Chapter Text
2010, Montreal.
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are facing off on the ice for the first time tomorrow morning as official MLH rookies. But tonight, they are two young prospects meeting at a bar, a meeting set up by none other than Yuna Hollander.
Shane arrived first, fifteen minutes early, of course. Shocking Shane, Ilya arrives right on time, wearing a black tank top under a black leather jacket and light-wash denim jeans.
Shane suddenly feels self-conscious, wishing he had dressed a little nicer instead of his current navy blue t-shirt and black joggers. Shane shifts in his seat as he watches Ilya order at the bar, the bartender quickly producing a rocks glass with two fingers of vodka.
Shane watches Ilya approach, one hand in his jacket pocket and the other wrapped around the crystal glass, his face set in a disapproving frown.
Ilya sets his drink on the table before sliding into the bench across from Shane, sinking into the squeaky leather seat. Shane sips on the watered-down ginger ale he ordered when he first arrived, pinching his lips between his fingers to catch the excess, a pesky habit he picked up as a child after being called sloppy.
"The vodka good?" Shane points to the glass that Ilya is spinning between his fingers. His lips purse, shaking his head.
"No. Is very disappointing."
"Well, I'm sorry Montreal dining isn't to your liking." Shane's eyes linger awkwardly on Ilya's muscular face, tracing the line of his throat as it bobs with a swallow around a sip of vodka. He watches the way Ilya's face barely registers the sting, gazing from his full lips to his fierce eyes. The hazel green staring back at him with a mix of intensity and… amusement? Shane diverts his gaze to his ginger ale, his fingers dancing across the condensation forming on the glass.
Ilya lets out a sigh, and if the bar wasn't so loud and crowded, Shane could almost pretend he had made him laugh. Conversation stalled between them, and Shane searched for something to fill the silence.
"Help yourself to the fries. The chef brought them out when the staff saw me sit down." Shane flushed, the tips of his ears and tops of his cheeks blushing pink. He is a little embarrassed about his new celebrity status, receiving gifts and praise for simply entering a room. Shane is even more embarrassed about the fact that he doesn't feel comfortable enough to indulge in his craving for anything outside his diet, especially in front of first draft pick, Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya, however, gladly takes the offer, picking a few fries from the plate and placing them into his mouth. Shane won't admit that he found the simple task of Ilya eating fries attractive, but he can't hide his staring at the muscles in his jaw and how they flex with every bite.
Ilya makes matters worse when he brings his fingers to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the salt from the tips before closing his lips around the pad of his thumb. Shane's gaze is fixed on the movement, studying the quick yet thorough cleaning of glistening fingers.
Ilya drops his hand, and Shane swallows, his eyes caught on Ilya's mouth and the slow grin that spreads across his face. Shane's eyes lift to Ilya's and, yep, confirmed, there is amusement dancing in his irises.
"Like what you see?" Ilya smugly teases.
"Sorry," Shane huffs. "I can't eat them because of my diet. They look good." Shane's eyes catch on Ilya's mouth again, holding steady.
"What does?" Ilya smiles, leaning in.
"What?"
"What looks good?"
Shane leans back, meeting Ilya's taunting gaze before closing his eyes and shaking his head.
"The- the fries."
"Ah, they are." Ilya straightens, pushing his back into the booth cushion. His smile is lazy as he brings his glass to his lips. "So, your mother tells me you wanted to meet, yes?"
Ilya takes a drink, and Shane uses the moment to come up with an answer.
"Uh, sure." Shane leans onto his elbows, slowly sliding his glass back and forth between his fingers, needing to occupy his hands to release whatever energy is building within the booth. "It was more my mom’s idea than anything, really."
Ilya matches Shane's pose, his glass held between long fingers. Shane halts his movement at the sudden shift in the air.
Ilya is eye-to-eye with Shane, at a distance reminiscent of their face-off at center ice. A chill runs down Shane's spine, and he'd like to believe it's due to the reminder of the rink and nothing more.
"I was hoping you were dying to see me."
"I'm not desperate." Shane scoffs.
"I didn't say you were." Ilya quirks an eyebrow and takes another drink. Shane swallows in time with Ilya, wishing he had the ability to indulge in some alcohol. "But, if you were, that wouldn't be a bad thing. I was excited to see you."
