Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ilya can’t sleep.

It is not nerves. He knows tomorrow will be good. He’ll be number one, probably. Hopefully. His father is not so confident, but Ilya’s not worried.

The hotel is packed full of hockey players, their families, their management, so Ilya had been very careful to have just one sociable drink after dinner; then he left for his room, and took the bottle with him. He’s careful even now only to drink enough to take the edge off, but it hasn’t worked. He’s lying in the dark with the hum of air conditioning, usually a good lullaby, but he can’t seem to drift off. The room is loud with looming edges, unfamiliar shapes; the bed, just on the wrong side of too soft, too many pillows. Ilya really should unpack, hang his suit up — the sedate black one, safe, elegant. The shirt he’d had made by his father’s tailor, an old guy who had worked for all the politicians back in the 80s, who still cuts his collars too pointy, the notch of the top button too high. It’s fine, it’s good — Ilya doesn’t mind if he looks old-fashioned. He looks like his own father on his wedding day, in the one posed portrait still in the house. He doesn’t mind, though — in fact, he wants them all to look at him and remember where he comes from when he gets that number one slot. He’s ready.

He would usually go to the gym when he can’t sleep, but he’s already had a punishing session this afternoon, when everyone else was off getting ready for dinner. Everyone except Hollander, who arrived just as Ilya was leaving, towel under his arm. He’d said hello, earnest. Ilya had given him his most charming smile and shoved right past him for a shower. No fraternising with the enemy; not before the draft, anyway.

The fucking draft. Ilya wishes detachedly that it was all over, so he could go home and start getting ready to leave for good.

One more drink won’t hurt, surely; a drink and a walk and maybe then he’ll come back and jerk off in the dark and be able to sleep, finally. He has no ice, but the minifridge has kept the bottle cold enough, and anyway the vodka in this place is all shit, so it’s not like it makes a difference. A finger, two fingers, three fingers — too much, maybe, but it all goes down the same when he feels like this, the scorch of it at the back of his throat, the way the clean taste settles on his tongue. Good.

The corridor outside his room is deathly quiet, lights on low. He doesn’t even bother with shoes; the roof terrace is only one floor up through the service stairwell, and it’s Florida in June, and the hotel is overheated. The carpet feels flat and smooth under his feet, and there are cool metal rungs that tip the stair edges as he climbs; if they were in Moscow, there would be proper wool underfoot, and no one would be have left the party earlier to get a good night’s sleep, and Ilya’s father would still be drinking and talking to the people worth talking to, and watching Ilya do the same from across the room. But it’s not Moscow; it won’t ever be Moscow, after tomorrow, if Ilya wants. He keeps climbing.

The terrace is deserted. Fake plants, like small palm trees, a rope of twinkling lights strung through wooden beams. Fake grass underfoot, sweaty plastic. The place is uncanny, really. He smokes a cigarette, fishing the box out from the waistband of his shorts, the lighter cool and heavy in his palm, then he smokes another, eyes shut, elbows on the balcony edge, the whole city below him spread out and waiting. The breeze is warm, like breath over his stomach where his t-shirt lifts, and it seems to be picking up. He wants to feel it.

His mother used to climb the belltower of St Nicholas with him sometimes, after the service, as a reward if he stood quietly and listened to Father Pavel. The furious wink of candlelight on all the gold, the smell of wet wool and wax and frankincense, flagstones pitted from hundreds of years of reverent feet.

The stairs to the belltower always felt like release, Mama’s hand tugging Ilya onward, the breath-stealing cold so high up, the wind like a living thing, muscular, claiming. Mama laughing into it, hair streaming back, half-trapped by her hat, gold shining at her throat, Ilya's eyes burning as he watched her.

Sometimes Ilya can’t really remember what she looked like, and then he’ll be doing something and he’ll get a flash of memory — her smile; the shoes she wore until the heels wore down unevenly; the exact colour of her hair. The shade of blue her fingernails had been, the lovely arching fall of her arm out the side of the bed. It’s all still there, locked in his memory somewhere, even if it won’t come to him obediently anymore. It makes missing her sharper, not having the memory of her so easily to hand.

She would be here with him, if she had not died. It’s grossly unfair, one of the many grossly unfair things about it all. She always loved to watch him skate. But then, perhaps Ilya would not even be here, if Mama had not died. Sometimes he feels that his hunger on the ice is just an extension of the yawning unfillable emptiness she left in him. He wants things so badly — maybe this is something he learned from what it’s like not to have it.

It is not worth it, being great but motherless, being a prodigious talent without someone to be proud of him for it. But then, Ilya likes being one of the greats, likes it so much sometimes he feels he’ll burn up with his own pride. What would he be instead, if he had a mother but not all this? It’s unanswerable; he wonders anyway.

His bare elbows scrape on cement when he leans against the wall to smoke his third cigarette. His lighter clicks, fails, clicks, fails, clicks, catches, the wind almost whipping the flame away again as soon as it springs up.

The first inhale is always dizzyingly good, every time as good as the last. It’s so quiet up here he can hear the crackle of every pull; he’s smoking too fast, the heat of the smoulder already threatening between his fingers. The traffic below crawls at a low hum, a link chain of red lights. Ilya flicks the butt; the tip drags its light through the night as it spins over the edge of the balcony and falls.

Ilya feels like he’s never slept before, like his whole body is lit up like the string of tail lights below. Wired is the word Americans use for this feeling, Ilya has learned; it’s apt, electric energy running through him, his body nothing more than a vehicle for the charge of this night, the night before everything changes for him.

The edge of the balcony is wide; a concrete shelf beyond the railing, smooth paint, ash trails from Ilya’s stubbed out cigarettes. Ilya’s up on it before he thinks about it, his obedient body doing exactly what it needs to do to carry him over the railing, barely a strain at all to hoist himself up and over. He stands on the wall, toes to the edge. The concrete is cool and very smooth under the flexing soles of his feet, and the wind seems to be picking up even more, weirdly strong for a mild June night in Florida. He can see the city even better from here, right down to the sidewalk in front of the hotel, practically empty at this hour on an unremarkable Thursday.

Without the cocoon of the balcony in front of him, the wind feels like a fist to the face; Ilya lets his arms lift out to his side, lets the wind engulf him. There’s a density to it, a warm muscular rhythm, like he could almost catch it in his open hands.

Funny how wind can steal a breath; Ilya’s catches for a second, with the lurch of something thrilling and essential, this high up with so much at stake. His bare feet are sensitive to the grain of the concrete, his t-shirt fills and billows and slaps flat to his stomach again. His hair is getting in his eyes; too long, his father had said, but he just doesn’t like to see the curls that remind him of Ilya’s mother. Ilya had combed it back carefully with pomade, he can still smell it now even as the wind undoes him. He’s going to have to do a better job tomorrow; all the photographers will be there. The thought of tomorrow is a distraction from the energy of the night; for a second, Ilya falters, knees locking, hands clawing the air, before he balances himself again. He wonders how long he could stay here, looking down, without a wobble. How long before his body would give up. Another destabilising gust; Ilya shuffles out a little further, toes curling at the rounded curve of the wall. It’s trickier to keep his balance like this, with the wind whipping at his clothes, the distant lights blurring.

