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Ilya’s apartment is wrong, when he wakes up. His body is wrong, muscles built up in the wrong places. His fucking skates are wrong. His thumb unlocks the wrong phone showing the wrong date. He googles ilya rozanov and finds his own Wikipedia page.
"Ilya Rozanov is a Russian-born American pairs skater," the page says.
"What the fuck," Ilya says.
He keeps reading. Skated with Sveta until he was fifteen. He must have begged hard; she'd hated her lessons. Paired up with an American at nineteen and switched federations. Trains in Boston, now. He has medals: world champion two years ago, silver last year. Something in Ilya loosens. The thought always in his throat: if I'm not good enough, they will send me back to Russia.
He has a green card. He's on track to get citizenship for the next Olympics.
He sits back on the wrong sofa. Breathes out. Googles shane hollander.
Ilya looks at the pictures first. Can't help smiling. Shane frowning on a bench, mouth guard dangling out. Shane's blank press face. He's still a Metro. Everything else is wrong, but here's Shane, still playing hockey, still the most beautiful thing on ice.
Wikipedia again. Three Cups. The Metros had the #1 draft pick Shane's year. Too bad—Ilya had wondered what Shane might be like as a Raider. Rookie of the Year. MVP. MVP more times. The “Personal Life” section is pretty thin. He does charity. He lives in Montreal, has one million sponsorships. Boring. That's not what Ilya wants to know.
Ilya tabs out and googles shane hollander rose landry. Nothing. shane hollander girlfriend. shane hollander dating. Nothing. Ilya taps the phone on his knee and thinks. Carefully types out shane hollander gay. Nothing.
The last time Ilya touched Shane was in Tampa. "I think I'm gay." Shane fucking Hollander. How many years had they been fucking by then? He'd said it like it was new, and like it scared him. Hadn't let that stop him, though. "I think I like you a little too much." Lovely Shane. Brave Shane. Ilya wants to talk to him, suddenly and desperately. Wants to kiss the freckles over his cheekbones one by one, push his thumb into his hot wet mouth, feel Shane's entire quivering body underneath him.
No Jane in his contacts, obviously. He'd never memorized the number. Ilya's abruptly furious at himself for it. Possibly it starts with a 6. Not enough. All the times he'd opened up their texts, grinned at Shane's last message, sent over what are you wearing just because he could. He hadn't known that was a privilege. They were only in the same place four or five times a year. The rest of the time he'd only ever had this.
Montreal has a home game tonight. Ilya looks at the calendar for a long, long moment. Five hours by car from Boston. What had Shane said, that fucking game, before he'd gone down on the ice and Ilya's heart tried to turn itself inside out? "Front door. 1919." Does Shane still live there? Did he ever, in this strange world where he never played with Ilya, never touched him with eager trembling fingers, never bit out sorry as he came into Ilya's mouth?
He doesn't know. He doesn't fucking know. He googles visiting canada with usa green card anyway, turns over half the wrong apartment to find the green card and Russian passport both. He gets into his car and starts driving.
His mother had done figure skating. The thought comes to Ilya halfway through the drive. She'd retired before she married, and Ilya hadn't known that until— he doesn't remember anymore what it was. Her hands lacing up his skates before she led him onto the ice. Her medal from Junior Worlds in the box at the top of the closet. He wonders if this means she didn't— he nearly swerves into the fucking median. He stops wondering about it.
Into Quebec. Signs in his periphery pointing steady toward Montréal. He stops for gas, once. His nerves are sparking like there's a fault in him, jolting as the distance ticks down. Shane, Shane, Shane. What is he going to say? They've never met, probably. Shane won't know him. Maybe Ilya won't know him, either, the man Shane became without Ilya Rozanov. It's both absurd and true to believe: Ilya changed Shane's life. It must be true, because Shane changed his.
The apartment building looms up. Ilya's never gone around the front before. He parks haphazardly, types in the code like he's touching a bruise. 1919. The green light. Oh, Hollander. The same apartment Ilya remembers, the same sofa he fucked Shane over, the same damn cushions on the bed. His mouth is grinning wildly without his permission. He feels settled, grounded, for the first time since he woke up.
Puck drop was less than an hour ago. Metros up 1-0, still two periods to play. Ilya wanders back downstairs. Checks the fridge. Prepackaged meals stacked neatly by day. Half a pack of beers. Ilya stares at that. Thinks about opening a beer; gets a glass of water instead. He turns the TV on to see Shane at the faceoff dot, neatly slapping the puck to his left winger. Gets it back fifteen seconds later, ducks a D trying to check him. Circles around the net, fakes the goalie into dropping. Roofs it.