"Really?" Shane leans in; it's a small distance, but noticeable enough for Ilya to continue.
"Of course," Ilya all but whispers. Shane brings his face even closer to hear him over the noisy bar. "I wanted to know who I'm beating tomorrow."
Shane straightens, cheeks tinged pink from frustration, and Ilya chuckles.
"You're such an asshole."
"You like it," Ilya smiles around the glass against his lips as he takes another drink.
Shane blows out a breath, worrying Ilya might be right.
They spent the next two hours at the bar exchanging lighthearted jabs over dinner with slightly flirty undertones—Ilya more than Shane. The tension between them ebbed and flowed throughout, peaking when Shane could've sworn Ilya winked at him over an invitation to work out back at his hotel.
After finishing their food and paying their tabs, flashing their new rookie advances, they walk side by side, tiptoeing around the very real possibility of Shane accepting Ilya's offer to stop by his hotel down the street.
Only, they didn't make it far before their banter was interrupted by a thud and mumbling coming from behind a collection of cardboard boxes in a dark alley. Shane recognizes the abandoned buildings on either side, noting their broken windows and boarded-up doors. Shane almost walks away until he hears a specific word, his guard and temper rising as he approaches the man spewing homophobic slurs. Ilya, confused and cautious, trails behind Shane, finally seeing the reason for the noise.
A man with a Ghostface mask dressed in all black has a teenage boy pressed against the brick wall, a long blade glinting in the streetlight as it twists below the teen's throat.
"Hey!" Shane's voice booms down the alley, startling the man in the mask and causing just enough of a distraction for the boy to slip from the man's grasp and sprint away. The man turns his body to Shane, tension lining his over six-foot frame.
Shane's shoulders straighten, and his brow sets as his vision goes red.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Shane doesn't expect an answer, doesn't need one. He recognizes the violence and hatred radiating from the man before him. He's seen it in the locker rooms growing up. He's heard the same vile words spill from opposing teams' lips. The rage pumping through Shane's bloodstream isn't new, but the call to act on it is.
Shane's fists clench as the masked man approaches. Shane's vision focuses on him, and him only. Years of playing the nice guy, of hiding in the shadows and holding his tongue have added up, and payback beckons, deafening any inner voice of reason and all the noise around him.
Ghostface raises his arm as he stalks closer, the knife getting dangerously close to Shane's body, but not before Ilya rushes out from behind him, tackling the man to the ground. The knife falls out of his hand, and Ilya shoves at the mask, throwing it off before his fists slam over and over again into the man's ugly face.
Shane is stunned for a moment, seeing that the man he was ready to attack is no longer standing in front of him. The knife-wielder from before is now lying on the ground, straddled by Boston's prized rookie, who is beating his hands to a pulp.
The hum in Shane's ears dissipates, its siren song of violence fading. Blinking away his tunnel vision, Shane leans down, grabbing Ilya around the waist to pull him off the unconscious man on the ground.
With fists bruised, a stranger's nose broken, and a cracked skull on the pavement, Ilya stumbles backwards, being half pulled by Shane as they hurry out of the alley and run haphazardly around the corner.
Half walking, half jogging, Shane and Ilya find themselves outside Ilya's hotel. Shane's eyes glaze over, face completely slack.
"Hey," Ilya turns to Shane, placing both hands on his shoulders, but Shane doesn't stir. "Shane."
Ilya recognizes the blank stare of shock at seeing a dead body. He knows the feeling all too well.
Without asking permission, he pulls Shane towards a vacant motorcycle sitting in the parking lot. Ilya opens the seat compartment, thankful it isn't locked, and gives the only helmet inside to Shane. Ilya straddles the seat, taking inventory of the old Yamaha in front of him, trying to recall the best hotwiring method from his rebellious youth with Svetlana.
After fishing around under the handlebars and finding the correct wires, Ilya connects them to bypass the ignition. Once the front lights come on, Ilya flips the kill switch and starts the engine, letting it idle while he approaches a frozen Shane.
Ilya sees the goosebumps forming on Shane's arms despite the humid October night. His body is starting to shake as adrenaline works its way through his body. Ilya removes his leather jacket and drapes it over Shane's shoulders. Ilya rubs his hands up and down Shane's arms, trying to remind his body it's still alive.
