Hollander frowns, his nose scrunching up. It's almost adorable. "What else?"
"There are still many positions we haven't tried," Ilya taps a finger to his chin, considering. "Standing up, me carrying you, reverse cowgirl, spoon-fucking, lotus-fucking, 69ing—"
"Jesus Christ, okay. T-That's enough."
"I haven't even eaten you out yet," Ilya realizes. "I would like to do that. I would also like you to sit on my face. Soon, preferably."
"Oh, my God. Rozanov—"
"Also, have you heard of the wheelbarrow position?"
Hollander slaps a hand over Ilya's mouth, and Ilya can't help but grin against his palm. The other man stares up at him, his chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm. They're so close, Ilya can smell his body-wash and, if he leaned down, he could sink his nose into the space where Hollander's shoulder met his neck and breathe the scent in more deeply.
His lips part from under Hollander's hand.
Hollander's own mouth goes a little slack, lips raw and plump. Ilya wonders how turned on he is right now.
His own cock twitches again. Insatiable.
"Can you not?" Hollander mutters.
"Am just saying," Ilya mumbles out. "Many things to be done still." He licks Hollander's palm, and the other jerks away, leaving Ilya's face cold.
"Is there anything that you want to do?" he asks Hollander, after a long beat. The tips of Hollander's ears turn red.
"I dunno." It sounds like a lie, his voice a little too high-pitched at the end. Also, with the way his eyes are bouncing around the room, looking at anything except for Ilya…Yeah, it has to be a lie.
"Come on," Ilya prods. "Tell me."
He pokes at Hollander's shoulder, then his chest, and the other scowls at him. "Tell me, tell me," he says, in the most annoying voice he can muster. "Tell me!"
"It's stupid," Hollander says and slaps Ilya's hands away, weakly. "Fuck off." Even his dismissal sounds half-baked and not at all serious, too.
Ilya, undeterred, grabs at Hollander's waist and pulls him in close—disrupting his balance. Their chests press against each other, and, with a yelp, Hollander's hands fly to Ilya's shoulders for purchase.
"Man," he gripes, blinking up at Ilya. "What the hell?"
"Please?" Ilya tries again, and Hollander gawks.
"Did you—Ilya Rozanov—just ask for something nicely? What world am I living in?"
"This one," Ilya replies. "And I can be nice."
"In this world? Absolutely not."
"I'm so nice," Ilya replies. "I made you cum today, so hard and all over your fancy cotton bedsheets. That was nice."
Hollander snorts, but even so, his hands tighten ever so slightly on Ilya's shoulders. Ilya traces a circle on his waist, waiting. "I won't laugh," he promises. "I want to know what you want."
"Why?" Hollander asks, quietly, the single word vibrating from his chest straight into Ilya's.
"Because I want to give it to you."
Hollander lets out a breath.
"Okay," he says, stilted. Ilya leans forward, the anticipation gnawing at him. "You mentioned this earlier today, so it kind of got me thinking. I, um, when I was doing research before, I saw that a lot of people recommend buying, well—"
"Well?"
Hollander mumbles something. Ilya blinks and pulls him in a little closer, just to hear a little bit more clearly. "What?"
"A dildo," Hollander spits out, flushing.
Oh.
Hollander with a dildo, that thought was—
The blood rushes from Ilya's head to down his body. That was…yeah.
"It doesn't really have anything to do with you, I guess," Hollander rushes to continue. "So it's not exactly part of our deal, because it's not, like a sex act between us. But, I don't know, I was thinking about buying one by myself, but—"
But what? Ilya wants to ask. Why can't you buy it alone?
Why do you need me?
The words get caught.
"Do you want me to buy one for you?" Ilya croaks out. He would probably drop like more than a thousand dollars for a good one, if Hollander only asked. Maybe he could get one in the exact same shape and look as Ilya's cock, fuck, that would be—
Hollander shakes his head, still red all over. "I have my own money," he says. "I just wanted you to come with me to, like, a-a sex shop. Together."
"A sex shop," Ilya repeats. Together, Hollander's words echo over and over. Together, together, together.
The other looks like he wants to bury himself alive. "Yeah. I guess."
"Oh."
Together. Him and Shane Hollander. Shane Hollander and him. Together.
"It's stupid," Hollander says again and begins to step away.
"No," Ilya blurts out and brings him back, his grip on Hollander's waist probably bruising, but he can't risk Hollander running away and leaving him reeling in all of…this. The other lets out a slight gasp as their bodies press against each other, completely flush. His eyes are wide.
Ilya wants to kiss him.
"No," he repeats. "I want to come with you. I–yeah. Please, take me with you."