Metros 2-0. Ilya realizes he's on his feet. He should've been there. Should've boarded Shane into the corner behind the net, kicked the puck loose, felt Shane trying to drive his elbow up into his ribs. His heart is racing. His dick is so fucking hard.
He mutes the volume, ducks out of the apartment and finds the nearest convenience store. Buys a pack of cigarettes and a ginger ale, for good measure. He smokes the cig outside and then goes back up to stash the ginger ale in the fridge. On the TV Shane's spitting blood onto the ice. Five for high-sticking, Boston. Shane squirts water into his mouth, puts his mouth guard back in. Metros power play.
The game is a fucking slaughter. No one can keep up with Shane on the ice. Maybe no one ever has. It's beautiful and sad, Ilya thinks. He wouldn't have let Shane score so many goals. He would have made it fun.
Shane does the presser. Fucking French. Ilya unmutes to hear him anyway, breathing hard, the pause when he gets a question he doesn't like. There's sweat sliding down the side of his neck. Does anyone know what Shane sounds like when you bite him, right there? Does Shane know: the high breathy exhale from his lungs, the way he tilts his head back for more, the pulse kicking at his throat.
Come home, Ilya thinks abruptly. Come here. I want to hold you. I want—
Waiting. Ilya's no good at it. He paces. He thinks about having another smoke. His mouth and his hands both want it, a sharp frantic hunger. He flushes the cigs down the toilet, sits with his fingers trapped in the crook of his knees. How is this going to go? How to tell Shane: I know you, I love you, I want to make you laugh. You don't even know me, but I had to see you. Something terrible has happened, Shane. Do you feel it?
The door opens. Two steps, Shane taking off his shoes. Another second and Shane’s going to see him. The game-day suit. His face, looking tired. “What the fuck,” Shane says, “How did you get in here?” He's fumbling in his pocket. “I’m calling the police.”
Ilya’s stupid mouth says, “Did Canada win the Prospect Cup? In 2009.”
“Yeah,” Shane says immediately, then looks irritated at himself. “Are you a stalker? You could have just looked that up.”
“In my world,” Ilya says. Regina, Saskatchewan. Shane holding out his hand, a nervous little grin. “We beat you.”
“Okay,” Shane says. Oddly he seems calmer. “So you're delusional.”
“Shane,” Ilya tries. “Hollander.” Neither feels right. That old familiar frustration, at the limitations of his English. He hadn't realized he and Shane were speaking something different. “I will go,” he says, scrubbing his face, "I will leave you alone, but I want to ask you something. Are you happy?”
Shane breathes in, then out. For the first time Ilya notices the pink tinge at the corner of his mouth. Did they pull the tooth? The tip of Shane’s tongue, probing at the tender ache in his gums. “Why would you ask me that?”
“You should have everything you want,” Ilya says, helplessly. “Why don't you— you don't even have any ginger ale.”
“Ginger ale.” Shane looks abruptly nauseous. “What I want. Fuck you. You don't know me.” His hands are shaking. The first time Ilya ever kissed him. The tension strung to breaking all through his spine. “I don't want anything. I'm— I'm happy. Please leave.”
You do want, Ilya thinks. You want so loud. He's standing up. Shane's going to hit him, but Ilya gets there first, puts his hands on Shane's jaw, feels stubble scratch at his palms. Mouth to Shane’s mouth, the way he likes to be kissed, wet with teeth, no room for breath. Shane tastes like iron. Ilya finds the empty space between two teeth and presses at the hollow there, hard. Feels blood oozing up.
Shane's knees buckle. Ilya catches him, pushes him toward the couch. “Oh my god,” Shane says. All his words are coming out wet. “Oh my god.”
“In my world,” Ilya says. Gets on top of Shane, knees bracketing his hips, his hands pinning down Shane’s elbows. Maybe this body isn't stronger than Shane’s, but Shane’s not trying to get up. Shane’s hard against Ilya’s ass; Ilya wonders if he knows. “I beat you in 2009, but you beat me, the year after.”
“Huh.” Shane's head rolls back. “I guess that's fair.”
“It's not about fair,” Ilya tells him. “We are both very, very good.”
“But I'm better.”
“Sometimes.” Ilya leans down to bite Shane's neck, where the tendon is. Now Shane knows. Now he will know that he likes it, how he likes it. “You went second in the draft.”
“What, to the Nomads?”
Shane Hollander. Ilya likes him so much. Shane’s pinched mouth, the crease between his eyebrows, because of the suggestion that he might play for fucking Minnesota. “No, in my world, Boston had first pick. Good choice. You’re still a Metro.”
