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When the hotel door opens, Ilya has just enough time to take in the tense, stiff line of Hollander’s body before he’s being yanked inside by the front of his sweatshirt. Hollander’s eyebrows are furrowed in a way that’s as familiar to Ilya as the cross around his neck.
Ilya can’t blame him, not really. Montreal got fucked tonight, which means if they don’t get their shit together soon, they might be actually fucked. The stress of it is rolling off Hollander in waves. Even as he presses himself against Ilya he’s stiff, every fiber of him rigid against Ilya’s body. When Hollander kisses him Ilya’s hands go to his shoulders instinctively, rubbing.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya whispers. Hollander breaks away from the kiss for just long enough to meet Ilya’s eyes, and then he buries his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck.
Hollander sinks to his knees. Ilya’s hands don’t leave his shoulders. When Hollander is done he pulls them together again and lets Ilya taste himself on Hollander’s lips.
Not much later, or maybe a lifetime, Ilya sits on the edge of the bed and watches as Hollander methodically folds his pants. There’s a twinge of emotion in Ilya’s chest at the action and he’s careful not to put a name to it. He’s still slightly lightheaded from Hollander’s mouth, dizzy and hot with the want of it. He traces Hollander’s movements with his eyes, drinking in the strong lines of his body, how he holds himself. Even after sucking him off Hollander is still like a tightly wound spring. Ilya wants to bend him until he breaks.
Hollander pulls his shirt off over his head, then winces. He shrugs his shoulders back, eyes closed. Ilya watches, lightheaded, trying to decide if he should speak.
Hollander’s head drops forwards and he pulls on the tops of his shoulders, the muscles in his biceps rippling. Ilya bites his tongue.
“You are injured?”
Hollander freezes, looking up quickly. He must see something in Ilya’s face because he relaxes, just slightly. He shakes his head, rolls his shoulders again. “No, just sore.”
“Sore.”
“From training yesterday. It’s fine.” There’s a look on Hollander’s face that says it’s maybe not fine. Ilya watches him rub his shoulder one more time.
“Here.” Ilya spreads his legs, giving the mattress between them a friendly pat. “Sit.”
Hollander bites his lip. “What?”
“You are sore. I’ll give you a massage.” Ilya shrugs. “Make you nice and loose for later, yes? And you stop looking so sad and hurt in meantime.”
“I…” Hollander actually looks upset. He has a complicated expression on his face, the one that Ilya has learned means that he thinks he’s being made fun of. “You don’t have to.”
Ilya sighs. “Maybe I want to. Or maybe I just want to put my hands on you, Hollander. Is that so crazy?”
Hollander seems to be having some sort of fierce internal debate. Sometimes Ilya wants to grab him and shake him. It’s simple, see, понима́ешь? A fuck is a fuck. You don’t let it be anything more. It’s simple for Ilya. Hollander’s shoulders are tight, so Ilya will rub them, and then Hollander can stop frowning and Ilya will fuck him into the mattress until there are tears in his eyes.
Ilya cocks his head. Wiggles his knees a little so that Hollander's gaze drops, first to his crotch and then to the space between his feet.
“You know you want it.”
Hollander swallows. “Okay.”
He lowers himself to the floor between Ilya’s legs slowly. Like getting into an ice bath, Ilya thinks. Like it might hurt. Ilya lets him lean back against the edge of the mattress before pressing his legs in, bracketing Hollander on either side. Hollander twitches but doesn’t run. Ilya can feel the flex of his biceps against his shins.
“Comfortable?”
“Fuck you.” Hollander wiggles a little, shifting, and then pulls his knees up to his chest like a child, slumping forward slightly. Ilya has to reach out to touch his shoulders.
The second he does, Hollander jerks again, harder, like a live wire. Ilya’s hands ghost over the tops of his shoulders. Hollander has nice shoulders. A nice back. A few freckles, just dark enough to see in the faint light. Ilya wants to lean down and kiss them.
Instead he runs his hands over the firm muscle, from the sides of Hollander’s neck out, over the ridges of his shoulders and down to his back. Ilya doesn’t know many English words for individual muscles. He could name some of them in Russian, if pressed. The important ones, the ones you don’t want to fuck up. He has some distant memory of a stern man standing at the front of a room full of teenagers, explaining in a flat tone about the importance of strengthening your back and shoulders. Pointing to a diagram with the relevant muscles colored in blue. Ilya had never really paid attention to the specifics. Now, for whatever reason, he wishes that he had.