Hollander blinks. "Yeah?" he starts, and Ilya nods.
"Yes. Please," he says again, stupidly.
"Um," Hollander swallows. His gaze flickers over Ilya's face, searching, and for once, Ilya thinks he might actually find whatever it is he's looking for. It's a terrifying thought, one that makes him itch all over. "Okay."
The air stretches between them, thick, and Hollander's lips look so soft.
"I'll buy you many things," Ilya rambles, before he does anything stupid. He tries for a smirk, and almost succeeds perfectly, if not for the heat in his face. "At the sex shop. A dildo, vibrator—there are many good prostate vibrators out there, some are even remote controlled, isn't technology amazing nowadays? Maybe a cock ring—"
"Wait, wait," Hollander slurs out, shocked. "A cock ring? What?"
"Flavored lube," Ilya prattles on. "What are your thoughts on collars?"
"No way!"
Hollander shoves at his shoulders, and Ilya falls back, his smile coming a little easier now. The other's face is turning fire engine red. He might melt into a very scandalized pile of goo soon.
"Kidding," Ilya says. "Well, about the collars and flavored lube."
Hollander rolls his eyes, but a slight smile stretches across his face. "Very funny."
"Finally," Ilya says. "You are realizing this about me. Only took seven years, but you got there."
For a second, they just sort of…stand there. Ilya eyes the smile on Hollander's face and thinks about kissing it, hard. He thinks of saying another stupid thing to make that smile bloom into a full-on beam.
Just then, his phone buzzes with an incoming text, and the moment is broken. Hollander's eyes snap to the phone in Ilya's pocket, and even though every part of Ilya is screaming not to, he fishes it out anyway, under the other's watchful gaze.
A text from some random girl he had saved on his phone as Georgia (dance team). He doesn't even remember her, which is probably shitty of him.
His eyes find Hollander again, and the other looks at him right back. There's a question in his eyes, something close to a dare neither of them can really vocalize or understand, together, together, together, and Ilya—
The vines around his throat, the ones he had almost forgotten about, tighten just then. And he knows it's time to leave.
"I have to go," he says. Hollander's gaze drops to the ground.
Look at me, Ilya thinks, ridiculously, because it's not fair. He's not being fair. He knows this, and yet. Look at me.
Like a man possessed, he finds himself walking closer to Hollander, until he's right in his space and all Ilya can see, think, smell, and know is Shane Hollander. It's a dizzying trap, downright lethal.
The other stares down at the ground still.
Ilya places a hand on his chin and lifts it.
For a moment, Hollander fights it—fights meeting Ilya's gaze, but eventually, he caves. When their eyes clash with each other, Hollander's eyes are dark, matching cesspools deep enough to drown in. Ilya's mouth dries, helpless to it.
"Bye," he says. "See you tomorrow."
"Bye," Hollander whispers, after a long minute. His eyes scream many things, some Ilya can't recognize, others he can but refuses to translate to perfect clarity, lest he asphyxiates alive right here and now, in Hollander's bedroom. But most of all, Ilya can hear this, etched on the other's pupils, the honey gold seeping into his irises under the light:
Kiss me. Kiss me.
Ilya swoops in and kisses him—breathing be damned.
It both lasts forever and isn't nearly long enough, and soon after, Ilya leaves. He tells himself on the drive home that it's not a loss. It's not like how it was when he was fifteen, with Hollander kneeling at the ice and Ilya hovering over him. It's not like the first time Ilya face-fucked Hollander, right at this same apartment. It's not even close.
They were both finally on equal ground, and furthermore, this wasn't a competition. They were fine.
He wonders why he doesn't believe it.
-
The game against McGill is fucking brutal.
There's no other word for it, just plain, straight fucking brutal.
"They're killing us," Troy announces as he collapses onto the bench beside Ilya, sweaty and disgusting. "Live homicide in front of hundreds of people and nobody even cares."
Ilya pats him on the shoulder while Boodram commiserates with Troy, and he would join in on the wallowing, except.
Except.
Hollander skates in place, a rigid, laser-focus to him that makes everyone tense with him. McGill eyes him with anticipation, muscles coiling and ready for a battle that they know Shane Hollander will never fail to provide. Their teammates are just as tense around him.
Almost as if they were scared of breathing around him.
A robot, one of the first years had called him.
Ilya eyes the rise and fall of his chest. First-years didn't know shit.
He taps his fingers on his stick and continues watching Hollander, as he gets into position—all perfect posture and grace. It's a beat before everyone else follows suit. They were all frozen in time, stuck in the presence of a prodigy like Hollander, but Ilya personally thought he could jump out of his skin.