Sound behind him, formless at first, and difficult to make out over the wind.

“Ilya!” a voice calls, and Ilya startles, rocking back onto his heels to capture his balance again. There’s a dizzying swoop in his stomach, wind roaring past him, a tunnel of noise, the chaos of the lights below rushing up to him. And then; warm arms wrapping around his knees, a hand clutching at one of his, big palm, steady, and he’s being dragged back over the railing and onto the terrace again.

“Jesus, fuck, Ilya,” the voice says into his shoulder, muffled by the fabric of his t-shirt, and the arms wrap around him again from behind, grabby, anchoring. It’s not his father; the words are in English, the voice not entirely unfamiliar, though he can’t quite place it. Male, anyway; Ilya can feel it resonating through him where they’re pressed together, back to chest. Big hands, big arms, strong, maybe even as strong as Ilya. When he turns, it takes him some effort to shove out of the guy’s tight grip on him.

“What the hell were you doing up there, you dipshit?” The man is still trying to hold him, arms locking around Ilya’s shoulders as he turns, so by the time he faces the guy, they’re embracing, or rather, Ilya is being embraced, his hands dropping uncomfortably between them. He’ll have to touch the guy to push him back so he can actually see him, but as he’s debating where to put his hands, the guy pulls back from him, holding him at arm’s length. He’s peering at Ilya’s face worriedly. “You could have fallen, fuck.”

“Hollander?” Ilya’s dazzled, blinking to adjust, the strings of twinkling lights blurring over the terrace roof as he tries to make the man out. “Shane Hollander?”

“Obviously, asshole,” the man says. “What the fuck is going on? Where the hell are we?” He turns Ilya towards the light, and Ilya, already dazzled, goes as he’s directed. The man is still staring at him, and his fingers twitch convulsively on Ilya’s shoulders when he moves out of the shadows of the terrace so they can see each other properly. “Oh my god. This cannot be happening,” the man whispers. He’s scanning Ilya’s face, eyes huge and shocked. “Fuck.”

It is Hollander, Ilya thinks; he’s only met him twice, but he’s watched him skate a hundred times, knows the shape of his shoulders even without all his gear, knows the way he holds his head, careful, knows the expressive movement of his hands, which are still clenching on Ilya’s shoulders, too hard.

“What the fuck?” Ilya asks him. It’s probably too brusque, but now Ilya’s eyes are adjusting he’s starting to get a weird feeling about all of this. He blinks into the light as though that might help, but none of this is making sense. The man is Hollander, but not Hollander. He’s old, or older, at least — much older than Ilya, much older than Shane Hollander himself, who Ilya had seen just a few hours ago looking exactly as he usually did, definitely eighteen, same as Ilya. This man has the same freckles as Hollander, the same sideways curl to the mouth, the same dark eyes, lashes heavy, almost like a girl’s. But his hair is longer, falling over his eyebrows, and there’s some grey there, Ilya thinks, just a delicate light-catching silvering where the sides are tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing glasses.

“You are Shane Hollander… senior?” Ilya asks, knowing even as he does that it isn’t, it can’t be, because he saw Hollander’s father at the meet-and-greet earlier, a tired-looking middle-aged white guy who stuck near the buffet table. Definitely not this man, with his big forearms and rumpled linen shirt and smile lines around his eyes, little paler crinkles in his summer tan behind his glasses. The man gives Ilya’s shoulders one last squeeze, then lets go of him.

“Fuck off, I’m not old enough to be my dad, you asshole. I just— I can’t work out what’s happening.” He’s looking pale, all the freckles standing out in relief.

“This is some sort of joke, yes?” Ilya’s starting to get pissed off. It’s not so much this man himself, but the unsettling feeling Ilya gets when he looks at him — like he’s missing something vital that would make all this make sense.

“What year is it?” The man sounds urgent.

“Okay,” Ilya says, because actually this crazy man is not Ilya’s problem, and he grabs his pack of cigarettes off the balcony. “I am going now.”

“Is this the fucking Biltmore?” The man looks around helplessly at the roof terrace. “I haven’t been here since… shit, 2009?” He raises his arms, tugs at his hair almost absently-mindedly. The long bits at the side swoop around his fingers as he pulls. “It’s the 25th of June for me, is it the same for you? So… the night before the draft?”

“You know who I am,” Ilya says, “so obviously you must know why I am here. And also that I am extremely fit professional athlete, capable of self-defence if needed.”

“I know who you are,” the man says steadily, not even trying to deny it. “And I know where you are because I was here too, that night. I stayed in this hotel.” His breath comes out in a high whoosh, almost a whistle. “Fuck, I’m here right now. My mom is here somewhere, fuck.”

“Maybe you should go find her,” Ilya tells him.

“Great idea, thanks for that.” The guy sounds panicky. “You do recognise me, right? You said my name. And we had already met by now, you definitely do know who I am. Right? It was last year for you, remember? At the Juniors? It’s me, Shane.”

“You are saying that you are Shane Hollander, but have you seen a mirror recently? I have met Shane Hollander, and he is not some old guy.”

“Jesus, you really are an asshole. Now I know how Scott feels.” The guy grins slowly, almost reluctant. It’s not Shane Hollander’s smile, which llya has only really seen in photos, or in videos of him on the ice: polite, warped by his mouth guard, and in one memorable shot, bright with blood. His smile now is wider, something knowing in it that makes Ilya feel uncomfortable. It’s specific, directed right at Ilya, maybe even designed to unsettle him, because before Ilya can gather himself and actually get the fuck away from this weirdo, the man speaks again.

“I'm hallucinating, right? Like, is this some sort of concussion? Back here, tonight? And you looking—” He pauses to wave his hand at Ilya, an economical gesture that nonetheless seems to encompass all of him. He’s not pale anymore; there’s colour to his cheeks now, getting pinker “—looking like this.”

“Looking like what?” Ilya’s obscurely insulted by whatever the man is implying in his tone, which he can’t quite parse. People don’t usually complain about how Ilya looks — people who aren’t Grigori Rozanov, anyway.

“Looking like. Ummm. So… young. Fuck.” The hands go back to his hair; Ilya can see where his thumb is twirling through a long strand at the side. He’s pacing now too, back and forth across the terrace. He’s dressed casually, worn brown leather shoes, summer shorts in a pale colour. He looks like he should be relaxing somewhere, maybe on a boat.

