J.J.:
dw man they're friends now
bffs even
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
WHAT
J.J.:
roz, i'll rally the guys
best surprise party #soon
Me:
Thanks for the info pike
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]:
YOU ARE NOT SHANE'S BEST FRIEND
STOP THE PARTY JJ
SHUT IT DOWN
You have left.
[UNKNOWN NUMBER] has been added as a new contact: Shane's Friend Pike
-
Me:
We are throwing a surprise party for you
The team I mean
Shane Hollander đ¤:
?
Isn't the whole point of a surprise that you don't tell the person you're supposed to surprise
Me:
Yeah
Pretend to act shocked this weekend when u walk into my home
Shane Hollander đ¤:
OkayâŚ
Why are you throwing a surprise party for me?
Me:
Like I told u we should celebrate a win
I also promised I would
Shane Hollander đ¤:
Yeah but
Me:
But what
Shane Hollander đ¤:
Idk i didn't think you were being serious
Me:
I am always serious
Do you hate the idea of it that much?
Shane Hollander đ¤:
No I don't
Thanks
Me:
Don't thank me yet
-
They keep it lowkey.
Ilya decides against a cake with Hollander's face printed on it and against balloons, lest Hollander punches him for it. It's more like a casual team outing, though with a little more purpose than their usual pregames at Red's before they split off for the night.
For one, Ilya is hosting. At his place.
For another, he bought a karaoke machine.
"So," Troy says, as Ilya fiddles with the karaoke machine. It was at least a few years old when it came to songs. Maybe he should have bought a newer version, but it was short notice, and he would never do karaoke again, so they could make do.
Probably.
"So."
"This party is in Hollander's honor."
"Yes," Ilya scrolls through the list of pop songs and feels his lips downturn. Hollander probably wouldn't know half of the people on here if he barely knew what Rihanna looked like. He scrolls.
"You never threw me a party before," Troy hums, and there's a hint of something knowing in his voice. Like he sees a big picture that Ilya doesn't even have the first puzzle piece for, and that amuses him. Something prickles.
"Do something worth celebrating and I will," he shoots back.
Troy raises his eyebrows. "Touchy. So you two really did put that rivalry to bed?"
The karaoke machine doesn't have We Found Love by Rihanna available. In what universe would a karaoke machine not have We Found Love? It was pure blasphemy.
Ilya keeps scrolling.
"It's not that serious," he mutters.
"Bro, people used to make theories about you two killing each other before the end of the first year. Actual sports broadcasters put bets on it."
"Canadians are so dramatic." Nothing from ANTI is on here either. Ilya needs to have a serious talk with whoever programmed this machine.
"Weren't you the one who punched him in the face when you first met and then declared him to be your mortal enemy forever? Who the hell is the dramatic one here?" Troy laughs, leaning against the bar.
"Hollander was the one who punched me first," Ilya argues. "I headbutted him. And I never declared him to be my mortal enemyâwhat fantasy books are you reading?"
"The books where you guys are suddenly friends."
Friends.
Ilya swallows at that word.
He had no shortage of friends; friends came as easily as breathing. His friends were beautiful, wild people who partied and laughed easily. His friends were also decidedly not Shane Hollander.
Hollander was uptight and strict, all tight button-ups and even tighter frowns. He balked at alcohol. He would probably collapse if molly was within 10 feet of him. Or worse, ask who 'molly' was and why everyone was looking for her. Hollander held onto his control as most people held onto their social security numbers.
On paper, nothing about him was fun.
Ilya scrolls through the Rihanna songs. Bitch Better Have My Money. Umbrella. S&M.
"That's pushing it."
Ilya didn't need more friendsâespecially, friends that made his head hurt, and palms sweat with annoyance. Friends that took so much effort, a constant give and take, a push and pull. Difficult friends.
"You guys seem close, man," Troy says. "Like friends."
Because in truth: Everything about Shane Hollander was difficultâthe type of difficult that people strayed from, that gave wide berth, even despite all his beauty and talents. He was difficult. Like a stray kitten that had more teeth and claws than fur.
Stay. We Found Love. Where Have You Been.
And yet.
You're one of us. Hollander wrapping his lips around a beer bottle, pink lips glistening. We belong to the team, it belongs to us. Hollander wanting to go to a sex shop with Ilya, together, just the two of them. Is just the truth.
Troy watches Ilya, his eyes beseeching.
You guys are suddenly friends.
Friends. The word makes Ilya's fingers pause over the tablet, the more he mulls it over. Were he and Hollander really friends? The same boring Hollander who punched Ilya when they were fourteen? The same Hollander whom Ilya fucked until he sobbed? That Hollander?
At his silence, Troy hums once more. "Or are you guys somethingâŚmore?"
Ilya blinks. What.
"Excuse me?"
Troy doesn't elaborate, but even if he did, Ilya doesn't think he would have heard him. The world is spinning a little. He feels like he just got punched in the solar plexus, kind of. Because, really. What.
"Excuse me?" he manages again, because Troy is staying quiet.
"It's a genuine question," he says, after a beat.
"Maybe I have lost my ability to speak and understand English. Early-onset Alzheimer's. I am losing my mind."
Ilya's head is spinning. He has to lie down. Or something.
"That makes no sense."
He barks out a laugh, feeling half-crazed, and the sound reflects that just fine. "Oh, I am the one who makes no sense? Are you hearing yourself? No, actually, are you the one who is losing your ability to speak English coherently?"
Troy leans against the bar, raising an eyebrow. He looks remarkably calm for a man who is losing his grasp in reality, but perhaps people whose minds were slipping were sometimes the ones most at peace, while the people around them fell apart. Ilya stares at him.
"So you don't have anything going on between you two?" the other asks.
"Hollander isn't evenâ"
"Don't give me that, bro," Troy waves a dismissive hand. "And I won't tell anyone, regardless. I'm just saying, Roz, it's not that weird of a conclusion to come to."