"Shane." The helmet rests in Shane's hands, unregistered and unmoved. "Shane, what is your address?" Ilya claps his hands in front of his face, and Shane's eyes finally meet his. "Hey. I am sorry, but I need directions. Where do you live?"
"Le Plateau Mon Royal." Shane blinks once, then repeatedly. "Uh, 75 Avenue des Pins." Now it's Ilya's turn for a blank stare as Shane realizes Ilya doesn't know French. "East Pine Avenue. Brick building. Says 'Waldman' on the front window." Ilya drops his hands to the helmet, raising it to put over Shane's head. "But, if we take Rue Roy, we can go through the back and up the fire escape. The cameras have been out since they started construction back there." Ilya begins to lower the helmet once more before he's stopped, again. "And with all the scaffolding, there's more cover—"
"Shane?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut the fuck up and get on bike."
"Got it." Shane lets Ilya at last put on his helmet, lifting the visor to get a better view of watching him effortlessly swing his strong legs over the seat and settle in. Shane shrugs off Ilya's jacket, just enough to slide his arms through.
Ilya's hand reaches out to guide Shane, helping him onto the passenger seat behind him. Shane doesn't know where to put his hands, not only because it's his first time on the back of a motorcycle but also because the only thing left to grab is Ilya. Shane doesn't have the chance to find an alternative solution before his hands are pulled by Ilya's to wrap around his waist.
"Hold on."
"Don't tell me what to do."
Ilya shakes his head and abruptly twists the throttle, jerking them forward and causing Shane's fingers to firmly grip Ilya's tight black tank top.
"Told you so," Ilya says before reaching over his shoulder to snap Shane's visor closed.
Shane can feel the rumble of Ilya's laugh through his palms, drawing attention to the hard abs beneath the soft cotton. But Shane can't think about how good they feel against his hands, or how good Ilya's back feels against his chest, or how his cock is getting hard from the manly scent of cedar and cigarettes wafting off Ilya in the night air, because Shane watched a man die tonight.
They don't speak much during their frantic escape as Ilya speeds down the avenue and turns onto Rue Drummond. After another fifteen minutes, Ilya slows down and pulls onto the rear sidewalk of Shane's apartment building. Ilya disconnects the wires, officially killing the engine, and slides his legs off the side to stand. He assists Shane off the seat, removing the borrowed helmet and leaving it on the stolen bike. They maneuver through the construction scaffolding, up the fire escape, and into the hallway outside Shane's apartment.
Shane pulls his keys from his pocket and works the lock open before he and Ilya step inside. The only noise that fills the entryway of Shane's apartment is the shuffling of Shane removing his shoes and Ilya's jacket. Ilya quickly follows suit, his eyes tracing Shane's careful and stiff movements as he trails behind into the kitchen.
"What a fucking day, ah?" Ilya puts his palms against the cool counter, watching as Shane silently walks to the sink and turns on the faucet. He's not rinsing dishes, and as Ilya takes a look around Shane's apartment, he can see how neat and organized he truly is. Shane isn't even washing his hands. He's just standing there. Frozen.
"Hollander?" Ilya steps forward, peering over Shane's shoulder to see steaming water turn his hands an angry shade of red. "Hey," Ilya quickly turns off the water, taking Shane's burning hands in his own, and twists to meet his eyes.
His glazed-over, vacant eyes. Ilya knows that look. He knows the guilt over seeing someone die, thinking it's your fault.
Ilya sets the faucet to cold and wets a towel by the sink. Cutting the water and wringing out the towel, Ilya brings it to Shane's face, gently pressing the damp fabric into his heated skin. The cool cloth wipes away the reminder of the blood shed tonight, but not the image of the man's lifeless body from Shane's mind.
"We killed him," Shane barely whispers, his voice breaking.
"He was going to hurt you. I had to do something."
"You don't know that!" Shane abruptly pulls away, face contorting in disgust.
"Shane, he had a fucking knife."
"And?! I can handle myself!"
"Ебать—"
"What was that?"