“I am exactly the age I am meant to be,” Ilya tells him. It’s baffling as to why he’s even bothering, but he doesn’t want to leave this guy wandering around on the terrace by himself, even if he is some sort of deranged Hollander impersonator.

“Not for me!” It’s almost a wail; the guy’s voice cracks a little on the last word, and he presses the heels of his hands into his forehead. He’s doing a breathing thing that Ilya recognises from cooldown exercises; in through the nose then a long audible exhale, lips parting.

“Calm down,” Ilya tells him. “Do not have heart attack.”

“See, when I went to sleep tonight you were thirty-five years old. We were laughing about how we always remember the anniversary of the draft. How we can’t believe that it’s been almost twenty years. We were in Ottawa, and it was 2026, and everything was totally normal. So excuse me for freaking out when I wake up on the roof of a hotel I haven’t set foot in since I was a teenager, and find that I seem to have gone back in fucking time? Fuck!”

“Who is this ‘we’?”

“Sorry, what?” The Hollander guy pushes his glasses up so he can rub at his eyes, then takes them off completely and shoves them into the pocket at the front of his shirt. He has little pink dents on each side of his nose.

“You say, we went to sleep, we were laughing. And I do not know who you are talking about.”

“This is what you’re taking from everything I just said?” The guy looks at Ilya disbelievingly. Even without his glasses he looks a bit like a librarian, or a strict teacher. It’s not as off-putting as the guy means it to be.

“Yes,” Ilya tells him. “You nearly kill me, scaring me while I am standing on the roof, and then you push me around and you talk to me like you know me. And then after all that you say we, we, we as though I am meant to know who you are talking about. So I ask you, who is the we?”

“It’s you, asshole. You and me.” His voice goes up at the end, an agonised little crack. “We’re the we. Or we will be. In the future.”

“In 2026.”

“A bit before that, but yeah.” The man is about to smile again, Ilya can tell. “Like you couldn’t get that from everything I just said. You’re such a dick. Oh yeah, and don’t think I’ve forgotten about the roof, what the hell did you think you were doing up there?”

“It is nice night,” Ilya says slowly. “Was just admiring the view. But you—”

“Admiring the view?” Maybe this really is Hollander, impossible as it is. He sounds just like he did the day he told Ilya he was not allowed to smoke outside the stadium in Saskatchawan. “You didn’t need to climb over the fucking barrier to see the view. You could have died.” He gestures, a big sarcastic movement, at the vastness of the city lights, the darker shapes of buildings against the dark night sky. “Here’s the fucking view — check it out! You can see it perfectly from right here. Jeez.”

“You’re from the future? And you know me when I am old?” This is fucking crazy. The guy is… well, yes, he looks like Hollander probably would at thirty-five. And he’s a good-looking thirty-five. He might actually even look better than the normal Hollander. He’s definitely better dressed. The glasses add a certain something, too. He’s obviously fucking crazy, but then Ilya has his doubts about the real Hollander on that score too. He’s seen the way he plays.

“We’re… Yeah, we know each other. And we’re not old, we're only thirty-five. Although, fuck, yeah, actually it does sound old with you looking like that.” He pauses, looks at Ilya, and then looks away again.

“So you are time-traveller. Should I call you Sam Beckett?” The fake Hollander looks bemused. “You know this show? Quantum Leap? American show, my mother loved.”

There’s a shift in the man’s face; it takes Ilya a second to realise it’s a further softening. It’s weird to be able to work out the expressions on Hollander’s face, which is only familiar to Ilya from those three awkward minutes in Saskatchewan, most of it spent looking slightly past him disapprovingly as Ilya smoked. Other than that, Ilya’s used to seeing his face filtered through the visor, his lips working around his mouth guard, the high clean light of the rink throwing his features into relief. He’s never soft on the ice — that’s one of the things Ilya likes about him, reluctantly. Sharpness is something Ilya recognises.

“I haven’t seen it,” is all Hollander says. “I think it was probably, ummm. Before my time? And you know my mom, it’s all news and sports shows, that’s all we ever watched.”

Hollander’s mom, what the fuck. This whole night is fucking crazy, the night sky blazing above them, hotel terrace echoing and empty like a mountain top so Ilya can suddenly see everything in front of him, laid out like a map. He's suddenly so tired.

“I do not understand this joke,” Ilya says. This whole thing is a trick, clearly — this man is a Hollander cousin or something, designed to put Ilya off before the biggest day of his life. Elaborate and stupid and, worse than anything, it’s working. “I do not know who you are, and I do not know your mother. Fuck off, fake Hollander.”

“How are you mad at me over this?” Hollander begins his pacing again, a steady slow back and forth. “I don’t want to be here either, you know. I’m actually sort of freaking out here. This isn’t possible, it’s like something from a bad movie. Do I have a brain tumour?”

Ilya doesn’t answer, just shakes another cigarette out of the box and jams it in his mouth. He keeps his eyes on the man.

“Alright.” The man sighs. “Light that fucking revolting death stick of yours and I’ll try and work out what the fuck is going on.” His nose wrinkles at the first flare of the lighter.

“You don’t smoke?” Ilya holds the pack out, exhaling a wreath of smoke with the words. The man looks offended.

“Do I look that stupid to you?”

“You look like Shane Hollander, so…” Ilya shrugs. He knows it’s infuriating; he’s worked on it, just the right amount of elegant shoulder, the upturn of hands as though beseeching. It works on the ice; it’s eloquent. Easier to show what he’s thinking than to try to say it, sometimes; the words in English don’t always come, or come too late.

“Why is this happening?” The man joins Ilya at the railing, looks out over the city; Ilya inhales, exhales. “Why am I back here with you? Tonight, of all nights?”

The smoke doesn’t get a chance to form a haze, the wind snatching it away from Ilya’s mouth as soon as he breathes it out.

“Big day for me tomorrow,” Ilya says. “When I am number one.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man says. “We all know you’re going to Boston. They need a goal scorer and they need more speed and that’s you.”

“Yes.” Obviously, everyone knows this.

“Montreal is the better fit for me.” Something in Hollander’s voice makes Ilya look over at him. He’s far away, all of a sudden, looking at nothing. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. I just don’t know why you’re not freaking out like I am about this.”

“None of this is my problem.” The cigarette Ilya stubs out on the balcony wall sets up a shower of sparks. “I do not have anything to freak out about.”

The man leans on one elbow to look at Ilya, and he smiles. This close, he’s sweet-smelling, almost floral; it might be coming from his hair. The smile takes everything Ilya knows about Hollander’s face from all the videos his coach had made him watch, all the press he’d studied before he got here, and reframes it into something fierce and joyful and unfamiliar. It’s disarming; Ilya’s smiling back before he knows it, both of them grinning stupidly at each other before Hollander clears his throat and moves back a little.

“I’d forgotten,” the man says. “Or, I just didn’t know you enough to see the difference back then. You’re so prickly at this age.”