Ilya sets the tablet down and picks it back up again, his fingers twitching, heart racing in his chest. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. He can't wipe it off, though, can't give Troy the satisfaction of cracking under pressure.
"What, because I am bisexual, you think I am sleeping with every man I talk to? That is homophobic, I think," he says, trying for a smirk. It comes off a little too big on his face, and he can feel the corners of it straining.
"I'm literally gay," Troy's cheeks turn a little pink at the word gay, though he doesn't take it back, which makes Ilya's chest warm, in spite of the conversation they're having. The feeling doesn't last, unfortunately.
"How is it not a weird conclusion to come to?" Ilya bursts out. "He and I have broken each other's arms and legs more than once."
"I don't know how far your weird flirting rituals go, and I don't want to know," Troy says. "But all I'm saying is that you've been kind of weird towards him recently."
"You're the one who's weird," Ilya shoots back, petty.
Troy's smile grows, like that's all the confirmation he needs. It makes Ilya want to roll his eyes or punch him a little. It makes Ilya want to tuck his head down and hide. Each feeling is more discomfiting than the last.
Another bead of sweat rolls down his neck.
"I won't tell anyone," Troy promises.
"There's nothing to tell," Ilya says, even as Hollander's voice permeates through the hazeâpleas for Ilya not to tell anyone about this. For them to keep it a secret.
"Sure."
"I mean it. He and I are notâ" his throat gets caught at the word nothing. Because it's not nothing, he knows this; he and Hollander have been nothing, a rivalry is nothingânot in their world. But they're also notâŚ. "âwe're not that."
Troy rolls his eyes, and Ilya looks down at the tablet, just to keep himself from hurling the thing, along with the contents of his stomach.
Troy's words echo. Something more. Something more. Not a fuckbuddy, not a rival, but something more.
There was nowhere he and Hollander could go further than these labels. They were Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, for Christ's sake. Where else could they venture past the confines of heat and teeth, of dominance and victories?
The word comes to him, but Ilya swallows it down. Not happening. Not in a million yearsânot with Hollander, not in Ilya's life in general, never that. No way.
"Yo, Roz!" Boodram's booming voice cuts through his thoughts, as half the team bangs on Ilya's door, buzzing and thrumming with energy. Ilya clicks on Diamonds, adds it to the queue, and sets the tablet down. Enough of that bullshit for tonight.
People don't bitch and moan about how this party is essentially for Hollander, which makes Ilya pause a little. He had thought he would have to play referee moreânot that he liked that role at all, that was Coach Wiebe's job, thank you. But everyone seemsâŚokay with it.
Maybe it had to do with the fact that Ilya was paying for the booze, maybe none of them could resist the good party that celebrated hockey or a win that brought them closer to kissing a championship trophy. Or maybe, just maybe, they had taken his words to heart.
Something unfurls in Ilya's chest at the thought.
The upperclassmen are missing, Kent is missing, but he couldn't really care less, in all honesty.
Not when, eventually, Hollander knocks on Ilya's door. He's wearing nice clothes, maybe a little too nice for tonight, and Ilya can't help but lean on the doorframe and take him in for a second too long.
"Hello," he says.
"Hi," Hollander says, twisting his shirt, before smoothing it over.
"You better give them a show of a lifetime," Ilya whispers, conspiratorially. "Really lean into the shock. You can even swoon."
Hollander snorts, though his eyes dart behind Ilya's back to try to make out the living room. "What am I, a Victorian woman?"
Ilya puts a hand on his forehead, the movement dainty, and slumps further against the doorframe. Hollander's cheeks dimple, and the urge to reach out and lick those indents fills Ilya then. He bites his lip to keep himself from doing just that.
Hollander watches him for a beat, eyelashes fluttering. Fuck the party, Ilya almost blurts out, then. He eyes the apples of Hollander's bubblegum pink cheeks. Let's get out of here.
Before the words can leave his lips, J.J. pops up from behind him. "Oh, what a surprise," he says, his rehearsed lines. The cadence is almost robotic, though his eyes are glittering. "Shane Hollander! What are you doing here?"
Hollander, who knows all the details because Ilya told him them in private, blinks. "Um," he says. "Rozanov said we needed to talk."
"Yes," J.J. says. "Let's talk."
He gives a big wink to Ilya, who had also long decided not to feel bad for playing double agent, because J.J. was so damn obvious, Hollander would have figured out how weird this was from the very beginning, with or without Ilya's help. J.J. leads them inside.
Nobody has enough patience, and everyone yells surprise at the same time. Wyatt trips over his own feet. It's a mess.
"Oh my God," Hollander says, also a little awkwardly. A smile is still creeping over his face, thoughâhowever small it may beâand Ilya inches closer, lost to the sight. "What's this for?"
There's a brief pause before people start speaking.
"For playing like your ass was on fire," Dillion says.
"For fucking McGill up," Chouinard salutes.
"For having a beautiful fucking slapshot," Luca pipes in.
Their words are lighthearted, though tinged with truth, and each response has Hollander's back straightening, his shoulders pushed back. He looks like he's about to carry the world on his shoulders, without breaking a sweat. He looks like a real winner.
He considers them all for a beat. "One of my old teammates was in McGill's lineup," he says, and Ilya blinks. He hadn't expected that confession. Hollander rarely revealed anything about himself, a locked treasure chest, and the room went silent, understanding the weight of this moment.
"He was a piece of shit," Hollander says.
Dupont, Ilya recalls, his teeth suddenly on edge. He thinks he knows exactly what he did to earn the title. "Still is, I guess. But that doesn't matter, he doesn't matter to meâto us, because we fucking crushed his team."
"Fuck yeah," Troy pipes in.
"We're going to championships," Hollander says to the room, and his voice captivates. The confidence in it, the absolute certainty. If Shane Hollander declared it, then it was so. "And we're gonna win. Fucking McGill never stood a chance, not against you all. Nobody has."