Jump onto the ice, even. Take up a place beside Hollander for a change. Charge into the fight head-on, teeth bared.
There were a lot of things Ilya could do.
He stays seated, and the puck drops.
The scrabble and ensuing fight are nothing Ilya hasn't seen and experienced a million times before, but even so, some part of him jolts watching Hollander swipe at the puck, stealing it expertly into his grasp. There really was something absurd about the way Shane Hollander played. Like he was born to hold a hockey stick in his hand and to ruin all of his opponents' days.
Hollander weaves in and out through the chaos until he has a clear shot at the goal. Ilya inches off the bench. Hollander swings his arms back, his stick going in a perfect arc. Closer.
Ilya's breath catches.
A sudden weight slams into Hollander, nearly knocking him back. The other manages to aim and shoot at the goal, but with his balance suddenly thrown off, the puck slams into the waiting embrace of the goalie. Fuck.
The crowd roars in approval, fucking McGill.
Hollander growls to himself and turns toward the offending player, who hasn't skated away but lingers. Ilya can make out his jersey from here, and the offending last name 'Dupont' glares back at him.
Hollander suddenly goes very still.
They're too far away to clearly make out anyone's face, but the way Hollander's shoulders are rising up, until they're nearly at his ears, the way his chest is practically caving in on itself…Ilya's not an idiot. He can taste the emotion that practically leaks out of Hollander now; he can put a name to the ball-and-chain that Hollander drags around with him, the thing that had nearly drowned him completely after that night in the bar, when he had whispered his secrets to Ilya.
Hurt.
Blood rushes to Ilya's ears.
"The fuck are you doing, Roz?"
He blinks, and the rush subsides somewhat as he comes back to. His teammates stare up at him from the bench. Up at him.
He's on his feet, for some reason. When did he start standing?
"Nothing," Ilya says. Troy gives him an odd look, everyone does to some extent, but before they can question him, their attention is drawn back to the rink. Dupont says something to Hollander and promptly skates away, not without a 'friendly' bump to the hip that verges on the side of a little too harsh.
Hollander takes it, sliding a little on the ice from the force of it.
"Sit down, Rozanov." Coach Wiebe's shout makes Ilya blink again, hard. He unclenches his fists, which had suddenly gotten so tense that he thought he might be able to feel the dig of his nails into his palms—even with the gloves. Odd. "And calm the hell down!"
"I am calm," Ilya says, but sits down.
"You look like you're about to jump over and strangle the shit out of Hollander," Boodram snorts.
"I'm not—"
"Cut him some slack, man. We're all getting our asses handed to us. Even him."
"Non-discriminatory ass-handing," Troy echoes, lightly, but Ilya can feel the weight of his eyes on him—assessing. It's more than a little freaky. He turns, through looking away from Hollander, feels wrong right now. An unnecessary waste of Ilya's attention and general neck muscles, honestly.
"Can I help you?"
Troy squints at him, then onto the ice. "Nah. You just seem a little…wound up, Roz."
"Bullshit, I am never 'wound up,'" Ilya says, immediately. "Also, hello. We are losing a game here. Why would I be–what's the opposite of 'wound up?' At ease?"
Troy's squint deepens for a beat before he returns his attention to the game. "Okay."
"Okay?" Ilya drums his fingers against his hockey stick, the beat a little too fast now. "The fuck do you mean, okay?"
Troy opens his mouth as if to respond, but before he can, Ilya's own attention is snapped back to the ice. The puck is dropping again, and judging from the rigid line of Hollander's spine, he's not about to let a repeat performance happen. Not if he can help it.
The puck drops, and McGill gets it. Luca manages to steal it back—'Atta boy,' Boodram hoots and Singh wolf-whistles from the bench as well—and through a convoluted dance, the puck manages to go from him to Boyle, then to Hollander's orbit once more.
"C'mon," Ilya hears someone whisper, and to his surprise, the word is coming from him. He doesn't have time to dwell on that, as Hollander gears up for the perfect backhand, and—
Dupont swoops in, and with a slam of his stick against Hollander's that should be frankly illegal, he steals the puck away. Ilya leaps to his feet, again, gripping onto the barrier as Dupont leans in close and seethes quiet words into Hollander's face. Ilya's gums hurt from how much he's grinding his teeth down, but the pain is a secondary thing to this.
Because. Because this fucking dick.
"Ilya Rozanov!" Wiebe roars. "Sit the hell down or so help me god!"
Ilya snarls to himself, but with two tugs on the back of his jersey, Troy and Boodrom yank him back down.
"Dude," one of them whispers. "What's with you?"