“I do not know this word.” Ilya tests it silently first, then tries it aloud. “Prickly. What does this mean?” He checks the man over again, one long unblinking look. He knows it can be disconcerting; he’s seen the effect it has on people. The man remains relaxed, tilts his chin up as though enjoying himself, leans more heavily on his elbow. The faded old shirt strains at the buttons with the movement.

“It’s like, I don’t know. Like you take everything I say as though I’m trying to fuck with you. I never noticed, before.” He’s still smiling. Ilya wishes he would stop being so fucking friendly. He is very hard to hate, this crazy guy. “I know this is weird, but it really is so good to see you. Ilya, you look so—”

“I look so—?”

“So…” Hollander rubs at his hair, shoving it out of his eyes. He meets Ilya’s eyes again; his teeth are neat and white, cheeks pink. “So—” A noise from far down below makes him jump, traffic, horns blaring. He breathes out, shaky. “God, this is a fucking nightmare.”

His words click, click, ignite something in Ilya’s brain. Nightmare, he thinks; looks around, at the empty rooftop, the night soaring above them, the pinprick stars, and before this, the silent walk upstairs, the soundless corridors, the bedroom with its anonymous edges and Ilya’s drink sweating on the nightstand. Ilya lying there, the bed cool and expansive around him, looking at the open window.

“A nightmare,” he says out loud, almost giddy with relief. “Fuck, I’m so fucking stupid.”

Ilya used to dream a lot, right after he found Mama, maybe for a year or two, though that time blurs for him even now, so he can’t think about it directly, has to approach it side-on, at an angle, a way of filtering the memories without getting the pain in his chest that was his constant companion back then. He’d dream all night, over and over, knowing he was dreaming but powerless to escape, and by the time he woke up his jaw would be aching, his chest like a tightened fist, clenching, ribcage heaving. The dreams were sometimes so beautifully, reassuringly real, Mama back and alive and smiling like she used to; or Mama lying there that day, Ilya trapped back in his twelve-year-old body, forever frozen in the bedroom doorway, night after night.

Tonight has the same feel of those early dreams — the heightened sensations, Ilya’s heart knocking insistently, too swift, every colour magnified — but nothing terrible has happened. Ilya’s not back in his mother’s bedroom doorway; Ilya is not a frightened child; Ilya is not alone. Hollander is here. This will be a good dream.

How could he not have realised, he wonders; this night is unreal in such a vivid way. The quiet of this huge hotel, the presence of this weird man, here, tonight, the night before Ilya’s big day.

“Wha—” Hollander looks bemused, eyes tracking Ilya; he’s so attentive, it makes Ilya feel weird about it, almost like he likes it. Real Hollander had been like this too, when they met. Paying attention. “Ohhhh. I’m dreaming. Fuck, Ilya, that’s it. This is a dream?”

“I think so, Hollander. You are dream Hollander. Makes perfect sense now.”

Hollander leans in closer, studying Ilya’s face. Ilya can guess exactly what bits of him he’s looking at — his beauty mark, the fall of his curls, the shape of his upper lip. Then Hollander’s finger is touching him, just lightly.

“You don’t look like a dream.” Tap, tap, tap, goes Hollander’s finger over the bridge of Ilya’s nose, over the little mark on his cheek where he’d had a mole removed when he was fifteen, then down to the spot under his chin where there’s an almost invisible white scar, from when he’d split it open when he was five. “You really are pretty realistic. And you don’t feel like a dream, either.”

“Wonder why you are old?” Ilya looks at him again, more carefully this time now he knows he can do whatever he wants. He has such a soft-looking mouth, the thin upper lip curled into what might be the ending of a smile, or maybe the beginning of another one. His freckles are unbelievable; Ilya should have known just by seeing them alone that this was all a figment of his subconscious.

“Hey, I’m not—,” Hollander protests, but it comes out weak and ends breathy, because Ilya reaches out and thumbs over his cheek, pressing against the skin where the freckles cluster darkly. It stops the words right out of Hollander’s mouth, and then Ilya can track his blush with this finger too, that insane pink that matches his mouth so well.

“The other times I dream about you, you are not old,” Ilya tells him, and whatever Hollander tries to say stops when Ilya catches at his chin, raises his face up, all the better to see the way his eyes move to Ilya’s mouth.

“You dreamed about me?” Hollander manages. Ilya’s hand fits perfectly along his jaw; Hollander tilts his chin as though he was not just expecting but waiting for the touch.

“Very nice dreams,” Ilya tells him, and kisses him.

Fuck, it’s a good kiss. Hollander’s mouth opens for him; his tongue is hot, his breathing faster already. He tastes faintly, weirdly, of mint, like he’s brushed his teeth recently. When Ilya pulls back, Hollander tries to follow him, eyes still closed, eyebrows drawn together in dark quizzical lines. He looks almost in pain.

“God,” he says, and when he opens his eyes Ilya is still close enough to see the huge swallowing globes of his pupils before they contract against the light. “You taste— You smell— The cigarettes.” He drops his face into Ilya’s neck, inhales at the curve of his shoulder, trying to nose under the neck of his shirt.

It’s a weirdly specific thing for a dream person to mention; Ilya is momentarily impressed by his own subconscious.

“You don’t like my smell?” he asks, and tilts his head to allow Hollander more access. “My taste?” Hollander responds by nuzzling closer, then he’s sucking at Ilya’s skin, the point of his tongue running in a demanding line along Ilya’s throat.

“I like it,” he says, between kisses. “I like it a lot. I had just… forgotten.”

Ilya was already sort of hard from just the kissing; now he needs to get his dick in Hollander right away.

“Okay, Hollander, let’s do this,” he says, and presses Hollander right back against the railing. He arches backwards, the curve of his spine supple and willing under Ilya’s hands. With every movement the buttonholes of his sensible shirt are beginning to give under the strain. The shirt is another ridiculous thing for Ilya to have dreamt up; so faded a blue it’s almost white, the linen as smooth as skin to the touch. The collar is wafer thin with wear, and there’s a frayed patch at the shoulder where Ilya can just see a sliver of Hollander’s skin through the opening of the weave. He clamps his mouth down over it and sucks; when he’s finished, there’s a dark patch on the fabric in the shape of his mouth, and Hollander is moaning. Ilya turns him around to face the city; he’s hot all over when Ilya presses up against him from behind — his big shoulders, the softness of his hips, the patch of skin behind his ear that Ilya can just about reach to kiss. “Like this?”

“Ilya,” Hollander mutters. For a second he’s pliant in Ilya’s arms, he even bends forward a little as though to say, yes, here. Then he straightens again; he flexes slightly so Ilya’s grasp on him loosens. “Shit, I mean… No, not here. Come on, let’s just go to your room.”