Arrogant? Yes. A little absurd? Perhaps.
Beautiful.
Their team howls in self-imposed victory, as if they already won and could taste the champagne on their tongue. Ilya bumps his shoulder against Shane's, the contact sending warmth down his spine. "You are a very good captain," he finds himself blurting out, in the face of Hollander's smile. That rare, undoing smile.
A smile that, Ilya realizes with a jolt, anyone can see.
Without another thought, his hand goes to Hollander's bicep. Hollander's brows furrow a little. Ilya's mouth parts. Let's get out of here.
"Let's fucking go!" J.J. roars, and the moment is broken.
The team trashes Ilya's place. There's no nicer word for it, and Ilya is going to exact some serious revenge on them all next week, but for now, he lets it go.
At one point, the drunken first years manage to bully Hollander up to the karaoke machine with them, sandwiching him in between their bodies so he won't run away. The familiar introduction to Diamond pours out through the speakers, and the roar at the first notes makes Ilya's ears pop.
"Fuck yeah, this is my shit!" Dykstra shouts from where he's hanging against Ilya. "When I birth a daughter, I'm gonna name her Diamond."
"Diamond Dykstra."
"A beautiful name," Dykstra says, solemnly.
"Sounds like a hooker name," Ilya snorts and props him against Boodram, who's flicked on his phone flashlight like he's in a concert.
The first years screech the lyrics horribly, and if Ilya hadn't almost gone deaf before, he wishes he did now. He watches Hollander. The flush on his face, crimson and bubblegum intermixed, has traveled down his neck. His nose is scrunched a little.
When Singh points the mic at him, Hollander leans in and stammers over the lyricsâclearly not knowing the song but trying his best. While the first years have an intense riff off, while the rest of their teammates, all so lost to alcohol, try to hype them upâfucking idiots, Ilya snortsâhis and Hollander's eyes meet.
The music is loud. The alcohol is more than enoughn. And most importantly, there are people all around Ilya. Pressing in close, holding him, knowing him on a level that people who sweat and bled with someone really knew them. Perhaps out of the hundreds of contacts in Ilya's phone, they were the people who knew him the mostâaside from Svetlana.
Hollander's freckles are stark in this light.
If Ilya had more time, he could count all of them. He could trace over them with his index finger or thumb. If they were aloneâjust him and Hollander, face to face, without boundaries or helmets or mouthguards.
A desire so strong it feels more like a wave than just mere emotion, overtakes everything in that moment. Ilya jerks his head toward the exit. Let's get out of here, he mouths.
Hollander blinks at him. An expression of stunned surprise crosses over those features before Hollander steels his face and nods. Yes, that one move screams over the cacophony of noise.
Yes, let's get out of here. You and me. Together.
And, oh, Ilya could sing.
-
They end up in one of those 24-hour dinersâneither of them ready to go back to either of their apartments just yet. The bell rings in a gentle melody as they push open the doors into the diner. After ushering them to a booth, a waitress slides over a couple of sticky menus.
Hollander orders one of those small fruit salad bowls. Ilya points to the first thing on the menuâa chocolate milkshake.
"Could I also get a ginger ale, please?" Hollander asks softly to the waitress, who nods, clicks her pen, and disappears behind the counter without another word.
"Ginger ale?" Ilya asks.
Hollander blinks at him. "Yeah?" he ventures, slowly, jaw slightly tensed, though he isn't completely tensed over. Not on the defensive.
So, he liked ginger ale. Interesting. A little gross, butâ
"What brand?"
"I don't know what kind they have here. It could be Canada Dry."
"No, I meant what brand do you like the best?"
Hollander's eyelashes flutter. Ilya leans forward, watching the movement. Waiting.
"Schweppes is pretty good. I like dry ginger ale more than golden, though," Hollander answers, after a beat. As if on cue, the waitress walks back in and slides a can of ginger ale in his direction, and a water in Ilya's. She gives them both a nod before heading away.
Hollander takes a long swig from his drink, and Ilya eyes the way his jaw flexes with each swallow, his jawline sharp enough to reach out and cut yourself on. He seems to savor the taste, like Ilya savors good vodka, and the perpetual crinkle between those dark brows relaxes somewhat. Ilya files that information away for later.
"Now I know what flavor lube we should buy together," he says, quietly, and Hollander chokes on his drink. Ilya laughs.
"Dude," Hollander wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His mouth has a glossy sheen from the ginger ale, and it only accentuates the plumpness of his mouth; Ilya sways a little forward, wanting to sink his teeth into it.
Hollander gives him a suspicious look, though he doesn't scooch back. They watch each other over the table, sugar packets and half-empty maple syrup dispensers separating them. Ilya clears his throat.
"Did you like the party?"
Hollander's eyes sparkle. "It was okay."
Ilya grins.
"Chouinard sounds like a baby bird dying," Hollander says as he sips on his ginger ale. "Like a perodactyl giving birth."
"Like a parrot getting run over."
Hollander's lips twitch from around the can. "You didn't want to sing, though?" he asks.
"Well, I was hoping you and I would sing a Rihanna song," Ilya jokes. "But the first years got to you first."
"I wish I'd known. Would have saved it for you."
The ease with which the joke comes from Hollander makes Ilya want to do something reckless, like jump in the air and whoop for joy. A rush of something floods his veins, a feeling similar to victoryâlike the first time he had won a game against the other, the first time he had made Hollander cum in his pants.
"Next time," he says. "The bar that we went to has karaoke on Thursdays sometimes."
Hollander blinks. "Do they?" he asks, trying to sound casual, but Ilya can see the spark of interest in his gaze.
"Mhm."
"Huh," Hollander takes another drink from his ginger ale. "Okay. SoundsâŚinteresting."
And that was a green light, as anything, coming from Shane Hollander. Ilya smiles, the victory in his bloodstream only flooding in more potent by the minute. He shifts in his seat. The plastic booth makes a weird noise, like a mouse squeaking.