"'What's with him?'" Dallas Kent sneers, from nearby. "Hollywood just fumbled the easiest goal of all time, and you're asking why Roz's pissed?"
There's a brief stretch of silence among them, a bubble of tension in the midst of the screaming fans and the slide of skates alongside the ice. Ilya can't even begin to comprehend how fucking idiotic Kent is being.
"Hey, man, just lay off him," Boodram says. He shakes his head. "You've been doing too much."
"Could you do better?" Singh mutters, while a couple of others snort in agreement.
Dillon scoots away from Kent, his eyes pinned to the ice.
Huh. Interesting.
Kent stares around them, checking each of their teammates' expressions with incredulity on his sneering face. "He lost us that point just now!"
"That doesn't matter right now," Ilya says. "The only point that matters is the one happening right now." He gestures to the rink, to their team. "The one in progress."
Professor Smith had said the same thing, in class—when they were in the Team Philosophy and Character Development section. Ilya had written it down, because Hollander would have snapped at him to do so, because it had made a part of him pause, because of a lot of reasons. He had highlighted the words too.
Hollander's eyes had crinkled at that, when he had flipped the planner open later the night. Pleased. And a part of Ilya's stomach had flipped at that, for some odd reason.
"Also, last time I checked, Hollander is on our team, wearing our colors, shooting for points for us, no?" Ilya says now, staring down the other. "Everything he does out there should matter to you."
Kent's face flames a bright red.
"It shouldn't."
"Then maybe you should look for a new team, Kent," Ilya says, distracted, as Hollander slams his stick down on the ground, frustrated.
"Because I don't care about him?" the other spits out, from somewhere very far away.
"Because you don't seem to care about us and us going to championships."
"I do."
"Then, act like it. We have opponents, and he is not one of them right now. Not while we're on the same team. Get it through your brain."
Hollander is snarling to himself now as he slides along the cracks on the ice—the cracks he made—that perfect, meticulous composure slipping with each second. It's odd seeing this undoing from a difference, and not being the root cause of it. Nobody—J.J., Floozy, Luca, everyone else—seems to know what to do—the others on the team go antsy and jittery, their gazes flickering to the unbreakable Shane Hollander forming fissures with each second.
Ilya's fingers dig into his thighs.
Dupont leers down at Hollander.
There's a proximity between the two that sends Ilya's stomach churning. A familiarity even in the animosity that seems to radiate from this Dupont, and the tension that encases Hollander. Or perhaps, more accurately, especially in the animosity.
Hollander looks up and stares at the other man; Ilya grits his teeth. Don't, every part of him wants to leap onto the ice and physically yank Hollander's gaze away. Don't look at him.
Dupont's mouth forms over words Ilya can't comprehend, and Hollander reaches out. His hand outstretched as if to strike. Everyone tenses at that—Shane Hollander, Good Boy, perfect Shane Hollander picking a fight on the ice on purpose, with intention. Against someone who wasn't Ilya.
As fucking if.
On impulse, Ilya slams his hands against the barrier. The sudden impact reverberates through his bones and down his body, but the effect is good enough. The sound jerks Hollander's gaze towards him, for just a second—but it's enough.
Onyx eyes. Freckles. It's a sight Ilya has seen a billion times already, but the familiar does nothing to quell the heat rushing through him.
There's, also, about a billion things he can do with those eyes on his. But time is slipping like sand through his fingers, and Hollander is still so far away, and the window of opportunity is closing by the second. So, Ilya licks his lips and leans forward in his seat—as far as he can go—and shouts the first thing that comes to mind:
"Let's fucking go, Hollander!"
Hollander's gaze widens. Dupont is muttering something to him, properly the worst sort of vitriolic words, but his gaze remains, this time on Ilya. A rush goes through Ilya at that, at the undivided attention, at Hollander's undivided attention. Look at me.
He rips his gloves off, puts his fingers in his mouth, and whistles. The sound is shrill. "Let's fucking go!"
There's a beat before another person on the bench pipes up. Troy. "Fuck yeah!" he shouts and slams his stick down on the ground for good measure. "C'mon!"
"Cap! Cap! Cap!" Most of the others start chiming in before listing off the names of their teammates. Luca. J.J. Boyle. Floozy. Hollander, Hollander, Captain Shane Hollander.
Hollander watches him for a beat, as the world moves around them, almost as if in slow motion. Ilya doesn't look away. Eventually, the other gives a tiny jerk of the chin in acknowledgement. A nod.
And Ilya's chest expands and balloons—growing past his lungs, ribcage, and pumping vessels—making room for something else. What else could he do but whistle once more, the sound shrill even in his own ears? What could he do in the face of all that was Shane Hollander?