"Stop being so fucking stubborn!" Ilya pants as he takes in a stunned and flushed Shane. Ilya sighs, shaking his head as he drops the towel on the counter. Dragging his hands down his face, Ilya breathes deeply before crossing his arms and leaning against the sink. His eyes scan Shane's rigid frame, looking to see if he can push past his defenses, only to find the frustrated set of his jaw, confirming he's completely closed off. "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Push your feelings away and not let anyone in." Even in the short amount of time Ilya has known Shane, he has picked up on his behavior. Strange as others believe it to be, Ilya can see the self-sabotaging from a mile away. He sees Shane's toxic ambition and determination to be the best, regardless of how he suffers in the process.
"You don't even fucking know me." Shane's eyes are on the ground, but his shoulders are tense. He's being dismissive, shutting Ilya out while trying to make sense of tonight and all the feelings coursing through his body. His face might not show it all, but inside he's warring with confusion, fear, and anxiety mixed with satisfaction, adrenaline, and... arousal.
"Oh? Is that so?" Ilya is starting to lose his patience.
"Yes."
"Then how do I know that you're star center? Or how your shot accuracy is 98%." Ilya takes a step closer.
"Wow, you know my stats. Really impressive." Shane's eyes roll. Keep him out.
"Or that you have thirty-six freckles on your nose and cheeks." One more step and Shane's eyes snap up. "That I know you write 'Yuna' on your stick for good luck." Shane's brows crease in confusion.
"How did you—"
"I know you prefer ginger ale over any kind of alcohol." Another step.
Shane can see the fire burning in Ilya's eyes and feel the heat radiating from his skin, can feel it penetrating the walls he's spent years building.
"You pinch your lips between your fingers after you take sip. That way you don't have to stick out your tongue." Ilya plants both feet in front of Shane, taking in his shocked features and watching as he fights to control the situation. Shane clears his throat, shrugging him off.
"What, you learned this all tonight?"
"I spent all dinner trying to hate your laugh." Ilya leans in, their chests nearly touching. "But I can't."
Shane can hear his pulse in his ears, hoping it isn't loud enough for Ilya to know just how affected he is by him.
"Because I know for fact that you feel this between us. I know it is not in my head." Fuck. "I can't help how I feel about you." Ilya places both hands on Shane's hips, pulling him closer as his nose brushes over Shane's, their faces inches apart.
"You're crazy." Shane laughs.
"Maybe we are both crazy." Ilya's lips ghost across Shane's. "Is that so bad?"
"This is a bad idea." Another laugh, and maybe Ilya will believe him.
"So let's be bad." Ilya tugs at Shane's waistband. "Be bad with me, Hollander."
Shane's eyes lift to Ilya's, his pupils blown wide, before falling to his full lips. Ilya's tongue darts out to wet them just as Shane's mouth crashes into his. Shane's hands shoot into Ilya's hair, twisting into the curly golden strands before pulling at the root. Ilya lets out a moan in response, finally pushing his fingers beneath the elastic of Shane's joggers.
"Fuck," Shane moans into Ilya's mouth as the calloused and bruised hand of Boston's rookie wraps around the hardening cock of Montreal's new center.
Shane can taste the vodka and cigarettes lingering on Ilya's tongue. There's something so masculine and rugged and so Ilya about it that spurs Shane on even more. As much as he gives Ilya shit for smoking, he can't deny that the faint smell of cigarettes reminds Shane of him. Reminds him of the attraction he felt that first day outside the practice arena. Reminds him that he is, in fact, attracted to Ilya, whether he wants to be or not.
But this is just what Shane needs—a distraction. A distraction away from the anxiety of tomorrow, of their first MLH game against each other. The first time Shane has to truly prove himself against an opponent. A distraction from the fear of letting his parents down. A distraction of finding out what these feelings mean, of the fact they were seen out in public tonight. And a distraction from the fact that they fucking killed someone.
Shane pulls back, his hands on Ilya's panting chest, feeling his racing heartbeat beneath his ribcage.
"Wait, wait, wait." Shane swallows, catching his breath. "Ilya, we can't do this."
"Why not?"
"Because!" Shane pushes at Ilya's chest in an attempt to move him away, but Ilya doesn't budge. "Someone fucking died tonight and they died because of me."
"No, because of me. I did killing. You were just there."
"Okay, because of us. Whatever. Someone still fucking died, Ilya."