Only a couple of other patrons are here with themâa trucker, what looks like a late-night study group, and an older man reading a newspaper. The hum of the coffee machine fills the relative quiet. It feels a little like he and Hollander are suddenly in that one famous painting Svetlana loved.
Nighthawks, Ilya's brain supplies him with the title. By a 1940s American artist. A painting set in a downtown diner: A quiet, melancholic bubble in the dead of night; a place for the sinners of the city to rest and ruminate.
"He was trying to capture 'the loneliness of a large city,'" Svetlana had said once. Ilya hadn't wanted to hear the rest.
"Are you lonely? I can help you get rid of it. I can."
He eyes Hollander's skin now, glowing golden under the fluorescent lights.
"Coach talked to me about Kent," he says.
Hollander stiffens.
"He's been complaining about you. Talking shit."
"How is that anything new?" Hollander asks, stiffly.
"He's complaining to Wiebe about you," Ilya clarifies. "We do not do that. We do not bring shit up with him explicitly, unless we want him and the school to intervene." He knows that Hollander knows this.
Hollander sets his drink down. "Is CoachâŚconcerned?"
Ilya sighs, itching for a cigarette. "Not about you as a captain, but about a lot of other things. About you."
"I'm fine."
Ilya squints at him. He thinks of all the ammo he could fire in Hollander's direction, how Hollander's shaky words whispered in his car, the self-blame and Vincent Wang and Kent's poison seeping into every syllable. He doesn't think Shane Hollander is fine.
But who is he to come to that conclusion for the other? They weren't friends, they weren'tâ
Ilya leans back in his seat, suddenly itching all over. For a cigarette. "We need to shut him up."
Hollander, still a little coiled tight with tension, manages to raise an eyebrow. "You sound kind of like a mobster."
"You think I am intimidating? Are you scared?" Ilya asks, smirking. Hollander rolls his eyes. Ilya bares his teeth a little longer before dropping the act. "You know that you can talk to Coach if you want. About anything."
The words feel a little hypocritical coming out, but he doesn't know why. Hollander's eyes flash a little dangerously, clearly unhappy with the direction of their conversation. Drop it, they seem to snap.
Ilya could push; he knows how to do itâflawlessly, too. He knows where to poke and prod to break Hollander into little pieces. He realizes then that he has access to the tender underbelly of Shane Hollander. The insecurities, the sex, the submission, the fact that he is even entertaining this conversation with Ilya in this diner.
If Ilya wanted to, he could pierce right through it. A win.
Bile rises in his throat at the thought. He pushes it away, into the darkest, deepest recesses of his mind, and vows not to touch it again. It doesn't sit right.
Betrayal was a coward's way to victory, after all.
But perhaps most of all, Ilya doesn't think he wants this victory, this win. Huh, he thinks, a little stunned. The plastic booth under his ass squeaks in agreement as he shifts again. Huh.
The waitress cuts through his riveting inner dialogue to hand Hollander his fruit salad, and Ilya his milkshake. Ilya takes a sip of the drink just to give himself something to do. The explosion of sugar and rich chocolate is almost enough to distract him.
Hollander pokes at his fruit. He eats a grape. The quiet of the rest of the diner envelops them, a bubble that Ilya can't decide is suffocating or comforting. Plates clink.
"You're doing enough to shut Kent up," Hollander says, after a beat. Ilya quirks his head. "At the game. I saw you guys arguing before he got quiet. Didn't know that was possible."
"He was complaining about how we fucked up and lost the last point," Ilya says, licking the whipped cream off the top of the milkshake. Hollander's lips purse at that, but he doesn't comment.
"And what did you say?" he asks, instead.
"I told him that the only point that matters is the one in progress."
The distaste in Hollander's face at the whipped cream fades into something softer. More happyâdark eyes going wide, the corners of his lips twitching.
"So, Rozanov," he says, the vowels of Ilya's last name forming in his mouth, much too sweetly. Ilya's body thrums from the sudden sugar rush. "Are you saying that Philosophy of Sport can be applied to our lives as athletes? Hm?"
"I actually never said that."
"You quoted something from our class to Kent."
"Well," Ilya shrugs, face feeling hot. "You made me put it down in that notebook. Yelled at me, too. How could I forget it?"
Hollander gives him a look, though that gleam in his eyes hasn't faded. He might even be grinning a little, and Ilya wants to reach out and touch it. To feel the curve along his fingertip.
"Bullshit. You're blushing."
Was that a cocky edge to Hollander's voice? He was certainly arrogant today, a confidence that usually exuded from him on the ice was now blanketing his broad shoulders and sharp, princely features. A part of Ilya wanted to fuck that out of Hollander, to reduce him to tears.
Another part of him wanted Hollander to keep this attitude on. It was kind of hot.
"Bullshit. I do not do this," Ilya says.
Hollander's lips quirk prettily. Ilya sips on his milkshake and hopes he gets a brain freeze. ForâŚreasons.
"Sure."
Ilya flicks some of the whipped cream in Hollander's direction and laughs around his straw as Hollander squawks, shocked. Some of it lands on his shirt, on his chin. The other continues to look so affronted, like he can't believe Ilya would dare taint him with a sugary monstrosity like whipped cream, that Ilya can't help but laugh some more.
That seems to snap Hollander out of it.
"Fuck you," Hollander throws a piece of strawberry at him in retaliation. It lands on Ilya's white shirt, probably staining it pink for good.
Ilya picks it off and eats it, the tart berry filling his mouth. It's much better than the artificial sweetness of a milkshake. No sugar rush follows that bite, but when, from across the table, Hollander leans forward, pressing a napkin into Ilya's shirt, right at the stain, Ilya's entire body shakes with shivers.
He can't help itâsomething about Hollander's touch is enough to make him heat all over.