“Okay,” Shane says. “Good.”
“That's how I got in,” Ilya says. Presses his thumb to the corner of Shane's mouth, watches him open up. Yes, you like that too. My fingers. My dick. You can't get enough of me. “You have the same apartment. You told me the door code.”
“That’s not very responsible,” Shane says against Ilya's thumb. His eyes are closing. “How did we meet?”
“How did we meet?” Ilya shifts his weight back, puts pressure against Shane’s dick. “That is boring. Are you sure that's what you want to hear?”
Shane's hips jerk up; Ilya drops more of his weight, pushes him back down. A slow flush is spreading beneath Shane's freckles. “You tell me, then,” he says. “What I want to hear.”
How to tell it, this thing between them. An hour or two stolen out of a day, and then the next game, the next season, always too far away. Not nearly enough; somehow still too big for Ilya to hold safe in his body. He puts his hand flat on Shane's chest, wet thumb rubbing at Shane's nipple through his dress shirt. Squeezes hard, and feels Shane's breath come out in a rush. “The first time we fucked,” Ilya says, “you took off all your clothes, but you kept your socks on.”
“My feet get cold.”
“Mm, yes.” Ilya undoes Shane’s tie. So many fucking buttons, then Shane’s torso bared beneath him. There's a bruise blooming all along his left side, livid. Ilya drops his head to suck at the edge of it. Hears Shane whine, high and shocked. “I won the Cup in 2014,” he says. Uses teeth. Shane’s heartbeat is thumping hard under his palm. “You won two back-to-back, but I got it first.”
“Back-to-back is hard,” Shane says, and then: “Boston? Really?”
“Not so good without me,” Ilya agrees. Slithers down to unbutton Shane's fly, fishes out his dick from where it’s tenting his briefs. “Shame. You like when the game isn't so easy.”
“A win's a win,” Shane says automatically. “Raiders played like shit, though.”
“Yes, I would have never let you get that breakaway,” His mouth is very close to Shane’s dick, which means Ilya can see it twitch when he enunciates his words. “Or the power play.”
“Right, ‘cause you don't seem like you'd play dirty at all.” Shane twists up on his elbows to look at Ilya. “Are you planning to suck my dick or just lie there?”
There's a sensitive spot on Shane's hip he wants to lick, but maybe this is better. “Why would I high-stick you in the face?” Ilya says. “Risky. You have such a good mouth.” He grins against Shane's tensing abs. Puts his own mouth to use.
“I don't— oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Shane's hands slide into Ilya's hair. “Oh god. Jesus Christ, I’m gonna—”
This Shane isn't nineteen, but that doesn't matter. Ilya spent years learning how Shane Hollander likes to be sucked. He presses his tongue against the underside of the head, sucks hard and long, slides lower down the shaft. A hand pushing on the inside of Shane's thigh—Shane lets it fall open—then shoving into his pants so he can roll his balls over gently in his palm. Further back, two fingers, rubbing firmly at his taint. Shane's dick jerks in his mouth, once, twice, pulses come onto his tongue, hot and bitter. Ilya swallows around it, wipes at his mouth, licks Shane's cock clean all over again. There's a simple pleasure in making Shane come; it lives in Ilya's body, like the clean burn in a muscle after a set.
“Let me fuck you,” Ilya says. Shane's still catching his breath, forearm over his eyes, panting raggedly out of his open mouth. The suit’s definitely going to wrinkle. Ilya wants, with a sudden desperate need, to peel him out of it and carry him to bed.
“I'm sensitive,” Shane says, without looking at him. “After I come. Inside.”
Shane, sweetheart, darling. Ilya feels lit up in his entire chest, a dizzying golden glow. “Your fingers?” he asks. “Or your dildo?”
“You know about—? Um, yeah, the dildo. I tried a couple of times.”
Ilya crawls up Shane's body to press his forehead to Shane's. “You are sensitive,” he agrees. “A little tender. Uncomfortable." Shane's squirming beneath him. He bites at Shane's mouth until he stills. Says, again, “Let me fuck you.”
Shane opens his mouth, inaudible. Ilya sees the pink tip of his tongue worming between the gap in his teeth. He waits for Shane to blink hard, and swallow, and say, “Okay.”
To the bedroom, where Shane keeps the lube. Ilya finds it and the dildo both, nothing else. “You don’t have condoms?”
Shane’s unsticking himself from his shirt. “Uh, no, the dildo’s non-porous, you can just— oh.”