"He was homophobic asshole anyway." Ilya leans in for another kiss before Shane pulls away.
"You are the asshole. He was still a person,” Shane tries to reason with Ilya, convince him he’s wrong, that killing someone isn’t justified, convince himself.
"Да, I know. But you like it."
"Like what? That you're an asshole?"
"No, that I killed him. That we killed him." Ilya looks Shane in the eyes, seeing the conflicting feelings fight for clarity.
Shane stutters, blinking and looking away.
"I think," Ilya grabs Shane's face, hand cradling his jaw. "You like how I protected you."
Shane's eyes lock on Ilya's.
"You like that I finished the job you wish you could have done yourself."
Shane blinks and takes a steadying breath through his nose.
"You like he is not on street anymore." Ilya holds Shane's head firmly as Shane fights not to agree. "Well, he is still on street since we just left dead body."
Shane tries prying himself from Ilya's grasp, but Ilya brings his face back to center.
"Why do you fight?"
"Because this is so fucked up."
"So fucked up that you like it." Ilya's hand squeezes gently on the sides of Shane's throat.
Shane shoots a glare at Ilya, challenging him. "No, I don't."
"Mmm, I don't believe you." Ilya's other hand moves from Shane's hip to the front of his joggers, pressing against his hard cock. "You are really bad liar."
Shane attempts to break away again before Ilya squeezes tighter, a warning.
"I like it, too." Ilya rubs his hand over the tented fabric, the friction a delicious sting. "Maybe we are both fucked up."
Panic crosses over Shane's vision, panic of what it means to be this attracted to a man and this addicted to the adrenaline coursing through his body.
"It feels good, yes?" Ilya's tongue softly licks Shane's plump lips. "To be bad?"
Shane's restraint is waning, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.
"Be bad with me." Ilya continues stroking his hand while turning Shane's head to gain access to his neck. Planting open-mouthed kisses down the column of his pulsing throat, Ilya taunts. "Is okay." Kiss. "Lose control with me." Kiss. "I can take it."
Shane's hand comes up to snatch Ilya's wrist, yanking his hold away, then grabs both sides of Ilya's face in a fierce kiss. Ilya stumbles back at the force of it, both of them colliding into the sink. They waltz across the kitchen, fighting for dominance as they twist against the counter.
Shane pulls at Ilya's hair, and Ilya tears at Shane's shirt, demanding it off as he removes his black cotton tank. Shane pounces at the sight of Ilya's bare chest, his pecs dusted in hair and moles dotting his skin. Shane's hands reach up to caress the broad muscles, his thumbs pressing into the strong fibers, and Ilya's eyes follow the movement.
Shane inhales deeply, unable to hold himself back anymore as he leans in to press kisses across Ilya's torso. He crouches lower and lower, staring up through long black eyelashes at Ilya's crazed expression. Shane falls to his knees, kissing down Ilya's abs, his tongue tracing through the dark hair around his navel while his hands touch what his mouth can't reach. His fingers skim up Ilya's back and around his ribcage before landing on his hips, and Shane pulls back. Locking eyes with Ilya, confirming with a curly-headed nod, Shane grabs the waistband of Ilya's jeans and tugs on the buckle, opening the button and pulling them down.
It takes a little more effort than Shane had expected, not taking into account Ilya's enormous bulge, his strong ass, or the zipper he forgot to undo. But once his pants and boxers are off Ilya's tree-trunk thighs, Shane is face-to-face with the cock he could only dream about over the past year. Long and thick, and already weeping, Shane's jaw tingles with eagerness to taste him.
Ilya is breathing through his teeth, eyes focused only on Shane and the sly smile on his lips.
"Come on, Hollander," Ilya grabs the base of his cock, holding it steady for Shane.
"How many times do I have to say it?" Shane swats Ilya's hand away, replacing it with his own. "Don't fucking tell me what to do."
Shane takes Ilya into his mouth, his tongue circling the head of Ilya's cock. Ilya lets out a groan, nearly losing his balance as his head falls back. He stumbles backwards to put both hands on the counter beside him. Vision returning, Ilya blows out a breath. "Да, like that, Hollander."
Drunk on praise, Shane works himself over Ilya's cock faster, using his hand to make up for what he can't fit in his mouth. A salty taste hits the back of his tongue, and Shane moans around Ilya, knowing whatever he's doing is working.