Hollander’s head is still bowed. It makes it easier for Ilya to feel the tension in his neck. He moves his hands back over Hollander’s shoulders. He shifts forward, leaning his weight into his thumbs, and presses down.
Hollander stiffens. It’s something Ilya might have missed, if he didn’t already have his fingertips over the offending muscles.
“Okay?” He asks. Hollander doesn’t respond. Ilya can feel holding his breath. He moves his thumbs in slow circles, feeling the muscles shift under this touch. He leans in harder, with his palms, and presses until Hollander exhales, sharply, all at once.
“хороший,” Ilya mutters. “очень хороши.” So good for me. Hollander is breathing sharply. Ilya’s hands drift together, to the top of his spine, then to the sides of his neck. His fingers dip down by Hollander’s collarbone, then up to the soft skin of his neck. He can feel Hollander’s pulse racing under his fingertips.
“Fuck this,” Hollander says suddenly. It sounds a little strangled.
A few things happen very fast. Hollander twists away from him, standing. He turns to face Ilya, expression dark, unreadable. Then he steps forwards and pushes Ilya backwards onto the bed.
Okay, Ilya thinks. Then Hollander is on top of him.
His kisses are more intense than before. Hollander kisses him like he’s trying to take something from Ilya. Like he’s trying to pull some vital part of Ilya’s soul out of his body through his lips.
Ilya turns off his brain and lets Hollander have whatever he wants. He’s pushed him already tonight, and he’ll push him again, when Hollander has taken what he needs, when he’s satisfied whatever cravings he’s worked up in the past months since they’ve seen each other. Later Ilya will get to pick him apart, one familiar motion at a time. For now, he’s content to let Hollander kiss him like a man who’s been starved. Like a man who is starving.
“You like that, yes?” Ilya says, coming up for air. “You like when I rub your shoulders and not just your cock?”
“Fuck you,” Hollander spits, and then crashes his mouth into Ilya’s again.
//
Ilya tries something a few months later. It’s nothing, really. Curiosity. He watches as Hollander peels off his clothes. The spots where he rubs at his shoulders when he thinks Ilya isn’t looking.
Ilya is always looking. He watches Hollander blow him, his brown eyes fluttering closed. Sometimes Ilya wants to count his freckles. Sometimes Ilya wants to kiss every single one to see if they’d smudge under his mouth. To see if he could change him, just with his lips alone.
He gets Hollander on his back, after. Slowly, carefully presses their bodies together. His hands search up and down, finding spots. Testing. Hollander is solid under his hands, unyielding. He tips his head back and lets Ilya suck on his collarbone, his nipples. Ilya’s hands roam, roam, roam.
He finds the spot, finally. The back of his neck, where the slope of it meets with the top of Hollander’s shoulder. His fingers brush over it. He can feel the tightness of the muscle. He pushes into it and Hollander’s breath catches. His eyes open slightly. Pupils wide, dark. Inside them a spark catching.
Ilya kisses him, wet, his tongue pressing into Hollander’s mouth, and Hollander whimpers. Ilya holds his breath.
Then he presses just a bit of his weight down into the muscle.
Hollander fucking moans. Ilya sees red.
He kisses the spot, after. Tender muscle under his lips. Hollander melts at the contact. He’s gone twenty minutes later.
Ilya lays back against the pillows. Closes his eyes. Doesn’t let himself think about Hollander’s freckles.
//
Hollander plays stiffly when they meet for the playoffs. It’s a big enough issue that they ask him about it in press, which means that it’s not weird that Ilya noticed before.
What’s also not weird is the not-insignificant amount of time he spends in the shower, imagining how Hollander would moan if Ilya dug his knuckles into his shoulders. In press Hollander deflects questions with a well-trained grin. Just a little bit of soreness. It’s not an issue, it won’t affect our next game. No, no injury. Nothing hurts.
Hollander blows him off, after the game. It doesn’t matter. There’s a city full of pretty girls waiting for Ilya to fuck them. He can have anyone he wants. By 11 p.m. he’s in bed, game highlights playing on his phone. The blue light washes over his face, casting shadows in the dark corners of his hotel room. A miniature Hollander zips by on his screen. Ilya traces the way he skates across the ice. Could it be his back that’s bothering him? He can’t quite tell, not with Hollander’s body hidden under the pads and the uniform.