From this close, Ilya can make out the light flush on Hollander's cheeks, dusting over the freckles. The bags under his eyes. His onyx black eyes, looking right into Ilya's, as if he can peer into the depths of Ilya's most inner thoughts.
Fuck.
Ilya reaches up and brushes away the whipped cream from his chin. Hollander's flush deepens into that strawberry red, and Ilya's mouth waters.
"Hey," Hollander starts. They're both touching each other, close enough to kiss, and Ilya wants Hollander to finish that sentence so badly. He wants many things just then.
Just then, Ilya's phone buzzes. He glances down to see his brother's name flashing over the screenâfor the third time this week. Andrei usually wasn't so fucking needy.
Ilya grits his teeth, discomfort gnawing at him the more his phone rings out. He had been dodging his brother's calls, like he always did, but perhaps something was wrong with their father. Perhaps Andrei actually wanted to talk.
"Give me a moment," he tells Hollander and slides out of the booth.
The night air is cold, crisp, and biting to the skin. Ilya keeps his eyes towards the moon and away from the diner behind him, where Hollander and all the night owls are, and answers the call.
"Ilya," Andrei snarls on the phone. His voice is like pressing a week-old bruise, and the dull pain zips through Ilya now.
He doesn't say his brother's name backâjust lights a cigarette.
"I've been trying to call you for weeks. Why have you been screening my calls?" His brother shouts in Russian.
"I'm busy."
"Playing with sticks and fucking college whores? I'm sure."
Ilya takes a drag of his cigarette, feeling the acrid smoke fill his lungs. "As opposed to wasting away a trust fund I don't have, like you."
"Fuck you, Ilya," his brother snaps, acidic.
Perhaps Andrei was born with acid in his veins rather than blood, but Ilya didn't like to think that because they were born from the same womb, from their mother, and she must have left something good behind for Andrei, in the midst of the bad. Theyâhim and Ilyaâwere Grigori's sons, but they were also hers. Both of them, half of her.
"Why are you calling?" Ilya asks.
"Papa's anniversary," Andrei says, and Ilya's blood chills. He stands a little straighter. "His friends in the military are holding a memorial banquet in his honor."
"Okay?"
"So, don't be a disappointment for once and come. In a couple of weeks."
"I told you, I'm busy," Ilya snaps. "I have school. I have hockey."
"And what am I supposed to tell these military fucks when they ask where Papa's youngest son is? Don't make me look bad in front of them, Ilya, for fuck's sake."
"I'm going to pay my respects to Papa during winter break," Ilya says. "I really don't have time now."
"Ilya," Andrei hisses. "Just because his death gave you millions doesn't mean you abandon responsibility to him. To family."
Ilya snaps.
"Responsibility?" he snarls, his voice guttural in his own ears. "You're the one who knocked up Kira, and when Papa gave you the money to take care of the baby, you spent it all on coke. You're the one who left when Papa got worse. You're the one who's calling me every day, begging for money, because you were left out of the will and were left with nothing. Responsibility? Don't make me fucking laugh, Andrei."
Ilya breathes out harshly, his chest rising and falling. An anger so raw and sharp and hot is bubbling underneath his skin, slashing through arteries. He wants to punch something so bad that his fists are actually shaking.
"We are family, Ilya," Andrei snaps. "Papa was hurt and made a mistake when he left me out of the will, just as I made a mistake by not coming back home. He died before we could fix that. But you and I are still alive, and we're family. Brothers."
Ilya lets out a laugh. It cuts his throat coming outâa jagged, broken thing.
"I'm the only family you have left, like it or notâwithout me, you're alone, you hear me, Ilya? Alone. And don't act like I have no responsibility towards you. I've protected you. I didn't tell Papa about you being a fucking fag."
Ilya takes a drag from his cigarette. It burns. Andrei continues, nearly spitting out venom.
"Do you know the number of times I've kept him from finding out and throwing you out into the street? I'm the reason why you have your trust fund and the estate and whatever the fuck else Papa left behind for you. So, don't be a selfish, whining dick."
Silence stretches between them taut, with only Andrei's heavy breathing in his ear. Ilya throws his cigarette on the ground, stubbing it out with his shoe. Grinding into a pulpy nothing.
"Come to the memorial banquet," Andrei commands. Cold, detached, but with an iron quality in his words. He sounds remarkably like their father. The most he's ever sounded like him. "And send more money. Your niece needs it."
The line clicks off.
Ilya stares at the moon, a gleaming in the night sky, and uncaring of the billions of people below it. When he was a child, at times, he had wished he could fly up and take a nap there, nestling into one of its many craters.
When he had inevitably found out that there was no oxygen on the moonâno chance he could actually survive for longer than 10-15 seconds before asphyxiating to a sleep-like deathâthe want hadn't faded. It had instead calcified: A desire sitting so heavily in his body that it had sunk down to the pit of his stomach to settle.
He hadn't known what to do with all that weight, the gravity of it pulling him down.
So he had ignored it. Years passed. He fucked, kissed, laughed, played hockey, and moved on. Without me, you're alone. Alone. You hear me, Ilya?
Andrei was always spouting some bullshit. But even so.
Ilya looks away from the moon, at the black stain of ashes on the concrete. Then, he heads back into the diner.
Hollander looks up as he walks back in, the chime of the bell ringing behind Ilya. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. Ilya throws down too much money onto the sticky table, right in between the maple syrup dispenser and the napkins, and his half-empty milkshake sitting across from Hollander's fruit bowl.
"Whatâ" Hollander starts.
Ilya grabs his shoulder, the heat of Hollander seeping into his palm, up his wrist.
"Come on," he says and drags Hollander out, leaving the lonely diner behind. "I'm bored."
-
The speed meter ticks up incrementally as they speed down the highway in Ilya's car.
This late at night, there aren't too many cars around them, and with how dark it is, it feels a little like they're hurtling into spaceâinto an inky black nothingness. Hollander squirms a little in the seat beside Ilya.