The puck drops again, and Hollander is off, a blur of color and fire—a fucking tornado. Dupont can't catch him, Luca can't catch him; opponents and teammates alike try to get close, but he's barely even a human anymore. Ilya leans forward, breath catching in his lungs.
Seconds tick down.
People jump up from their seats.
The world narrows down to the puck, to the clamor of boys fighting for it, then to the arc of a stick rising high in the air.
When Hollander scores, nobody knows how to process it. They're too caught off by how quick he is—super-fucking-sonic—how fast reality has shifted. One moment, their team is down by one point; the next, they have it. And it's all thanks to Hollander. Even as Ilya's head spins at the sudden dissonance, at how Hollander is heaving in front of the goal, the strong line of his spine curved in the deafening silence, he can feel his body moving on its own.
I want to win, Hollander had said to Ilya once, and Ilya thinks back to it now. How those words formed and fell free from that mouth. I want to win.
Ilya cups his hands over his mouth and shouts. He thinks he tries to say Hollander's name, at first, but it devolves halfway, losing all pretense and syllable until it's nothing more than a howl.
The rest of their team explodes around him, broken out of their trance. "Hollander!" they roar as they slam their hands on every surface they can find. They create a symphony, a cacophony of violent approval, and Ilya wants to sing to it. He wants Hollander to stand before them and conduct all this discordant noise into something actually melodic.
Hollander clacks sticks with Luca, victorious, knocks helmets with J.J. He looks at Dupont, who is hanging back and still looks a little struck stupid, and Ilya leans forward in his seat, nearly bent in half. His mouth fills with the taste of blood.
Hollander doesn't make him wait long.
He turns to look at Ilya next, and he's smiling. Or more like baring his teeth into a sharp sort of grin that, in another life, Ilya thinks could topple empires and level nations upside down. As terrifying as it was beautiful. Completely wild.
They watch each other for a beat, then two. Then, Ilya shouts again, Hollander's name dying on his lips to make way for an animalistic sort of call. Wolves could probably pick up this frequency. Birds, too, maybe.
"Hollander! Cap! Shane fucking Hollander!" Everyone joins in.
Then, Hollander throws his head back, baring his throat to the ceiling and to the heavens above, and laughs. The sound lingers and seeps right into the marrow of Ilya's bones.
-
Kent has been looking at him weirdly for the past few days.
Ilya doesn't really give a rat's ass what that waste of air thinks of him. Frankly, he thinks the world would be better if people stopped taking account of Dallas Kent and his thoughts, opting to let the man wither away to obscurity. But even so, his gaze has gotten a little…unsettling.
"Can I talk to you?" Wiebe pulls Ilya aside one day after practice. The team is still riding a high from defeating McGill because they fucking beat McGill. Ilya blinks, taking his gloves off.
"You're offering me a choice, Coach?"
"No," Wiebe says. "See you in my office in ten."
When Ilya sidles into the room, shutting the door behind him, Wiebe studies him from over the rim of his glasses for a long beat. Ilya tolerates it, before the silence gets too much. He has a fucking philosophy of sport paper to turn in, and Hollander had said Ilya should finish the paper tonight so that he could do last-minute revisions, for God's sake.
"Yes?" Ilya asks, fingering the crucifix on his neck.
"Kent," Wiebe says. Every part of Ilya suddenly tenses at that name. He lets go of his necklace.
"What about him?"
"He came to me with some…choice complaints about Hollander as a team captain."
All thoughts of the paper fly out of Ilya's brain. He stares. "He what?"
Wiebe leans back in his seat. "Thinks he's not the right fit for a variety of reasons, at least that's what I managed to understand in the midst of his…more agitated words."
"Yeah? The fuck did he say?" Ilya snarls, his voice coming out a little guttural.
"A lot of the reasons were superficial," Wiebe says, calmly. "But the gist is, he seems to believe that Hollander is too detached from the rest of the team. Too…ego-driven."
Ilya barks out a laugh. "Hollander won us a fucking game last week, Coach. If we want to talk about ego-driven, we should look at someone else's behavior on the ice and their annoying habit of hog the puck, even when they know their position is shit. That is something to talk about. Not whatever this is."
Irritation swells in him at Coach Wiebe bringing up some stupid shit like Dallas Kent's vendetta against Hollander, of wasting Ilya's time with this nonsense.
"You don't share his concerns, I presume."
"No."
"But you did before?" Wiebe asks, tapping his fingers on his desk.
"I never thought he was incompetent," Ilya snaps, nerves fraying on the edge. "And I never thought fucking Dallas Kent could be a better captain than him."