Ilya imagines running his hands over Hollander’s shoulders, feeling the tension that’s surely built up over the past months. Pressing his fingers into the knots until Hollander is loose and trembling under Ilya’s hands.
Hollander scores again. Ilya grinds his fists into his thigh until he can think clearly.
//
Several months later Ilya has Hollander on his back somewhere on the west coast. There’s come drying on Hollander’s stomach, and Ilya knows Hollander well enough to know that he hates that. Hates the feeling of it tacking to his skin. He should be up by now, heading into the shower.
But he isn’t. He’s just lying there. Looking at him. His brown eyes are blown wide, his mouth is open. His tongue is pink between his lips. What are you doing, Ilya wants to say. What are you waiting for? He doesn’t say anything. And Hollander just looks at him, loose and glassy-eyed, the corners of his mouth turned up in a breathless smile.
Like he would let Ilya take whatever he wants from him. The thought slams into him and then goes, predictably, straight down to his dick.
He gets Hollander on his back, after. They’re both still panting, hot little puffs of air. Proof of life. He can see the rise and fall of Hollander’s chest. Part of Ilya wants to put his head there, just to listen. And then, suddenly, he wants to hear Hollander moan as unwinds him in his hands.
His hand drifts to Hollander’s shoulder and squeezes, gently. He can feel the shift as Hollander tenses. And then, predictably, relaxes. He stares up at Ilya with that same glassy look.
Ilya’s heart jerks in his chest. He pulls his hand away slowly, like Hollander will fucking break if Ilya lets go too fast. If Ilya drops him.
If Hollander is hurt when Ilya rolls off him and starts dressing without a word, he keeps it off his face. They’re getting good at this, whatever this is.
//
He googles montreal metros sports therapist in a random burst of inspiration between taking off from Philly and landing in Detroit. The results are not especially illuminative. He tries metros players physician and shane hollander massage trainer next, finds a bunch of tiny headshots on a page outlining medical staff, and then clears his browser history. The thought of Antoine Morris, Assistant Athletic Trainer, putting his hands on Hollander’s bare back is enough to make him close his eyes and blast music through his headphones for the rest of the flight.
//
Five months later, Ilya’s suite comes stocked with good Russian vodka, and he’s headed past tipsy and still aching from being slammed into the boards when Hollander knocks.
Hollander is smiling when he comes in. Winning 6-2 will do that, Ilya supposes. At least he has the class to wince appreciatively at the black and green mess that’s spanning Ilya’s left side from his shoulder to his hip.
“Fuck Pike,” Ilya grumbles. “Was a dirty hit.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Hollander says. He’s still grinning as he pulls Ilya in for a kiss. His fingers squeeze into the damaged flesh at Ilya’s waist. Okay, Ilya thinks. He wonders if Hollander can smell the vodka on his breath. He wonders if Hollander would drink, if he told him to. What Hollander would do, if Ilya says the words.
//
Three weeks later in Montreal, Ilya is seriously considering getting sent to the box just to he catch a fucking break. Everything around him seems designed to get under his skin, the scoreline (zero-zero), the screaming of the Metros’ fans (unusally obnoxious), the flavor of gatorade in his water bottle (why the fuck is it yellow).
His bad mood has maybe a little bit to do with the fact that on his phone in the locker room are three unanswered calls from his brother and a half dozen deleted screenshots from Hollander’s new Reebok campaign. Both of which made him feel like complete shit, but only one of which had frowned up at him through the screen, half-naked in running shorts and left him coming his hand like a teenager.
Hollander, for all his famous speed and agility, is currently moving on the ice like he’s got a stick up his ass. Ilya relishes the opportunity to chirp him during the puckdrop. God Hollander, you move like old man. What, nobody fuck you recently? The look in Hollander’s eyes is worth it, even when he slams Ilya into the boards twenty seconds later. It’s worth it, Ilya thinks, savoring the pain in his ribs. It’s worth it. It fucking has to be.
It has to be, because when Hollander shows up that night he’s thirty minutes late and clearly furious. He stands in the entry way of Ilya’s oversized hotel room and doesn’t even take his shoes off.
Ilya, thankfully, has already cooled off. Partly from winning 3-1 and partly from leaving Alexi a voicemail telling him exactly where he can stick it. Now it’s Hollander’s turn to be pissed off and scowly. Like it doesn't make him adorable.
“You are such an asshole,” Hollander says, still standing in his shoes.
“And you are so sexy when you’re mad,” Ilya says, because he’s an asshole.