He can feel Hollander's gaze on the side of his face.
"Rozanov," Hollander starts. Ilya doesn't want to hear him. The speed ticks up more, a little over the speed limit, but not too bad.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, he places a hand on Hollander's thigh, and the other goes very still.
"The engine," Ilya says conversationally. "Is loud, right?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hollander nod jerkily, after a beat. The glowing numbers of the speed continue to tick up.
"You drive a very boring Land Rover, so you probably don't really experience this as much," Ilya continues. "But what I love about sports carsâPorsches, Aston Martins, Maseratisâis how you can feel when the car goes faster. It is like a whole experience."
He presses down on the gas, and the engine roars in response. It vibrates through the leather seats, all the way down to Ilya's toes.
Hollander gets thrown back in his seat as they fly down the highway. Ilya's hand clamps down on his thigh, gripping onto the muscle there.
"Kind of like a roller coaster," he muses. When his fingers dip, he finds Hollander's half-hard, straining cock. He grins at the road stretched out in front of him.
"Rozanov," Hollander says. It feels like a warning or a dare. His strong fingers encircle Ilya's wrist, though he doesn't yank him awayâa dichotomy of hot and cold. Shane fucking Hollander.
"Hollander," Ilya parrots back.
"You're going to crash," Hollander gasps, as Ilya presses a palm down onto his crotch. "Slow down."
"Cum first," Ilya says. He switches to another lane. There are no cops in this area, like, everâIlya knows from his long night drives through the years. His eyes flicker over to Hollander for half a second.
"What?"
"Cum for me first," Ilya repeats. "Then I'll slow down."
"You're fucking crazy," Hollander cries.
Ilya laughs, it sounds a little too much like the broken laugh he had given his brother over the phone, and the thought makes his skin prickle in disgust. He stops laughing. "So you do not want to do it?" he eases off the gas slightly.
At the same time, he applies less pressure around Hollander's crotch, against his rapidly filling cock. Hollander makes a noise of distaste.
"I," he swallows audibly. "Is this, like, a dare?"
"It can be whatever you want it to be," Ilya replies easily. "As long as you cum."
There's a beat of silence while Hollander wars with his rationale and all his Good Boy Hollander mental boundaries keeping him from indulging and taking what he wants. Ilya grinds his teeth. Taps on the wheel. Waitsâthe moment agonizingly long.
Then, finally, Hollander swallows again, and Ilya has him. "Fine."
Ilya rewards him by slamming down on the gasâhis car purring as it speeds up, faster and fasterâand grips the other's cock through his jeans. Hollander whines.
It really was a shame that Ilya had to keep his eyes on the road, because Hollander was making the prettiest noises, but his expression was probably much prettier.
Ilya runs a tongue over his teeth. It feels sticky and a little sweet: Remnants of strawberry juice clinging to his canines.
"Many girls like it."
"Wh-what?"
His hand closes over Hollander's clothed shaft and strokes one, twice.
"Sports cars," he says, conversationally. "They like vibrations when it goes fasterâsays it feels good." He feels his lips curl into a grinâdirty and a little mean. He feels wild. "You know?"
Hollander goes tense under Ilya's grip, but Ilya doesn't let him slip away for too long. A few more strokes over the jeans, and he's back to making noises again, drenched in his arousalâthough a little quieter this time. Drawn back.
"Don't talk about that," Hollander sneers, through those noises.
"About what? Girls?"
They speed down the highway, going too fast to maintain any innocence now.
"Jealous?" Ilya fills in for Hollander's silence.
"I'm notâ!" Hollander explodes, and he's really angry now. Ilya can taste the emotion in the air, a feeling he's more familiar with when it spills from Hollander. He's known this anger since they were fourteen.
"You don't have to be," Ilya interrupts before the other can detonate. "I've never done this with them."
"You just said," Hollander's breath stammers as Ilya palms his cock. "You just said that girls like it."
"From what I heard online," Ilya fills in innocently. "What were you thinking? That I've had a girl in here, in your place?"
Hollander's breath catches in his chest, and Ilya risks a glance at him. He's staring forward, cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet. He looks so turned on that it makes Ilya's teeth ache. Both hands are gripping Ilya's wrist now, but they're not stopping him; they're not holding him back from taking, so Ilya takes.
"As I said, I have not done this before. And I would not do this with any girl. But, if you were a girl," he muses, and Hollander's breath hitches again. "I think I would do a lot."
Silence. Thenâ
"Like what?"
The question almost makes Ilya want to look over at Hollander again. For fear of crashing, he doesn't.
"I would put my hand on your thigh, then under your skirt," he grins. "Push aside your panties, because you would probably wear those granny panties or something."
"Fuck you," Hollander snaps, but his voice is strained.
"Then," Ilya curls his fingers tight over the other's cock. If he pressed hard enough, he could probably feel the other leaking through. His foot goes down the accelerator, and his car hurtles down the road, unstoppable. "I would finger you. Slowly at first, so slowly until you stop acting all prim and proper and like the good girl that you would pretend to be. Until you start grinding into my fingers. Chasing after your orgasm."
Hollander's hips jerk. Grinding into Ilya's palm, trying to fuck up. Sparks light up Ilya's spine.
"Then, deep," Ilya manages, his grip going tight on the steering wheel. "I want to be so deep inside of you that you lose your mindâright here in the passenger's seat of my car. With your virgin cunt tightâstrangling, squirting all over my fingers."
"What makes you think I'll be a virgin?" Hollander pants, fight in his voice. A challenge, but fuck, the thought of Hollander having someone else before him, of someone other than Ilya having Shane Hollander and seeing the way he moaned, cried, and fell apart for cockâ
Ilya's jaw flexes. The car wobbles slightly.
"I'm the one who took your virginity as a man," Ilya manages, his voice coming out low and a little enraged. "What makes you think I would not be doing the same if you were a girl?"