“You don’t get to decide, dream Hollander.” Ilya says it right into his ear; the hair he has tucked behind it moves slightly with Ilya’s breath, light moving liquid along the strands. “This is my dream, you do what I say. Maybe I just fuck you here.” He doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Hollander’s body relaxes against him again. “Or I put you on your knees so you can suck my cock.”

“You can try,” Hollander mutters, but he tips his head back onto Ilya’s shoulder, lashes fluttering as his eyes fall shut. That’s definitely not a no — Ilya’s imagination has truly outdone itself. “And this is my dream.”

“Hollander.” Ilya has a hand over his stomach. It’s so easy to slide lower to where Hollander is rock hard in sensible cotton shorts, just the sort of thing someone like him would wear, probably. Hollander makes a very good noise when Ilya finally cups his cock, one that Ilya would like to hear again and again. “Whoever owns this dream, it is still just a dream. It doesn’t matter where we fuck.”

He shouldn’t have said anything, because his words seem to bring Hollander back to himself, and he bats Ilya’s hands away carelessly, elbows out of his grip. Ilya thinks he could keep him in place if he tried, though he’s not actually totally sure, which for some reason is really doing it for him.

“Enough.” Hollander turns to him. He’s not as glazed as earlier, he looks determined now, eyebrows drawn low. “You are not taking me raw over the rooftop balcony tonight.” The eyebrows lift in amusement at whatever Ilya’s face is doing; they really are very expressive. “Despite your best efforts, with everything you’ve got going on in the shorts. They don’t really leave much to the imagination, do they? But we’ll be more comfortable in a bed.”

Ilya looks down at himself. It’s true that the shorts are clinging. He can see the exact outline of his dick. There’s a wet patch about the size of a quarter on the fabric. If he ran into anyone right now in real life, he’d probably be arrested for public indecency. He looks back at Hollander, only Hollander is now looking at his dick, his eyes in shadow, and fuck, Ilya’s sick of arguing with him.

“Fine,” he says. “Though you are very… what’s the word? You do not do what you are told?”

“Disobedient?”

“Yes, you are disobedient dream, Hollander.”

“Well,” Hollander says happily, “I may be a dream, but I’m still Shane Hollander, right?” He grabs Ilya’s arm and makes for the door to the stairs. “Alright, let’s go find that room of yours. Which way?”

They stumble through the door and then they’re in the sanitised steady air-con atmosphere of the hotel again, the stairs leading down and down.

“Only one floor,” Ilya tells Hollander, who shoves him into the wall with his shoulder and starts running, so he’s already five steps down before Ilya even gets to the top of the stairs. Hollander’s fast but he’s too careful; Ilya beats him to the next landing only by jumping a stupid amount of steps. It would be reckless but he’s sure he’ll land it and he does, barely a wobble. He stands with his hands on his knees, panting, as Hollander skids off the bottom step to join him.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Hollander wheezes. “You could have broken your neck.”

“This is a good dream,” Ilya tells him. “Nothing bad will happen.” And Hollander grabs for him, puts both of his huge hands on Ilya’s face and pulls him in for a kiss. His thumbs are stroking over Ilya’s cheekbones, then his fingers are in Ilya’s curls, tangling at the back of his head, tugging, controlling the depth of the kiss. They’re both still breathless from the race down the stairs; all Ilya can do is dip his tongue into Hollander’s mouth, again and again, while Hollander breathes raggedly against him, one knee shoved between Ilya’s legs. If they don’t stop right now they’re going to fuck in this corridor, up against the wall, or maybe on the floor; Ilya doesn’t care.

“Your room?” Hollander asks as though he knows what Ilya’s thinking, the words flitting between their mouths; Ilya drags him backwards through the entryway and they’re in the corridor to Ilya’s room, mercifully deserted, just as it should be.

“1607,” Ilya tells him; the keycard is tucked into his pack of cigarettes in the waistband of his shorts. His dick makes itself known insistently as he grabs for the pack. Hollander is still stupidly hard in his cream shorts and he doesn’t look happy about it, tugging his shirt down irritably.

“Come on, fuck,” Hollander says, and he marches ahead of Ilya along the corridor. His head twitches from side to side as he goes, tracking the numbers on the doors out loud. He’s so fucking sweet Ilya feels almost pissed off about it, half-runs so he can drape himself around Hollander from behind, get an arm over his shoulders. The walk down the corridor takes a completely normal amount of time; time in this dream is not elastic, neither the staticky tugged out feel where everything takes forever, nor the abbreviated snapshot quality of moving from one element to another. It’s, like everything tonight, so very strange in how normal it feels.

“1607,” Hollander announces, as though Ilya can’t read or indeed might not remember his own room number, and while Ilya’s trying to wriggle his key card out of the cigarette packet, Hollander gets him up against the door, pins one arm above his head.

“I cannot find the key like this, Hollander,” Ilya tells him. He doesn’t struggle. He just wants to see what Hollander will do, plus Hollander’s grip is confident and just on the right side of too tight at his wrist, all the bulk of him pushing hard up against Ilya, his shoes knocking carefully up against Ilya’s bare feet.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Hollander mutters, and ducks so he can rub his whole face into Ilya’s armpit, which is exposed by the loose armhole of his tank. He sighs into it, Ilya can feel it ruffling the hair, Hollander’s stubble catching in it. He’s rolling his face against Ilya’s skin like an animal. “You said it yourself, you don’t even know me. So what, you just meet some random guy and invite him back to your room? I’m almost twice your age, for fuck’s sake. I could be a serial killer.”

“If you are going to murder me, this is pretty good way to go.” Ilya’s dick kicks in his shorts; Hollander has found his nipple through the gape of the shirt, a scrape of teeth, mouth wide over Ilya’s pec so he can use his tongue on the tip, sucking hungrily. “And you are not random guy. And I told you—” Fuck, Hollander is eager, gulping down air around Ilya’s nipple as he keeps sucking, and Ilya’s voice reflects all that need, echoing round the door frame “—this is going to be one of the good dreams.”

They get inside eventually, scrabbling between them for the keycard, Ilya’s Lucky Strikes ending up underfoot. He doesn’t even give a shit because the box will be fine in the morning, whole and uncrushed. The door panel beeps long when Hollander slams the card against it, Ilya feels it vibrating through him, and then the door open inwards and they stumble into the room, Hollander’s hand still clamped in a death grip around Ilya’s arm as though he never wants to let go.

The lights are all off except for the small one that makes the nightstand a small glowing island in the dark. Ilya’s unfamiliar unwelcoming hotel room seems different with Hollander here; it’s almost friendly, the anticipatory neatness of the bed, the companionable hum of the minibar.

Hollander is standing in front of Ilya, smiling that electrifying smile. Ilya starts to smile back. He can feel the buzz of whatever this is travelling through him, under his skin.