“What the fuck is wrong with you.”
Ilya just smiles. It’s too much fun, sometimes, to watch Hollander spin his wheels. It’s not like he’s going to leave. As much as he whines and frowns and glares from underneath his lashes, he won’t go. That’s not Hollander’s style.
And then Hollander is bending down, untying his laces. Ilya gives himself one moment of smug self-satisfaction. Hollander makes a little oof noise when he stands.
“Still stiff?” Ilya asks. He lets his eyes drag down Hollander’s face. The firm set of his jaw. He thinks he can see where the tendons in Hollander’s neck attach, running down from his head to his shoulders. He imagines pressing his thumb to it. Feeling it jump.
Hollander looks—Ilya doesn’t know. Sometimes Ilya isn’t sure how much of it is an act, playing hard to get. Hollander likes that, sometimes. Making Ilya chase him.
“Don’t,” he says. “It’s fucking fine.”
“Is not fine,” Ilya says plainly. “You’re too tight. You should let me help.”
Hollander gives him an exasperated look. There’s something sharp behind his eyes. “Since when was that a problem?”
Ilya smiles wider, with teeth. He loves this game. “Will you wait to go back home and make team trainer rub you out? That is what you want?”
“Fuck off,” Hollander snaps.
“What do they use? Fancy massage gun? Something that vibrates?”
“Jesus Christ."
“You know my hands are just as good,” Ilya says. “They should hire me as full time masseuse."
“Where the fuck did you learn that word.”
Ilya takes a step closer to Hollander, pulls him in by the waist. “Give you a good stretch after the game.”
“Shut up,” Hollander says.
“Make me,” Ilya says, and wins.
They’re both lying on the bed, hair still damp from the shower, when Ilya remembers the plan that’s half formed in his mind. He rolls to his side to say something to Hollander and then stops. Hollander’s eyes are closed, eyelashes casting shadows onto the freckles on his cheeks. His breathing is soft and low.
“Hollander,” Ilya says. He gives his shoulder a little shake. “Are you sleeping?”
Hollander’s eyes flutter once, and then open blearily “No,” he says, “just resting.” And then a second later, when he’s more awake. “I can go in a minute, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Ilya says. Hollander’s face does something complicated. “Roll over.”
Hollander frowns. His eyes are still a bit glassy. “Rozanov, I don’t know—”
“Shut up,” Ilya says. He reaches for Hollander’s shoulders and starts to lift him from the pillow, turning him to his side. Hollander braces an arm underneath himself and doesn’t move away.
“I have to go soon.”
“I’m not fucking you again,” Ilya says. “Not yet.”
“What?” Hollander says. But he lets himself be maneuvered anyways. He’s so pliant in Ilya’s hands. So easy. Ilya wonders just how much he can shape him.
“Rozanov.” Hollander turns his head so he can look at Ilya once he’s gotten him on his stomach. “What are you doing?”
“Stop thinking so much,” Ilya says. “You played like crap today. Whoever Montreal’s trainer is, they are horrible at their job. Let me try.”
Hollander doesn’t say anything. Ilya stares down at Hollander’s back, taking in the shapes of his muscles. He’s never looked this much before. Hollander has a beautiful back, but this isn’t shocking in and of itself; Hollander has many beautiful body parts. Most of which have, admittedly, been inside Ilya at some point in the past hour.
He has to shake himself, a little, to stop staring and remember what the fuck he’s doing here.
“Where is it sore?”
Hollander laughs. “You just fucked me, where do you think—”
“Wrong.” Ilya climbs on top of Hollander and squeezes his waist with his thighs. “Is it your back? Shoulders?”
“I don’t know. Maybe everywhere.” Hollander doesn’t look disturbed to find Ilya straddling him so suddenly. If anything his face goes a little slack.
“God, you are awful at this.” Ilya cracks his knuckles. “Is okay, I will find out.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander says. There’s something tight in his voice. “You really don’t have to.” But Ilya is already in motion, pressing his hands down, calloused palms making contact with the warm, smooth skin of Hollander’s back. He’s so warm, skin soft from the shower and Ilya’s very expensive body wash. There are a few hickeys scattered on the tops of his shoulders. Nothing too dark, nothing that won’t fade in a few days. Montreal doesn’t play again soon, Hollander has nothing to hide in the locker room.