If Hollander were any gender, really. In fact, if Hollander were an alien, Ilya would be goddamn sure to be his very first in that reality, too.
His only.
Ilya bats that thought away.
"I wasn't a virgin before you. You weren't my first."
Ilya squeezes the head of the other's cock. "I was in the way that mattered."
"Shut up," Hollander murmurs, his hips jerking into Ilya's hold, chasing after a release. Ilya hears the clink of a belt undoing and pulls his hand away.
"No," Hollander gasps out. "Why?"
"You will cum like this or nothing."
"Fuck off," Hollander moans. "I hate cumming in my pants."
Ilya hasn't made him cum in his pants since they first started this deal, and as much as some part of Ilya wants to wrap his fist around Hollander's gorgeous, bare cock, some part of him stops him. The part of Ilya that needs this to go his way.
The part that needs control.
The numbers on the speed meter tick up. Up. And up.
Ilya waits, and eventually, the other gives. Hollander lets go of his belt, and Ilya palms his cock again, as a reward.
"We're gonna get arrested," Hollander manages. "You're going too fast."
Ilya presses down on the accelerator. "Trust me."
When he glances over, allowing himself this moment, Hollander's gaze meets him head-on. There's something in those eyes, a little too soft and sweet. It's at odds with the danger, the headrush of being sequestered to a passenger seat of a too-fast car, of putting your life in someone's hands.
It's trusting.
"Okay," Hollander says, cementing that look into reality.
Ilya swallows. Okay. His stomach suddenly pangs.
He digs his fingers into Hollander's straining cock. He's definitely begun to leak into his jeans. Hollander's gaze shutters, and Ilya brings his eyes back to the road. The world is a blur around him, stagnant and unmoving as he and Hollander are locked in this supersonic speed. Just the two of them.
"Close," the other sobs over the growl of the engine.
"Cum," Ilya says. He rubs his fingers over the head of Hollander's cock, tight little circles like he does when he's touching a clit. He knows Hollander feels it. He knows because Hollander lets out a choked noise, back curving from the seat, and he cums. Like a girl.
He's not a girl, thoughânothing like the girls Ilya fucked since he was fourteen, but also nothing like the boys he's fucked either. He's not even an alien. Ilya's heart won't stop squeezing in his chest; his mouth is dry, and his dick is so hard it hurts, but that's not important. Because what is important is this: Shane Hollander is not a girl, boy, or anything in between; he's not something that can be categorized and filed away amongst every other person in Ilya's life. He'sâ
His moans are beautiful. He is beautiful. Ilya doesn't know what to do with any of that.
He pushes that thought away, too.
True to his promise, Ilya eases off the accelerator. He pulls off the highway. Hollander shivers beside him, coming down from his high.
"Rozanov," he says, as Ilya drives them into a random parking lot. After a quick check around to confirm that they are alone, Ilya puts the car in park. "What the hell is your deal?"
Ilya leans over the console and kisses him, pulling his seat back at the same time. Hollander squeaks against his mouth in surprise, which makes Ilya frown a little. What was there to be surprised about? He just came in his pants while Ilya broke every speed law in the area. This was what they didâhe and Hollander.
Clandestine moments, rough fucks, and danger.
They weren't anything else. They didn't have anything else, not between them.
"Come here," Ilya says, nipping on the other's lips, hard enough to draw blood. "We're not done."
It's a challenge, and Hollander takes the bait, like he always does. In one quick motion, Hollander is clambering over the console and into Ilya's lap. Ilya adjusts the seat, pushing it back to give them more room, and crushes their lips into a filthy kiss. Fire rises in his stomach, across his face at the weight of Shane Hollander on top of himâsex with him was undeniably good.
"Fuck," Hollander sighs, as Ilya undoes their belts. They manage to push their jeans down enough for their cocks to spring out. Hollander's boxers are still sticky from his release from earlier, but Ilya doesn't care.
Hollander doesn't seem to either, judging from how hard he is already. He's so fucking needy that it makes Ilya's head spin.
He jerks them both off hard. Hollander mewls in his graspâoversensitive but not fighting it, for once.
"I'm going to fuck you in here," Ilya says through his own grunts. Hollander gasps in protest, even as his entire body shivers and trembles for it, even as his dick spurts in Ilya's grasp. "Not tonight. But one day, you will take my cock right here, and I will fuck you over and over again, until you are crying."
"No. T-that would be too messy," Hollander says. His eyes roll back.
"Then, soak my seats with your cum," Ilya sinks his teeth into the other's neck, and the other howls. "Make a mess of them. I do not care, sweetheart."
"Oh," Hollander falls apart, and Ilya follows soon after. "Oh."
When the world stops spinning, Ilya registers the weight of hands on his face. Warm and callused, strong enough to hold the world together. He blinks.
Hollander is holding his face.
"What," he manages as Hollander's blurry face comes into focus. What was he doing?
"Rozanov," he says, and Ilya falls silent. "Are you okay, man?"
Ilya blinks again. "Yes?"
Hollander doesn't let go at that; instead, he peers closer at Ilya, studying him. Ilya thinks of shoving him off and back into his seat, because Ilya Rozanov is not a bug under a microscope or a rotting carcass for Shane Hollander to pull apart with his teeth, but then his eyes catch on the other's freckles.
And, as if in a trance, Ilya's muscles relax. He begins to count them. One, two, three.
"I told you about Vincent," Hollander says, sounding remarkably calm for a guy who just came all over their stomachs. "I wasâŚhonest with you. You can be honest with me."
"Just because you told me your secrets doesn't mean I have to do the same," Ilya snaps, before he can stop himself. Hollander doesn't flinch away.
"I know, I was just offering. It would be an equal exchange anyway if you told me what's bothering you. I've beenâŚvulnerable. I mean, fuck, Rozanov, I cried in front of you."
"You cry in front of me all the time."
"Not like that."