“What now?” Ilya asks him, and Hollander’s fingers tighten around his wrist. He sways a little; the fingers of his free hand tap together, a little silent rhythm, and he’s quiet as he looks Ilya over. “Come on, Hollander, what now?”

“I’m trying to think,” Hollander says. “Give me a second.”

“Think about what?” Ilya flexes his forearm just to feel Hollander’s warm hand pressing close.

“About what I should do.” Hollander looks tense. “About what you’d do, if you were here.”

“I am here, Hollander.”

“No,” Hollander says tightly. “I mean the real you.” He twists his hand, wrenching Ilya’s arm up and around his neck. “Touch me, Ilyusha.”

Ilya doesn’t get it, is still putting the English words and the unexpected sweetness of the name together in his mind a beat too slow even as Hollander presses his hand hard, guiding it to the back of his head. He’s warm here too, the smooth muscle of his neck trembling as Ilya grabs him there.

“Like this?” Ilya asks him, and Hollander is nodding, swaying carelessly into him, forehead knocking off Ilya’s collarbone as he bows his head under the pressure of Ilya’s hand. “More?”

“Yeah,” Hollander says, breathless, and Ilya presses at the back of his neck again, harder. Hollander gets to his knees. His body is so fluent, every movement so full of meaning, so obvious. He dips his head, presses a quick longing kiss to the wet patch on Ilya’s shorts, sucks the head of his cock through the fabric. Ilya’s arms fly up, another current of shock making him helpless. His hands dart unsteadily, come to rest in Hollander’s hair before he even thinks about it.

“This is for me.” Ilya eases Hollander up and down his dick, what he can reach of it through the shorts, which are helplessly soaked with spit now. “You are only thinking about what I want now, okay?”

He knows from the feel of Hollander’s mouth — the greedy, practiced suction — that it’s the right thing to say. Hollander obviously knows what he’s doing in general, and also more specifically seems to know exactly what he's doing with regards to Ilya, because he looks up at him, holds his gaze for too long, lets his eyes shut in a long slow blink, and then he laughs around his mouthful of Ilya’s dick when Ilya has to bite down on the back of his hand at the sight. Which is rude, and also the rumble of his laugh feels stupidly good; Ilya simply cannot win with this guy. Hollander stops sucking, but when he speaks his mouth is still pressing up against Ilya’s cock, the words buzzing through him.

“I want to make you feel good. I just can’t always think straight when I’m— when we’re—”

“When you’re on your knees? You need to be told what to do?”

“Yeah.” Hollander looks relieved. “But obviously, you’re not… him. You’re you, and you’re young, fuck, too young, probably. I don’t make a habit of this, actually. Sucking guys off in hotel rooms.”

“Shame for them,” Ilya says. He’s looking down, can’t stop looking down, in fact; he’s never been more sincere in his life when he says, “You look very good sucking me off in this hotel room. You should get back to it.”

“Thank you,” Hollander says demurely, so politely, but then he pulls at Ilya’s shorts, yanking them down so they get caught uncomfortably just under Ilya’s ass. His cock is fully out, heavy and flooded with blood, the elastic waistband of his shorts wadded over his balls, catching on the hairs, and Hollander doesn’t give him a second to get comfortable, just goes down on him as though he’s been waiting for it all night. Ilya knows all the words for it in English, hot and wet and even sloppy, which feels so much better than it sounds, but it’s as he suspected and these words can capture nothing — nothing — of what he actually wants to say, which is that he wants Hollander like this forever, with his bare knees surely chafing against the staticky carpet, grabbing his own dick through his shorts as he works himself up and down Ilya’s cock, his spit sliding and pooling, soaking the fabric of Ilya’s shorts.

It’s no wonder that Ilya’s having a sex dream; he’d half-heartedly tried jerking off in the shower before he went to bed, but the high of this trip was too high to let him get himself there — it had been boring in comparison, standing under the spray, the smell of the hotel conditioner he was using as lube drifting up to him, nothing concrete in his mind no matter how hard he tried to fix on something, the anticipation of the draft making him shiver but not in a good way — not in the making his dick hard way. He’d stopped after a few minutes, rinsed himself off, and gone to bed. He obviously just needed this pretence at a warm body to fuck; a whole wet dream’s worth of Hollander to get him through the night.

It’s the weirdest sex dream he’s ever had. Hollander’s hands are everywhere; he grabs at the back of Ilya’s knee, digging his fingers in. Ilya didn’t even realise he was sensitive there until Hollander’s thumb presses into the notch below his hamstring, demanding, Ilya feels the touch in his teeth. Hollander’s other hand is prising at Ilya’s ass; he digs the heel of his hand in, almost like a deep tissue massage, and makes a noise of appreciation low in his throat when Ilya reflexively tenses the muscle there, and then takes Ilya so deep into his throat that the ticklish fan of his hair rubs off Ilya’s stomach. Every fresh touch, intentional or accidental, feels inflammatory; Ilya bucks forward and grabs for Hollander’s throat. He wants to feel him swallow from the outside to the inside. Hollander’s neck is well muscled, though he has an end of season leanness to him that makes Ilya think that he’s dreamed up a version of old Hollander that still plays hockey. Makes sense, really — it would be unthinkable to imagine him not playing. Hollander chokes a bit around Ilya’s cock and Ilya feels it under his palm, the frantic flexing motion of his throat, then Hollander pulls off, coughing, eyes streaming.

“Okay?” Ilya manages, gentling his grip, and Hollander grumbles and goes down on him again, pressing his own hand to Ilya’s on his neck, coaxing his fingers to tightness again. Ilya’s expectation of letting Hollander set the pace ricochets off the immovable wall of Hollander’s demanding hand, the penitent droop of his head, his eager sucking mouth — off the certainty Hollander seems to have that Ilya is going to take what he wants. The back of Hollander’s head is so hot under his hair when Ilya slides a hand along his scalp, twists a handful of hair so that he can get a proper grip, and because he’s still looking down, desperate to watch, he sees the second Hollander starts to moan, and it happens to be the same second that Ilya starts fucking his mouth properly, carelessly. Ilya angles Hollander's head with one hand so that he can slot more firmly into that receptive mouth, and out again, leaving Hollander gasping and chasing more. Time is a meaningless haze, Hollander’s eyes glossed with tears; just as well, because it probably only takes about a minute of thrusting into Hollander’s mouth for Ilya to come, huge jerking splatters that he tries to aim over Hollander’s face but that Hollander tries to swallow, pulling against Ilya’s grip in his hair so hard that it has to hurt. He’s wincing into the hold, licking his lips, shoulder muscles bunching so energetically that he must be jacking himself off through his shorts, only Ilya can’t see that far down anymore, vision blurry with the relief of coming, the sizzle of pleasure up his spine softening him so he slumps over Hollander’s head, freeing his hand to pet at him. He’s got little strands of Hollander’s hair stuck in the sweaty gaps between his fingers.