"Fuck, Shane." Ilya's hand threads into Shane's hair, moving to the back of his head to guide him deeper.
Shane's hand swats Ilya away, reaching up to slap him across the abs. Ilya laughs and winces at the redirection.
"Your mouth is so good. You can take more."
Shane lets go and rises to his full height. Ilya glances around frantically, confused and concerned that he's pushed too far. "What is wrong?"
"You gave me directions again. I'm sick of it."
"It was compliment!" Ilya raises his arms in defense.
"If you want to talk so badly, then get on your knees and tell me how badly you want me."
Ilya stands there hesitantly, but the excitement flickering in Shane's eyes is enough to move him. If Shane is ready to accept the fire burning inside him, Ilya is prepared to feel the burn.
"Yes, sir." And with that, Ilya kneels in front of him, one knee propped in a proposal of his submission.
Shane pulls down his joggers, stepping out of them before grabbing the waistband of his underwear.
"Let me." Ilya scoots forward, leaning down to kiss above Shane's knees and up the front of his thighs. His nose scrapes along Shane's inner thigh before Ilya looks up the length of Shane's torso. Shane's pupils are blown, cheeks and ears flushed pink, his mouth open as he takes in the sight of the usual bratty Russian on his knees for him at first command.
Ilya smirks when he kisses Shane's cock over the cotton boxers, tongue teasing against the wet spot forming from his arousal. Shane grunts, biting his lip and showing his teeth as he loses patience and removes his boxers himself. "Now suck."
Ilya laughs, gladly taking Shane's cock into his mouth, pulling long, languid strokes and feeling Shane harden even more. Shane moans, holding onto Ilya's shoulders and pressing his hips forward, rocking into the movement. Shane tries to pick up the pace, only for Ilya to gently scrape his teeth along his shaft for being too greedy.
Ilya wraps his hands around the back of Shane's thighs, moving one hand up to press against Shane's hole. Shane gasps and pulls back, leaning over Ilya.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Pleasing you." Ilya removes his hand, lifts it to his mouth, and spits. He pulls on Shane's leg, getting back into position as he traces his slicked fingers across Shane's tight hole, working him open.
Ilya's mouth wraps around the head of Shane's cock once more, sucking and bobbing up and down his length. The sounds coming from Shane's throat are ungodly, causing Ilya's own cock to twitch in response. Ilya reaches a hand down to stroke himself, but Shane grabs his wrist, flattening their hands to Shane's stomach.
"You are touching me right now. I need this more than you." A moment of insecurity flashes over Shane's face, and that's all it takes for Ilya to give in.
He presses a finger in, feeling Shane tighten around him and nearly buckling under his weight at the combination of Ilya's hand and mouth. Shane thrusts his hips forward, increasingly rough, remembering Ilya's permission to lose control. He can take it, and Shane is prepared to make him.
Ilya moves his hands down Shane's abs to meet his mouth at the base of his dick. Ilya draws back, keeping only the tip in his mouth while he sucks, flicking his tongue around the bottom of the head.
Shane reaches down, slapping Ilya's cheek. Ilya releases Shane and feels a hand cradle the base of his jaw.
"Be good and swallow my cum." Shane grabs the back of Ilya's neck, lining up to his mouth, and shoves himself all the way in. Ilya moans, pushing a second finger into Shane at the same time. Ilya curls his fingers inside Shane, pressing against his prostate and shoving his cock down his throat. "Oh, fuck!"
Ilya bobs his head faster, fucking Shane with his face and pushing himself to the limit as tears fall from his eyes. Shane's hands grip Ilya's head, fingers pulling on his golden curls as Ilya's mouth fills with Shane's release.
Ilya swallows it all greedily, sucking Shane dry as he shivers through his orgasm. Shane had to physically remove himself from Ilya's mouth and hands before he collapsed to the floor. Shane leans back against the counter, panting and catching his breath, eyes hooded. He and Ilya's eyes meet, and they both let out a laugh at the absurdity of their situation.
Ilya rises from the ground, walking forward to stand before Shane.
"How do you feel?" Ilya's eyes trace Shane's face, checking for any flicker of regret or fear. But he finds nothing.
"Powerful."