Ilya ponders this. Hollander's thumbs stroke over his cheeks, feather-light. Ilya's face turns up to it, despite everything in him warning him not toâbecause this wasn't sex. It wasn't a heated, desperate touch. It was comforting.
"Throwing a pity party is fun sometimes," Hollander reminds him of their previous conversation, and Ilya almost snorts.
"My brother called."
Every part of his body was moving without his permission at this pointâincluding his mouth. Ilya wants to reach out and pluck the words out of the air, to laugh and pretend it never happened. But Hollander's eyelashes flutter.
"Oh."
"Yes, oh."
"Isn't thatâŚgood?"
Anger flares in Ilya's stomach at that, before he looks at the wide, earnest glint in the other's eyes, and that fire quells slightly. Hollander, among many of his problems, was an only child. His parents, from what Ilya remembered of the tiny, fierce woman and man beside her in the stands in their games, were good parents. Hollander didn't understand.
Ilya licks his lips. "No."
"Oh," Hollander says again.
"Can you say something else?"
"I'm not very good at this," Hollander sighs and drops his head on Ilya's shoulder for half a second. He pops back up before Ilya can enjoy the warmth; some part of Ilya mourns the loss. "Tell me more."
"He has never liked me," Ilya says, slowly. "Is complicated. Speaking to him makes me feel," he lets out a breath. The next words tumble out of his mouth before he can mull them over and promptly shove them down his throat. "He makes me feel very lonely."
Hollander watches himâall dark, dark eyes. No judgment or gloating in them. Just listening.
"My entire family," Ilya says. "They make me feel like this, I think."
Andrei was the only one alive to actively push this gaping, horrible thing onto him, but his father had always been the greatest culprit, and he prevailed even from beyond the grave. Ilya had to give him credit for that.
Don't be fucking stupid. Always making excuses, always so lazy. Do you think anyone will want you on their team if you play like that? No team needs a weak link.
And his mother, Irina the Beautiful, who suffered from loneliness more than Ilya could compare, had left him all alone, too, hadn't she? She had given him this ache, passed through the fabric of her DNA, fusing into his; passed through her choicesâthe pills she had swallowed down. The flap of a butterfly's wings causing a hurricane.
Ilya did not hate her for it. He could not hate her for anything.
But, oh, how it ached, all the same.
Ilyusha, do you ever feel lonely?
Hollander's touch brings him back.
"I'm sorry" is all that the other can offer, and maybe Ilya would bristle at thatâhe's bristled plenty at the condolences offered his way at his parents' funeral, as if the two words 'I'm sorry' could encapsulate all that his mother and father wereâbut for some reason, he can't.
Hollander looks awkward and uncomfortable. There's cum staining his shirt. His head is bumping into the ceiling of Ilya's car. But he is here.
"Me too."
"Do you feel lonely often?"
Ilya traces the slope of the other's nose with his eyes, just to give himself something to focus on. "Sometimes," he allows, a half-truth, yet it feels like baring his soul wide open all the same.
Hollander doesn't press him for more, doesn't ask if that's the reason why Ilya has been in and out of beds since he was fourteen, doesn't ask about Ilya about his family: His mother, who killed herself, or his father, who was killed by his body, doesn't even press about Andrei.
But Ilya thinks then, with startling clarity, that if Hollander had asked, he would tellâmaybe not now, but sometime in the future.
Before he can begin to unpack that, the other speaks.
"I can't do anything about your family. But," Hollander looks at him, determined. "I'm here for you if you need a friend."
Friends.
"Is that what we are? Friends?"
Hollander swallows, his throat bobbing. "I mean, yeah." If you want.
The offer hangs in the air between them. Friendship was an easy thing for Ilya, always had been and always would be. Fuckbuddies, friends, teammates: Nothing about it all was difficult.
Shane Hollander was more than a challenge. From the moment he had slammed a fist into Ilya's face, he had been something complex and unsolvable, immune to Ilya's charms, repelled by them. Nothing about him was easy.
Hollander looks at him, hopeful.
You and me, Ilya wants to say, before tucking a strand of hair away from Hollander's eyes. We will never be friends, sweetheart. Not really.
"Okay," he says, instead, and holds out his hand to shake. "Let's be friends, Shane Hollander."
He means it as a joke, this overtly formal move, but give Shane Hollander an inch, and he runs an entire goddamn marathon. Hollander takes his hand without hesitation, his grip strong.
"Okay, Ilya Rozanov."
They shake.
Then his face, his handsome features, crinkles as he yelps in shock and tries to leap back. His head bangs against the car roof once more, a sickening thud. Ilya lurches up and places his other hand on the back of the other's skull, protecting itâthat brain was fucking important. It needed to stay intact. Hollander doesn't seem to notice.
"There's still cum in your hand," he says, horrified.
He tugs at Ilya's shirtâstained with strawberry juice and cumâand Ilya lets him wiggle it off. Hollander doesn't even look at the expanse of Ilya's chest or his abs as he starts wiping at Ilya's hand. Then his own palm.
He even begins muttering something about detoxing Ilya's car, and if they can use Clorox wipes on the leather seats, and how much it costs to clean it up, like professionally.
Warmth blooms in Ilya's chest at the sight: The Shane Hollander in his lap, fretting about how much it costs to wash a car, as their combined cum dries on their hands. The warmth doesn't burn into something hotter; instead, it merely expands until it is uncontrollable and uncontainable and spills overâfrom his body to the car, and the air between him and Hollander.
They're alone in this carâlonely in the great, big expanse of the parking lot, the city, the world, as a party in Hollander's name rages on, and everyone else in their team gets drunk and silly, surrounded by each other. As people in a 24-hour diner sip their coffee. As Ilya's father is bones in the ground, his brother snorting blow off a stripper's tits, and his mother lingers in the fabric of Ilya's mind. Their own personal Nighthawks.
And yet.
Hollander looks back up at him, squinting. "What's so funny?"
Ilya throws his head back and laughsâso happy he could burst from it all.