Ilya drags his hands up Hollander’s body, white marks appearing and disappearing on his pink skin. When he gets to Hollander’s shoulders he slows, leaning forwards to press a kiss in between Hollander’s shoulder blades, then goes back to feeling carefully for the tightness of muscle. He shifts, leaning more of his weight forwards. Increasing the pressure.
Hollander’s breath hitches.
“Rozanov.” The word is muffled by the pillow, but Ilya can hear the edge to his tone.
“Shhh,” Ilya says. “Don’t talk.” His hands are still searching over the warm skin of Hollander’s back. Hollander’s eyes flutter closed.
He finds a spot. Above Hollander’s shoulder blade, the knot hard and rigid, like bone. He leans into it slightly, testing. Hollander breathes again, hard.
“Roz—” Ilya presses his thumb into the knot on Hollander’s back, and the air leaves Hollander’s lungs in one breath.
“Too much?” Ilya asks.
Hollander swallows. “No, I…” Ilya grinds his knuckles deeper against the knot, and a sound leaves Hollander’s throat, somewhere between a moan and a cry. “Fuck, Rozanov.”
Ilya takes his time after that, hands moving up and down Hollander’s back. When he finds a spot, he pauses, testing it gently, then more, leaning down on the tightness until Hollander whines. He rubs Hollander’s back with his thumbs, his knuckles, until finally Hollander is saying that’s good, that’s enough, fuck me, please, please Rozanov. And who is Ilya to resist?
Hollander is already wet, and Ilya can feel the blood rush down straight from his head. He opens Hollander up and the sounds that come from him, languid in the sweaty sheets, are unlike anything Ilya has heard before. He sounds—
Ilya doesn’t know. He won’t think about it. Just how good it feels, to have Hollander underneath him, his eyes fluttering with each thrust. A different kind of unraveling.
//
Two months later, under the bright white artificial lights of the Garden, Hollander looks over at Ilya from his box. Just for a second, enough for Ilya to catch the clench of his jaw, and then he turns back. Ilya keeps staring.
And staring, as Hollander rolls his shoulders back, slowly. Stretches his neck from one side to the other. He keeps his gaze forwards. Ilya’s heartrate spikes—
—And spikes again, five hours later, and Hollander closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders down and back. He’s on top of Ilya, his lovely thighs pressed to the sides of Ilya’s waist. Ilya reaches up—
—And grabs hold of Hollander’s shoulders again, four months later, pushing his fingers against the muscle in Hollander’s neck. Holding them there, until Shane moans, tilting his head to one side. His beautiful fucking neck. Ilya thinks he lov—
—And he doesn’t finish that thought, not even three weeks later, when Jane texts him a selfie. He’s holding a theragun up to his shoulder, bicep flexed across his chest. Caption: Your days are fucking numbered Rozanov.
very funny but also not true, Ilya sends back. It's a weak retort and he knows it. Then he puts his phone face down on his chest and doesn’t think of anything else for a long time.
//
Some amount of time later in a city Ilya doesn’t care to remember, Hollander walks in looking like there’s something on his mind. But Ilya’s never learned to read Hollander’s mind, so he doesn’t ask. Later he will remember this thought and it will strike him as funny.
When Hollander smiles at him, right before he kisses Ilya like they haven’t seen each other in years, there’s something tight around his eyes. When Ilya deepens the kiss, tongue slipping into Hollander’s open mouth, Hollander tilts his head back and whines. And then a minute later he’s sunk to his knees, and Ilya stops worrying about Hollander’s face and worries more about his hot fucking mouth.
Whatever is bothering Hollander, sucking Ilya’s dick doesn’t solve it. Years ago Ilya wouldn’t have had the patience for this. If Hollander was in a mood that was all the more reason for Ilya not to hang around. Great, we fucked, thanks. Goodbye. Hope you fix your shit.
Now, he sits at the head of the bed and watches Hollander folding and re-folding his shirt and socks. Once he’s finally satisfied he stands there in the middle of the living room, hands flat against his thighs for a long minute before he gets on with it.
“Can you—” Hollander starts. Then he stops, catches his breath, and starts again. “I have a headache.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. “Congratulations?”
“Fuck off. I want—” Hollander closes his eyes. He rolls his shoulders back. Ilya is not fucking immune.
“Can you rub my neck, please.”
A flash of memory. Years ago, some hotel room. Hollander curled at the edge of the bed, hesitant under Ilya’s touch. Ilya had thought at the time that what they had was simple. He’s starting to understand, so much further down the line, that simple might be the least best word to use. Whatever they have, whoever they are to each other, it’s not—it’s not simple. Not for Ilya, anyways.