Hollander gasps and squirms and Ilya aims a kiss at the top of his head. His lips skid off as Hollander moves, and yet he goes back for more, pressing kisses into the soft sweaty hair at his crown.

“Fuck,” Hollander says, through what sounds like clenched teeth, and he pushes his face into Ilya’s stomach, mouth first so Ilya can feel him panting wetly into the trail of hair below Ilya’s navel. “Fuck.”

He’s quiet and shivery for a while, so Ilya strokes his hair a bit until he feels his breathing start to even out. Ilya’s right knee is starting to ache a little from the awkward angle he’s standing at. They didn’t even make it to the bed; he didn’t get to touch Hollander’s dick.

“Did you come?” he asks Hollander, who groans, nuzzles into Ilya’s stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, muffled. “I think my shorts are ruined.”

“You want to borrow something of mine?”

Hollander’s face when he looks up is wrecked, eyes red, mouth red, cheeks red.

“Yeah.” He sounds surprised. “Thanks.” He blinks. “I’ll just go— ummm.”

Ilya kicks out of his own ruined shorts and digs through his suitcase, half-watching Hollander wincing as he stands up, shakes his legs out, rubbing at the left knee a bit regretfully, and then carefully takes his glasses out of his pocket and puts them on the table. Ilya manages to find a clean pair of shorts in the bottom of his bag; they’re old, so they’re a bit stretched out, which he thinks Hollander would find more comfortable, and then he actually stops for a second to shake his head over the fact that he’s worrying about a dream.

From the en suite he can hear splashing, then Hollander leans around the door and says, “Did you find something for me to wear? Could I get some socks too? I don't like hotel carpets.” Ilya grabs a pair. When he looks up again Hollander is still watching him around the door; Ilya can just make out the side of his bare thigh where he must have stripped off and almost falls over his own feet getting to the bathroom door.

Hollander has been dabbing at his shorts, which are now scrubbed damp at the crotch and hanging over the towel rail. He’s not wearing the shirt either — it’s draped carefully over the shower rail — and Ilya has the weird obscure feeling of missing it before he fully starts to appreciate the expanse of so much bare Hollander skin.

“No underwear?” Ilya has time to ask before he grabs a handful of thigh, sliding upwards over Hollander’s ridiculous ass and further up, along that lovely dip of his spine. He has a bruise bigger than Ilya’s hand on the outside of his upper leg, still mottled purple in the middle, though the outer edges have a lacy yellowish tinge to them. There’s an old scar on Hollander’s shoulder and it’s rough under Ilya’s tongue, ridged and solid. Hollander wriggles in his grip but quiets again when Ilya bites down on his shoulder, holding him in place. He tastes chemically, a faint coconutty whiff of sunscreen, and he has freckles here too that Ilya can’t feel with his tongue but tries anyway.

“Did you want to wash?” Hollander asks, and Ilya is going to say no but something in Hollander’s tone says it’s not the answer he’s looking for. So he unclamps his mouth from Hollander’s skin and holds the shorts out for him to step into, easing them up over the awful bruise and settling them at his waist. He had wondered if they might be too big but they’re not, sitting neatly at the jut of Hollander’s hips, his thighs filling the fabric out, the embroidery of the elaborate Dynamo D sitting prettily just above his tanned knee. He kneels then, lets Hollander ease one foot then the other into Ilya's tube socks. When he stands up again, Hollander’s face is pink, still dewy with moisture from when he must have washed Ilya's come off, little splashes of water on the mirror. Hollander gets a fresh washcloth from the stack and lets the faucet run warm.

“You made the playoffs this year?” Ilya pats the shorts gently over the place where he knows the bruise sits. Hollander’s eyes flick to his and he wrings water out of the washcloth and then pulls Ilya’s tank up, tucks the ends under his arms so his stomach is exposed. He starts to wipe Ilya’s stomach down. It’s perfunctory, almost impersonal, except for Hollander’s eyes, which are hot and intent on Ilya’s body.

“Got knocked out of the conference end of May,” is all he says, and then he wets the washcloth again and starts wiping Ilya’s dick. He eases the foreskin back and dabs, then folds the washcloth and rubs over his balls, holding them up with his other hand so he can get the cloth underneath. Ilya doesn’t realise he’s breathing heavily until he hears himself, mortifyingly, the sound of his exhale echoing around the tiles.

Hollander finishes up in the dreadful silence. Ilya stares at the wall over Hollander’s shoulder, carefully avoiding his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. This would be less bad if it were tender, if it felt like something to do with sex; as it is, Ilya feels bizarrely like a child again, like he’s not a self-contained unit but an extension of someone else, his body’s meaning bound up in another body.

“There,” Hollander says, grimly satisfied, and rinses the washcloth out before chucking it into the tub with Ilya’s dirty towels from earlier. “Do you want to take this off?” He plucks at Ilya’s tank, tugs the hem between two fastidious fingers.

“Are you trying to get me naked so we can fuck?” Ilya asks him, and flexes his stomach muscles so they jump, the shadows of his abs deepening. Hollander frowns down at his chest.

“I mean… obviously? I presumed we were going to—” He pats Ilya’s arms until he lifts them up, then pulls the tank over his head. “Unless you don’t want to?”

“You can go again? I thought old guys can only come once a night.”

“You’d be surprised how many times I can come. With the right encouragement,” Hollander tells him, and tweaks one of his nipples, hard, before turning and marching into the bedroom. He looks so good in Ilya’s shorts that Ilya feels like screaming into his hands.

“What sort of encouragement?” Ilya trails after him. Hollander is at the minibar, drinking straight out of a chilled bottle of water. He twists the cap back on and tosses it to Ilya, the bottle slippery with condensation.

“Hydrate, please,” he says. “Have you had any liquids other than vodka this evening?”

“How many times can you come, Hollander?” Ilya does drink, as much for the pleasure of having his mouth where Hollander’s was on the lip of the bottle.

“More than once, anyway,” Hollander says. “Anyway, it’s not all about quantity. Once is enough when it’s a good one. Hold on, is that your fucking suit?”

Hollander is distracted; one arm of Ilya’s suit jacket is hanging out of his case, the suit pants pooled on the floor after his earlier rummage.

“Is fine,” Ilya tells him. “I’ll hang it in the bathroom when I shower, steam will take the crinkles out.”

“Wrinkles,” Hollander replies absently. He’s already lifting the suit up carefully, draping it over one arm so he can dig through the case for Ilya’s shirt. “Oh, this is nice — why do you have it in a fucking ball, you asshole?” His touch is delicate as he rubs the fabric of the shirt between finger and thumb. “Get me a hanger out of the closet.”

Ilya doesn’t care about a few creases; his father is going to tut and tell him he looks sloppy no matter what, and no one from Boston is going to give a shit how he looks when they name him as their number one, not with everything else he can bring them. But Hollander’s mouth is tight and unhappy as he stands there, arms full of fabric, so Ilya goes and gets one of the plastic hangers.