Ilya contemplates his aching dick, the sweat on his lip, the walk to the convenience store. Ten minutes for the round trip, probably. Ten minutes of leaving Shane Hollander naked in his bed, which seems suddenly insurmountable.
“Are you clean?” Shane says.
Ilya hasn't fucked anyone since Tampa. Ilya fucked Shane in Tampa. “Yes.”
“Me too.” Shane gets on the bed. “So.”
Ilya has to close his eyes and think about taxes so he doesn't lose it before he's even started. Three deep breaths, nails digging into his palm. When he opens his eyes again and shoves down his pants he finds Shane arranged on his hands and knees, head down, and feels wild all over again.
“Is that how you want it?”
“I don't know,” Shane says. His shoulder blades flex. Ilya wants to press kisses to every divot of his spine. “How do I like it?”
Any way, Ilya nearly says. Every way I’ve had you you liked it. He climbs onto the bed and puts a hand on Shane’s hip, is struck momentarily dumb by Shane turning his head to blink at him. “Turn over,” he finally says. “I want to see your face.”
Shane gets on his back. His dick isn't hard, not yet, but it's not entirely soft either. Ilya bends down to give it a kiss, then slips one hand behind Shane's bent knee and pushes up. Opens the lube one-handed, fumbling at the cap until he's got enough, rubbing his fingers together, pressing at Shane's hole. Pushing in. He’s so soft inside, hot and clenching. Ilya’s going slow, careful. Shane's making low noises in his throat, his hand scrabbling at the sheets, and every time Ilya looks at his face he says, “Keep going.”
Ilya couldn't stop if the world ended. He pulls his fingers out, looks at the shiny open flex of Shane's hole. Has to think about taxes again as he slicks up his cock and slings Shane's knee over his shoulder. His breath is caught somewhere on a hook behind his sternum. He wants to look at his cock pushing into Shane's flinching body; wants to look at the dazed sheen of Shane’s eyes and the bitten-red of his mouth. Impossible to miss one. Impossible to choose.
Shane chooses for him. “Can you,” he says, “Can you tell me. Is it good, where you're from? You and me.”
Ilya’s hips snap forward. It's not a conscious thought. He surges up to kiss Shane's open mouth, his fluttering eyelids, the side of his nose. “It's good,” he says. It comes out so thick, like he's about to cry, but the feeling crawling up his throat isn't anything Ilya knows. “It's good. Shane. You're so good.”
“Good,” Shane echoes. His expression is hazy, a little dreamy. There's some place inside Shane where he's all sensation. Ilya can push him there. Ilya can take all the little hurts sparking through Shane’s body and turn it molten. “And we're happy?”
He could say yes. What's the harm. “I don't know,” he says into Shane's shoulder. Digs his teeth in. Leaves a mark.“I think so. Maybe. We're trying.”
“Okay,” Shane says. He reaches down and turns Ilya's face up. “We'll make it.” He's moving on Ilya's cock now, little twitches of his hips, tiny gasps of air pushed out of his throat. “You know that, right?”
Ilya's here, Shane's hand on his cheek, Shane's body clenching up around him, Shane's breath in his mouth. He reaches down between them and finds Shane's cock stiffening into full hardness, jerks him steady. “How do I know?” he says. “How do you know?”
Shane shrugs. “We're trying.” His head’s tipping back; his mouth is open. Ilya slides a finger inside, pets over his tongue, finds the space of the missing tooth and presses down. Shane’s throat convulses. His cock is spurting over Ilya’s fist, but he's still trying to say: “It’s us. We're good.”
I love you. I love you. I love you. When Ilya comes he thinks maybe he's died. All his weight on Shane, the sweat between them turning sticky, his softening dick starting to chafe at the friction. He doesn't move. He doesn't think he can.
Shane touches his face. His fingertips come away wet. “Hey,” he says. “What do I call you?”
That startles a laugh out of him. Shane. My Shane. “Ilya,” he says. “You call me Ilya.”
“Ilya,” Shane repeats gravely. “Thank you.”
At some point Ilya must fall asleep, even though he doesn't remember this. He must, because he wakes up in his own bed, with his luggage stacked neatly by the door, and his phone tells him his flight to Moscow is departing in three hours.
Is it good, where you're from? Yes, Shane. It's good.
Ilya wants to go home. All his life, he's been doing it wrong.
It's four in the fucking morning. Shane’s at his parents’ house. Ilya calls anyway. “Hello?” Shane says, drowsy with sleep. “You okay?”
“Shane,” Ilya says. We'll make it. I love you. “I’m coming to the cottage.”