"I never said you did."
"Then what are you saying, Coach?"
"I'm saying that one of your teammates came in with a complaint about your captain, and while I hold different opinions, personally, it's still a complaint that's escalated to me. I also wanted to give you a heads-up before I reach out to Hollander and the others."
"Why?" Ilya asks. Wiebe gives him a look.
"Because you're the unofficial co-captain, in everything but the title," he says, and the unspoken words are right there. And you would be the one to take Hollander's place, if the general consensus came to the same complaint.
Earlier this year, it would have been everything Ilya ever dreamed of. He would claw at the chance for leadership, to beat Shane Hollander at his own game. Now, he bites down on his tongue.
"Coach," he says, as measuredly as possible. "There is no need to escalate this situation. Make it worse and so dramatic, over nothing."
Wiebe raises an eyebrow. "Nothing."
"Dallas Kent is nothing—his words mean nothing. He has had it out for Hollander since we first joined the team. You know this."
"Is this an official complaint?" Wiebe asks, something serious in his voice as he sits up. Their team was pretty hands-off, with Coach Wiebe serving as a more technical guide than a babysitter or something of the sort. As an unspoken rule, the team figured out their interpersonal issues amongst each other, and only resorted to running to the coach when things were serious. When they needed the school to be involved.
Wiebe valued teamwork over all and let them choose whether or not they wished for him to be involved. And he never overstepped that boundary, even when Ilya suggested that he wanted to. But there was a fine line that they were skating here.
The gall of Kent to bring this up to Wiebe was absurd, but the urge to do the same now eats at Ilya. A complaint against Dallas Kent and all his subtle cruelties targeted at Hollander over the years, Hollander alone, and how they've worsened when he became captain.
Ilya fingers his crucifix.
You'll never be one of them.
Hollander's eyes had glittered while he said those words, but…he had not wanted Ilya to speak to anyone about it. And even with everything screaming at Ilya to take it up with Wiebe and the school board and everyone with ears that would listen, while he was at it…It wasn't his place.
Not unless he wanted whatever he and Hollander had to fracture and split right down the middle. Not unless he wanted the team to collapse before even making it to semis.
"This is me speaking the truth," he says, treading as lightly as possible. Even as rage pulses over him in a heavy, drumming beat. "I have never been Hollander's biggest fan either, but he is good at what he does. Kent is biased. I'm not."
Wiebe studies him, expression unreadable. "So," he says, after a long beat. "This is something you think the team can sort out on their own?"
Ilya would make them sort it out on their own. He nods.
"Okay," Wiebe says, and the finality of it makes Ilya blink.
"Okay?" he asks, stupidly, because if there was one thing he learned in life was to never look a gift horse in the mouth. But Wiebe shrugs and doesn't move an inch.
"If you think you and Hollander can handle it, I'll trust you two. It is your team."
Yours—as a collective referring to him and Shane Hollander. The single word makes Ilya's stomach squirm, his chest going tight. He licks his lips.
"It is technically your team."
"I think people who actually play on the team are more deserving of the title," Wiebe says, then gestures to the door. "That's all, unless you have something."
Ilya starts for the door, but before he can turn the knob completely, Wiebe speaks again.
"Ilya. Tell Shane that he can talk to me about anything. He tends to clam up around me, and I just want him to know. That whatever he wants to say, I'll listen."
A surge of emotion fills him then, overtaking the thrumming anger. It makes the pit in his stomach seem even more cavernous than usual, hollowing him from the inside out and leaving behind nothing but emptiness. He closes his eyes in the face of Wiebe's metaphorical extended hand—a kind offer.
Almost fatherly.
He thinks of how Hollander may never take the hand. If he were in his shoes, Ilya wouldn't, at least.
Ilyusha, do you ever feel lonely?
"Okay," he says, then leaves.
He finds Kent alone in the locker room, shoving his shit into his duffel bag. Ilya doesn't hesitate.
He sidles up next to the guy, places one hand on the nape of his neck, and squeezes down. His fingers dig into the vulnerable sides of Dallas Kent's throat as Kent flails, caught off guard. Ilya keeps him still, scruffing the other like a puppy.
"Is funny," Ilya says. "That you said that Hollander was running off to daddy and complaining when he talked to coach about something, when really, I see only one person here who does that."
He taps his fingers on the other's skin in a gesture that might be affectionate, between two teammates. "If you have any real concerns with Hollander, you can bring them up to anyone. If you want to bitch and complain like you have been this entire year, maybe do not waste our good coach's time. He is so busy, after all."
"Hollywood's gonna make us lose championships and you fucking know it," Kent hisses, a pathetic excuse at something to give his argument any validation.
