, smiling at him, bathed in the soft glow of the candlelight.
“My darling, sweet boy. Make a wish, Ilya.”
He’d closed his eyes, and had wished that it would always be the two of them, that his father stayed away and never bothered coming home, and that she would be happy. Ilya would be happy, too. He’d blown out the candles and she’d clapped, before standing and coming around the table to softly cup his face and kiss his cheek. They had eaten cake, and he’d gone to bed desperately hoping that his wish would come true.
It hadn’t.
Ilya realised his vision had gone blurry. He made his wish, and quickly blew out the single candle.
Hollander had turned his back and was opening cupboards, reaching up for plates, and getting cutlery and cute little napkins.
Ilya cleared his throat and took the opportunity to wipe a finger under his eye.
“It looks good, Hollander,” he said, trying to sound as normal and steady as possible. “Where did you get it? The handwriting is a bit…”
“Oh, I made it.”
Ilya’s eyes widened.
“You made it?”
Hollander was blushing again.
“Yeah. I mean, it probably tastes terrible. I never made a cake before.” He gestured to the oven behind him, an uneasy smirk on his lips. “I never even cooked anything in here, actually. I wasn't sure how to work this thing.”
Wow.
Ilya looked at the cake again. How could he have bitched about the writing? It was perfect, actually. Good, steady hand.
He swallowed. Hollander looked like he was waiting for Ilya to lay into him with some smart, sarcastic comment, and that would probably be the most appropriate reaction here.
“Thank you,” he said again.
Hollander smiled sweetly, still a bit embarrassed. He shuffled his feet. Adorable.
Ilya went to him, stepping around the island counter with quick, sure steps. He took Hollander’s face in both his hands, leaned down, and kissed him. At first he just pressed his mouth to those soft, sweet lips, but then he tilted his face, guided Hollander’s head back, and deepened the kiss. Ilya knew he was a great kisser. He knew how to kiss someone in such a way that their toes curled and their hands grabbed for him desperately and they got hot and hard and wet and moaned and melted for him. He gave Hollander the full force of his considerable skills until he knew he’d made his point.
Hollander relaxed under his hands, and had begun to whimper. Ilya pulled away with a final delicious smack of lips that gave him shivers that he was hoping Hollander would feel too.
“Oh,” Hollander said, with his eyes still closed and lips parted. He was breathing heavily, and had a dreamy look on his face. His hand traced a path up over Ilya’s chest and rested on his shoulder, like he was steadying himself. He opened his eyes, and smiled up at Ilya. “That was… good.”
“Hmm.”
“I should bake you something every time you come here.” He sounded drunk.
Hollander was still flushed, and Ilya gently brushed the backs of his fingers over those freckles, enjoying the soft warmth against his skin. He was feeling strangely tender at that moment, that he might somehow break apart. It was a dangerous feeling, he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind. But it was his birthday, and for once, he would allow himself to just have this now, savour the moment. Just this once. A gift to himself.
He placed a finger under Shane’s chin and tilted his head up, and leaned down again to place gentle kisses to his cheeks, over his freckles. He’d been fucking dying to kiss these freckles. Happy birthday to me, he thought. Best present ever.
“So ah, you want to eat?” Hollander breathed softly. His words caught in his throat as he spoke, Ilya still brushing his lips gently over that soft, flushed skin.
“Yes,” Ilya replied. “Please.”
Hollander turned again and opened a drawer, shuffling through cutlery, slightly flustered. The noise and frantic searching brought Ilya back to himself a bit, clearing his head. Hollander huffed, before realising the knife he was searching for was in the block on the counter. He pulled it out, and turned his wrist, holding out the handle to Ilya. Ilya took it, and looked down at the cake. God, it looked even more delicious than before. His mouth actually began watering.
He cut into it, carving off a big slice. Hollander handed him a plate.
“Whoah, you really that hungry?”
“What? This is yours.”
“I can’t eat that. It’s like a quarter of the cake.”
“It’s not. You can eat. You have a lot to celebrate tonight too, Hollander. That victory. That hat-trick. You beat me. I was hopeless. Perfect night for you.”
He handed him the plate, and Hollander took it.
“You weren’t hopeless. Your team was, for sure.”
“You played very well,” Ilya said. “Much too well. I thought you would be distracted thinking about having me in your bed, like you usually are. Thinking about my cock.”
“Pfft. Dream on, Rosanov.”
Ilya cut himself a slice and dumped the huge hunk of cake on the plate. He picked up a fork and looked at Hollander, who hadn’t yet taken a bite. He was looking back at him, fork raised, waiting in anticipation.
Ilya, feeling slightly embarrassed and sort of absurd, but also very hungry, stuck his fork in. He made sure to get a bit of everything, plenty of frosting, and brought the piece to his mouth.
Good God. It was delicious. The best cake he had ever tasted.
“Is it good?” Hollander asked hopefully. “Is it too dry?”
Ilya closed his eyes and savoured the sweet, rich taste. He shook his head.
“No. It’s…” He searched for the word, saying it out loud in Russian. Trying again in English. “Damp?”
“Moist?” Hollander offered.
“Hmm, moist, yes.” He nodded, and pointed with his fork. “Like you get in your shorts when you see me take my shirt off.”
Hollander rolled his eyes and took a bite. He raised his eyebrows, like he was genuinely surprised and overjoyed that his perfectly baked cake had been such a delicious success. Of course he would be a gourmet chef. Like Shane Hollander ever sucked at anything.