“Fuck,” Hollander says, and Ilya realizes he’s been waiting for a response. “I—”
“Come here,” Ilya spreads his legs open, and Hollander is across the room in an instant. Ilya has to hold his breath. Count to three. Breath out. Count to three again. Only then he can focus on the sudden presence of Hollander between his legs.
“Where does it hurt,” he says. Hollander is slouched forwards, and his right hand raises to touch the back of his neck. Ilya watches him trace his fingertips over his skin. There are goosebumps there.
“Here, and uh, here.”
Ilya puts his hands on Hollander’s shoulders, and Hollander actually flinches.
“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya says. “I won’t paralyze you.”
“What?”
“You know, ah—in action movies, they hit guy in neck and he passes out? Is not a real thing.”
“Jesus Christ, Rozanov.”
“Relax,” Ilya says again. And Hollander, to his credit, takes a long, deep breath, and fucking does.
And Ilya—
Ilya thought he knew every way he could have Hollander. It’s been years. They’ve fucked in cities across North America. Hollander has begged for it, and he’s rolled his eyes and he’s dragged his feet, and he’s thrown himself at Ilya like there couldn't be any air between them for another second. Ilya thought he knew it all.
This somehow, is something different. Because Hollander isn’t on his knees, he’s not on his stomach. He’s not even anywhere near Ilya's dick, for fucks sake. He’s leaning back against Ilya’s legs, close enough that Ilya barely has to reach forwards at all. Hollander’s skin is warm and soft under his touch. The muscles of his shoulders are strong and well defined, and Ilya thinks, a little dizzily, that he could draw an anatomically correct map just from the feel of them. He could be a fucking physiotherapist. Sign him up.
He shifts closer to Hollander’s back, letting his forearms rest against him there. Ilya closes his eyes.
“Good?” He breathes against Hollander’s hair. It smells like Hollander, like sweat and shampoo and hockey. The ends of it tickles his nose as Hollander nods.
He rubs Hollander’s shoulders, carefully, gently. The movements are familiar, the application is not. Through all the blur and the rush of chemicals in his brain, Ilya gets the sense that they are doing something—he doesn’t know. He pushes it out of his mind.
A minute later Hollander exhales shakily.
“Can you,” he says. “Um. A bit higher, please. Like, right at my neck.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. “Tell me where to do.”
He presses his thumb into the base of Hollander’s skull. Hollander’s breath hitches.
“Here?” he asks, and he dimly notices his own breathlessness. He rubs a few gentle circles into the top of Hollander’s spinal cord. Hollander raises his hand again. It covers Ilya’s, and slowly, he pulls their hands to the side, and presses Ilya’s fingers against the side of his neck.
“Here,” Hollander says. Ilya’s fingers find the spot, the muscle hard underneath his touch, like bone.
“Wow,” he says, pressing gently with his fingers. Feeling the strain. Hollander laughs, a little.
“Yeah. Fuck, yeah, that’s the spot. Do you feel it?”
Ilya slowly presses against the knot in Hollander’s neck. His fingers spread, working around the rock-hard muscle. Trying to find the right spot to push into, the angle that will allow him to work the kink out. It’ll come undone, eventually.
He says, quietly, “Yes.”
For a long moment they don’t say anything else. Ilya lets his hands talk for him instead, kneading Hollander's neck, then drifting down to rub his shoulders, then back up to his neck again.
“Harder,” Hollander says, “please.” Ilya pushes more of his weight into the spot. He’s aware, faintly, that his hands are around Hollander’s neck right now. He thinks that this must hurt. He pushes harder against Hollander’s neck.
The noise that Hollander makes is unlike anything that Ilya thought that he knew.
He doesn’t know how long he spends rubbing Hollander’s neck. The muscles twitch under his fingers, relaxing in miniscule amounts. Hollander keeps his head leaned forwards, little pained noises leaving his mouth as Ilya rubs both his thumbs against the sides of Ilya’s neck.
Ilya’s field of vision has narrowed to Hollander, slouched forwards. His arms are half hugging his knees, his socked feet digging into the duvet. Ilya is suddenly aware of how Hollander’s head is drooping, the tendons in his neck straining to keep it upright. Without thinking, Ilya cups his palm around Hollander’s forehead. Hollander’s exhale is such a familiar sound that Ilya could have sworn it was his own. Sometimes it seems like they’re breathing from the same lungs.