"If anything, you will do that for him," Ilya says, venom seeping into his voice and turning it raspy. "Do not like him, hate him, and write mean things in your diary about him all you want. But you are speaking too much for someone who warms the bench most days, while the rest of us actually work for this."
He squeezes Kent's neck. "You do want to win, do you? Who knows when you will get the opportunity to hold a trophy again, yes? You will not hold it as a captain, neither will I, but at least you will hold it."
Kent glares at him, but Ilya holds his gaze. His stare was like a warm hug compared to Shane Hollander's snarls and Andrei's poison; it was practically a bath full of kittens and puppies when contrasted with Ilya's father's icy blue eyes. It was inconsequential, just like him.
A weak link.
Kent nods, after a beat. Ilya smiles.
"Good."
He lets go and watches Kent scurry away without another word.
The whole situation makes him about half an hour late to class, and Professor Smith gives him a stinkeye as Ilya slinks into the classroom, trying not to disturb anyone. Though he stops after Ilya answers a question correctly, a few minutes later, he turns away with a sniff. Success on many different fronts tonight.
Maybe.
"Where were you?" Hollander asks at the tutoring session. Ilya studies his features, at the way he chews on his highlighter cap before realizing how unsanitary it is and pulling away, abashed. His mouth leaves a glossy residue behind. Ilya wants to lick the spit there.
"Hm?"
"You were late to class."
"Was I?" Ilya asks, mildly. "Really?"
"Dude, are you trying to gaslight me right now?"
"I would never gaslight, that's all in your head," Ilya says and throws his pen cap at Hollander. Hollander dodges, scowling, though his lips are also twitching slightly.
"You think you're so funny, don't you?"
"I don't think that. I know."
Hollander groans at that, and, to Ilya's delight, chucks his highlighter cap at him. Ilya catches it in mid-air and tucks it into his pocket as subtly as possible. Could saliva condense and linger? He hopes so.
"Give it back," Hollander says, dark eyes narrowing.
"Nah," Ilya says, pleasantly, and starts editing his essay.
Hollander grumbles at that, but he stops fighting when Ilya turns his computer screen towards him and asks about a specific point Hollander crossed out in the paper. They work together for the rest of the hour, before Ilya has read through certain paragraphs enough that his eyes feel like they're gonna start bleeding, and he's had enough.
It was as good as it was gonna get.
"You could read it over in the morning with a fresh set of eyes," Hollander argues halfheartedly, but Ilya waves him off and submits the paper. The confetti graphic that trails down his screen at the submission confirmation makes his chest loosen.
He turns to Hollander and grins. "All submitted. Proud of me, professor?"
"I'd be prouder if you had proofread it in the morning," Hollander says, because he has a perpetual stick up his butt. Even so, his foot nudges against Ilya as he shuts his laptop, and there's a hint of warmth in his voice.
Ilya basks in it.
"Want something to drink?" he asks, and Hollander shakes his head. "Something to eat?"
"No. Why are you treating me like that?"
"Like what?" Ilya says, confused.
Hollander shifts in his seat, brows furrowed together. "You're being kinda weird, Rozanov. I'm not a guest in your house."
"Really," Ilya drawls, even as his head whirls. Because, yeah, he was being a little stiff with Hollander. When had he ever been stiff in his life, especially with Shane Hollander? Unease creeps up. "You are not a guest? Since when? Did you move in or something?"
"Shut up."
"No, really. Are you squatting in my apartment?"
Hollander frowns at him, and he goes to stand, clearly incensed. Ilya tugs him down onto his lap and kisses that anger away.
"You were crazy last weekend," Ilya mumbles, unable to be quiet, even during this. His kisses down the other's throat. Hollander moans and arches his neck for more access. "Fucking insane."
"Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment."
Ilya's stomach squirms. He bites down on the hollow of the other's throat, hard, and Hollander sings for him. Some of the discomfort melts at the familiar song and dance, and the control returns to Ilya. "Just the truth. We should celebrate."
"We?" Hollander croaks out.
"You know," Ilya says and bites the other's earlobe. "The team."
"Oh."
"Oh?"
Hollander swallows. Ilya presses close and listens to the sound travel through the other's body. "Why celebrate that? It's just something I had to do; I had to win. So I did it."
"That doesn't mean we can't appreciate it," Ilya says.
"I mean," Hollander says, after a beat. "It's still kind of weird."
"So you don't want to do anything to celebrate how we—our team—won against fucking McGill?"
"If it's about the team, fine."