“Shit. It actually is pretty good.”
“Hmm.” Ilya shovelled in more. “Chocolate is my favourite. How did you know this? I am sure this is not on my Wikipedia page. I check it every day.”
Hollander shrugged, and smiled. “Just a guess.”
“When did you make it?”
“This morning. Honestly I thought it was going to be a disaster. I almost quit a couple of times. The oven is, like, digital, too many fucking buttons, and I don’t know where the instruction manual is. I dropped batter all over the floor. All the beating made me sweat.”
“You have a good strong right arm, Hollander. You should be good at that.” He wagged his eyebrows suggestively. “Nice firm grip. Lots of beating practice.”
“Hm-mm, yeah, almost as much as you. Well, anyway, somehow it came out of the oven looking edible.”
Ilya couldn’t help but smile at Hollander’s proud, cute face. Yes, edible. He was edible. It was a good word.
He couldn’t believe it, really, the absurdity of it. Hollander had just won a very important professional NHL game at home in front of an adoring crowd. Hat-trick scoring, Canadian golden poster boy, Shane Hollander. One of the best, most talented hockey players alive today. Maybe the actual best. And he was acting like his greatest achievement all day was baking his… his arch rival on the ice/occasional fuck buddy Ilya Rosanov a fucking chocolate cake.
Not only that, but instead of being out with his team, his friends, his loved ones, who should be buying him drinks, showering him with all the praise he deserved, celebrating his great victory on the ice, instead he was here, alone with him, sweetly offering him the home-baked birthday cake he’d probably spent weeks panicking about. Desperate for it to be ‘moist’ enough for Ilya’s frankly rather basic palate.
Ilya put his plate down and reached for Shane suddenly without thinking, pulling him in closer, and kissing him again. He let his hands wander this time, up under Hollander’s shirt, reaching around to splay his palms against his smooth, warm back, stroking up and down. He felt Hollander shiver beneath his touch. Ilya’s hand drifted lower down his spine, to the curve above his ass. Hollander leaned into him, and moaned into his mouth as he grabbed a handful of ass and squeezed.
“I like the cake, Hollander,” he said, his voice deep. “It is delicious. I will eat it all. But now I want you.”
“Okay,” Hollander breathed against his lips.
He lifted him and Hollander went easily, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist. Ilya licked some frosting from Shane’s bottom lip, and kept kissing him as he carried him in the general direction of the bedroom. Shane was moaning into his mouth, bunching Ilya’s hair up in his fist, kissing him back with ever growing urgency.
“You were so good tonight, Hollander,” Ilya growled. “Always showing off for me.” He reached the end of the bed and dumped them both down on it. He sat up, leaning back on his arms. The angle brought their lower bodies closer, and they both groaned and writhed as Ilya ground their rigid cocks together. Shane reached around Ilya’s body to squeeze his ass and press him closer.
“Please, Rosanov.”
“Mm.” Ilya dipped his head down to the side of Shane’s neck, nuzzling and kissing there. “What is it you want?”
“I want you naked, for a start.”
Ilya sat up and pulled his shirt up over his head, tossing it on the floor, before ridding Hollander of his shorts and underwear. He undressed himself fully while Shane did the same. Then he was on top of him again, and God, yes this was so much better. So fucking good.
Ilya traced a path with his mouth down Hollander’s naked body, making a few stops here and there to lick and nibble, before continuing his route downward. He parted Hollander’s thighs slightly, using his large, strong palms to push them apart, and settled in between them.
“Oh, fuuuuck yes, Rosanov.”
Ilya took him in deep, wanting to swallow him down whole. Cake was delicious, yes, but nothing on Earth beat the taste of Shane fucking Hollander and his beautiful fucking cock.
The sex went on for longer than usual, both of them drawing out their pleasure until it had become impossible. Then they had showered and gone again, and Ilya was wondering if he could manage to get a third orgasm out of Hollander, until Shane had spooned back up against him, sighed, and relaxed into the pillow. Content and sated, completely relaxed. It made Ilya feel much happier than it should have to feel Hollander lean back against him so comfortably.
They laid like that together for a while, a precious little moment that Ilya was more grateful for than any of the rest of it. He pressed kisses lightly to Shane’s shoulder, and felt the slow ease of their bodies just breathing together.
“What did you wish for?” Shane asked quietly.
“Hmm?”
“When you blew out your candle. What did you wish for?”
Ilya tensed, then wrapped his arms tighter around Hollander, kissing behind his ear.
“If I tell it won’t come true.”
“Come on, tell me.”
Ilya laughed against his warm skin.
“I win Stanley cup. Five times. You don’t win any.”
He could practically hear Hollander’s eyes rolling in his head.
“As if.”
Ilya smiled and nuzzled against Hollander’s neck. He was feeling sleepy, too sleepy. He needed to get up and get dressed and wake himself up out in the cold early morning air. He needed to feel much less comfortable and certainly less content. But it was his birthday, so he just closed his eyes for a moment to savour the feeling a bit longer.
He couldn't tell Hollander what he’d really wished for, of course. That would ruin everything. But tomorrow he would Google Shane Hollander for the millionth time and note his birthday in his phone calendar. He would figure out his favourite cake flavour and he would maybe spend some time practising how to make the perfect birthday cake.
And one day, maybe his real wish would come true.