“Relax,” Ilya says. Hollander’s head tilts forwards, and then Ilya is holding the full weight of Hollander’s head in his one hand. Some of the muscles in his neck slacken and Ilya uses his free hand to rub at his shoulders.
The only sounds in the room are their breaths, intermixed, and the sounds Hollander makes when Ilya digs his fingers into a painful knot.
“Helping?” he asks. He can still feel the wrinkle between Hollander’s eyebrows.
“Yes.” And then, as Ilya presses his fingers in harder, “God, Rozanov, that feels so fucking good.”
“Breathe,” Ilya orders.
“Fuck.” He can feel the tension in Hollander’s face. His head in Ilya’s hand. Ilya wants to—
“Breathe,” Ilya says. “God, Shane, relax.”
He feels Shane’s intake of breath more than he hears it.
“Ilya,” Shane says. He’s so warm under Ilya’s hands. Ilya runs his thumb over the wrinkle in his brow, smoothing the skin between his fingers. Shane’s eyelashes flutter against his palm. His other hand works at his shoulder. Shane sucks in a breath, holds it.
Ilya’s hand is cupping Shane’s forehead. When Shane sits up he moves it along instinctively, following the motion.
“Can you stop,” Shane says.
Ilya’s hands still.
Hollander twists back, once, to look at Ilya. Ilya can’t read his mind, can’t decipher the look on his face. Hollander turns around and pushes himself off the bed. He’s slightly unsteady on his feet. His neck is red where Ilya’s knuckles dug into the skin. He doesn’t look back at Ilya.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asks. It’s a dumb question.
“I have to go.” Hollander is already throwing his shirt over his head, stepping into his pants. Ilya watches him from the bed, unmoving. His hands are starting to cramp where they rest in his lap.
“Hollander,” he says.
“Um. Thank you for the—thanks. It helped.”
“Hollander.”
“Sorry,” Hollander says. And then he’s grabbing his suit jacket and the door is shutting behind him.
Ilya stares at the closed door. He tries not to think about what’s just happened and finds it impossible. Maybe, he’ll wake up tomorrow and none of this will have been real. He won’t know what it’s like to have Hollander sit between his knees, defenseless. He won’t know what it’s like to have the weight of Hollander's head in the palm of his hand.
Really, he thinks, the most surprising thing is that he’s been wrong, all this time. Hollander can leave. He does it like it's easy. Like it’s simple.
Like it’s nothing at all.
//
Ilya scrolls through the paparazzi photos lying in his hotel bed. He tries to tell himself he doesn’t care. It doesn't work, and not being able to lie to himself about this makes him almost more uneasy than the dozens of pictures of Hollander leaving the club with Rose Landry pressed into his side.
One shot makes him pause. Landry’s long, delicate hand resting on top of Hollander’s shoulder. No, not resting. Holding him, gripping him, actually, tight enough that there are creases in Hollander’s white t-shirt. Ilya zooms in on the photo and starts to feel sick. Landry’s fingers flex over the muscle of Hollander’s shoulder. His face is frozen in a smile.
Ilya throws his phone onto the couch and curses it out for good measure. Then he takes a burning hot shower and tries his hardest not to think about Rose Landry’s hand pressing into Hollander’s shoulder.
It doesn’t work. Under the showerhead Ilya’s hands come up to his own shoulders, pressing, first gentle pressure, then harder. The image of Rose Landry’s hands has been burned into his eyelids. Her fingers are so much smaller. Does it feel better, when she touches him? Does he let her press her weight into the tight knots under his skin? Does she think it’s hot when the pain makes him moan? Ilya grinds his hands into his shoulders then presses them to his eyes until he sees white.
When he gets out of the shower his skin is red. It’s not until later, when he’s standing in front of his dresser that he thinks of something worse. Hollander coming home after a game, sitting down in front of Landry’s couch. Her hands working the tension out of his tired body, Hollander loose, grateful under her touch.
Suddenly he’s cold, the heat of the shower gone in an instant. Like it was something he never even had.
//
Two months later, in a bar in Tampa, Hollander smiles at him over a bottle of Corona Light. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Ilya smiles back. It’s easy for him too. Or it could be, if he could ignore the way his stomach is clenching.
He squeezes Hollander’s shoulder when he stands up to leave. Under his fancy new jacket, the muscles in Hollander's shoulders are tight.
Good.