"You are the team," Ilya reminds him, sweeping his thumbs over the fine bones of Hollander's hips and thinking of the way these very muscles flex when Hollander skates across the ice, when he bends his body in unreal ways to score a goal, when he falls apart for Ilya. His blood heats.
"Whatever, man," Hollander's cheeks are bright pink. Peony pink, the color in full bloom. "I'm not throwing a party in my honor."
"That is okay," Ilya says and licks his cheek—a long, disgusting stripe that he hopes will send Hollander writhing in a combination of lust and distaste. "I will do that for you."
Hollander looks at him, then. The expression in his eyes is decidedly not lust or disgust, but something else entirely. Ilya's breath catches.
"Really?" Hollander whispers, a secret word passed from him to Ilya in just a breath. Delicate enough to shatter. Ilya blinks up at him.
"Really," he manages, and before Hollander's onyx eyes can do something completely idiotic, such as soften, before he can make it worse by smiling, Ilya leans in and kisses him. When they fuck, he makes sure to put Hollander face down, so he won't be tempted to do something he'll regret.
"Rozanov," Hollander cries out as he cums. Ilya rests his nose against the nape of the other's neck, right against the splotches of color and heat of skin.
"Hollander," he breathes out.
-
Lydia J.J.'s Party:
Hey! Sorry that you missed Epsilon's party, are you still…
-
Max or Mike Stop Light Party:
okay u clearly aren't interested so whatever bye
-
Sasha:
Ilya??? where the fuck have you been???
-
Sooyoung Library:
you can't at least respond??
fucking dick
-
Roxanne Cuck Bf:
Hello? Did u die or smth?
If you are still interested we're super excited to…
-
Andrei:
Ilya. Call me back.
Stop ignoring me.
[You have: 10+ unopened messages (see more)]
-
Me:
Hey
J.J.:
sup
Me:
We should throw a party
J.J.:
sure
Me:
You don't even know what it's for
J.J.:
you had me at party, what can i say
but ok what is it for
us fucking mcgill in the ass?
Me:
Hollander fucking mcgill in the ass
J.J.:
OH
well yes
but wow i never thought i'd live to see the day
Me:
?
J.J.:
the day that u and shane became bffs
Me:
We are not bffs
I am celebrating our win and he is who gave us the win
J.J.:
man, even i didn't think about throwing him a party
and u love throwing parties it's basically a love confession
?
helloooooo
did u ghost me
Me:
Do you want to get shitfaced or not
I'll host
J.J.:
omg omg
i've died and gone to heaven
thank you cap hollander 🫡
ok let's do it
Me:
What does Hollander like?
J.J.:
hockey
Me:
…and?
J.J.:
scott hunter?
Me:
You want me to cancel this party don't you
J.J.:
what's ur beef with scott hunter, man 💀
Me:
Old
J.J.:
bruh
shane has always been laser focused on hockey in all the years i've known him
this is kinda hard
oh wait i have an idea
-
New Group Chat: J.J., [UNKNOWN NUMBER], and Me
J.J.:
hi
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
Jj? Who tf is this other guy?
J.J.:
hayden, don't be mad but
roz and i are trying to plan something and we need ur help
[UNKNOWN NUMBER] has left.
Me:
That was hayden pike?
J.J.:
bruh yeah
let me add him back
J.J. has added [UNKNOWN NUMBER].
Me:
Why
We do not need him
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
FUCK YOU ROZANOV
Me:
No thank u
I do not fuck losers
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
I'M ON A CHL TEAM
Me:
A losing CHL team
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
GO DIE
[UNKNOWN NUMBER] has left.
J.J. has added [UNKNOWN NUMBER].
J.J.:
hayden, listen
roz's trying to throw a surprise party for shane bc he kicked ass in the latest game against fucking mcgill
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
Oh
That's…nice
Me:
Aw thanks
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
Stfu dude
So u need my help basically
Me:
Need is a very strong word
J.J.:
what kind of party would shane enjoy?
he's not a big drinker so should it be a sober party
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
He doesn't mind when other people drink
Me:
He drinks sometimes
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
Yeah
Wait
How do YOU know that Rozanov???
Me:
Would he be okay with a karaoke party if he doesn't have to sing
It would give other ppl the chance to be stupid and he could watch
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
I mean I guess so
Shane's generally down for most funcs that have an activity y'know
He doesn't like ragers where people just drink to get shit-faced
Also not great with surprises
J.J.:
aw but surprise parties are so fun
roz, we should still make it a surprise. i think cap will like it
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
Don't say I didn't warn you
But anyways...why are YOU throwing this party Rozanov
Are you gonna poison him or smth???
Me:
No
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
Suspicious
JJ keep an eye on him