Hollander manipulates Ilya’s pants using some sort of military-style fold that sharpens the crease at the front of the legs and lines up the waistband, then carefully hangs them over the hanger. The jacket follows, and Hollander smooths the lapels down carefully then hangs the whole lot over the bathroom door. He stands looking at the suit for a second, and when he turns back into the room, he’s smiling.

“I remember that suit,” he says. “You wore it a few times. Then you got a whole new wardrobe.”

“It’s a good suit,” Ilya tells him, but Hollander’s right, he wants a whole new wardrobe, everything American-bought with the money from whatever fat contract he’s going to land. Dream future Hollander, speaking Ilya’s wish fulfillment out loud.

“Not very flashy,” Hollander says, grinning. “Hey, get the ironing board, will you?”

Hollander plugs in the iron he finds in the closet. Ilya can’t set the board up, its spindly legs sliding, eluding his grasp, so Hollander clicks it into place and lays the shirt over it. The iron spits and hisses steam: it gasps with wet heat when Hollander runs it over Ilya’s shirt.

“There,” Hollander says, finally. He looks critically at the shirt, which he's hung on a separate hanger, and runs a flat hand over it. Its shoulders are wide, like the spread of a phantom body. Seeing it makes Ilya feel weird, like Hollander’s hands are on him, smoothing.

“Looks good,” Ilya says. It’s very clearly what Hollander wants to hear. “Thank you.”

“It's not the best job,” Hollander says. “I use a laundry service for my own stuff, obviously. But it'll do, at least.” He turns that critical look on Ilya, who's leaning in the bathroom doorway, all the better to watch. His dick has been hard since Hollander started on the collar of the shirt, poking the pointy bit of the iron into the corners. “You comfortable?”

“I would be more comfortable inside you,” Ilya says, and Hollander’s nose scrunches in a way Ilya thinks might be him trying not to laugh. “Unless you are done for tonight? You say once is enough sometimes.” He drops his hand to his dick, not stroking, just holding. Hollander is watching.

Hollander licks his lips, then rolls his eyes when he notices Ilya grinning.

“Ilya.” Hollander using his first name is still thrilling enough to make Ilya feel weird about it. But it’s not the time to start worrying about why he’d dream something like this up, and at least his subconscious doesn’t have Hollander calling him Ilyusha again. Small mercies. “Earlier, that was just to. Umm. Take the edge off. I want you to fuck me, obviously. But if you’re going to be an asshole about it…”

He crosses his arms forbiddingly. The movement isn’t as effective as he clearly thinks it is; his hair is fluffy at the back where Ilya’s hands and kisses have messed it up, and he’s obviously no longer totally soft in Ilya’s old running shorts. The idea that Shane Hollander has edges, let alone that he needs something to take them off, is making Ilya’s mouth water.

“If I am very nice to you,” Ilya says, and he makes his way across the room, silent on the generic hotel-cream carpet, “will you let me make you come again?”

“Depends on what you mean by nice,” Hollander says, but his arms are already opening even as Ilya reaches him, sliding around Ilya’s waist, holding fast at his hips for one desperate clench of his fingers before he wraps himself into Ilya, arms locking at the base of his back to pull him in.

They fuck on the bed; Ilya gets to touch Hollander's dick.

First, he lays Hollander down, and climbs onto him, and kisses him for a long time. Ilya’s still rock hard but Hollander does actually take some time to get there, firming up slowly in Ilya's hand while Ilya kisses his mouth over and over, almost sweetly, never too hard or too deep, so that Hollander has to chase for it. He's got Hollander on his own pillow, hair hopelessly matting with all his wriggling, and Ilya kisses over the tops of his cheeks, the line of of his nose so nice and straight that Ilya spares a second to be grateful that he’s dreamed a Hollander who has somehow avoided breaking it in all the years he’s been playing, kisses his ear and his jaw and his neck and back to his mouth again, just to see what Hollander will do. Which is, it turns out, that he'll take it and take it and keep asking for more. “Ilya,” he says, over and over. “Come on,” and “more,” and “please,” all of which just make Ilya want to keep him there longer, waiting, asking, wanting.

Another item of clothing gets ruined, the stretchy nylon of the Dynamo shorts smeared with Hollander's precome as Ilya works him over with his full fist without even pulling the shorts down. The elastic bites at the hairs on his forearm and the angle is never quite enough for Hollander, who drags Ilya down to his mouth and kicks his heel into Ilya's lower back, nearly toppling him from his precarious balance over Hollander on the pillow. It's core strength and willpower alone that keep him up long enough to get Hollander almost past the point of reason, but he wants to fuck him too much to let him come so he stops and rolls off him, peeling his sweaty hand out of Hollander’s shorts as Hollander almost sobs.

What a dream, Ilya thinks, and it is a dream, turning Hollander onto his side and having him go so easily, so trustingly, blindly reaching back for Ilya with one arm even as he moves where Ilya directs him, eyes screwed shut. Pulling the shorts off him, biting at his hip, his thigh, a kiss on the ankle right about the ridge where Ilya’s socks are digging into his calf.

“Please fuck me,” Hollander says, and Ilya slides up his body behind him, moulding himself around him, shaping himself to the serious matter of this man in his bed — his big body, his expectations. Ilya wraps an arm around him from behind, kisses the back of his neck, holds him close, hand to heartbeat. He stays like that for a long time — not fucking him, just rubbing up against him lazily, rocking him back and forth. They could almost fall asleep like this, in the long silence of their embrace, except Hollander needs it and Ilya knows he needs it.

There are condoms somewhere in Ilya’s case, but when he moves to get them, Hollander makes a plaintive sound and clamps his arms down over Ilya’s where it rests across his chest, keeping him in place.

“Don’t,” he says, and his voice is very thin. “Just fuck me like this, don’t go.”

“Not far,” Ilya tells him, nose in his hair, eyes shut tight to block out everything but the feel of him. “Need condoms. You said I could not fuck you raw, remember?”

“I changed my mind.” Hollander stretches against him demandingly. “You said this was a dream. You said it was a good dream. You can do it, just like this. I bet you’d slide right in.”

He doesn’t slide right in; instead Hollander frees his arm so he can reach between them, push a thumb over Hollander’s rim, which makes Hollander turn his face into the pillow. There’s a silky hint of lube as Ilya rubs his thumb around.

“Did you get yourself ready for me?”

“Not for you,” Hollander says. “Well, sort of for you, I guess. In a way. Earlier tonight, before I came here.”

“He fucked you tonight?”

Hollander shakes his head, face still half submerged in the pillow. He’s pressing back against Ilya’s fingers, and llya executes a feat of physical flexibility to grab for the lube with one hand so he can get his fingers properly wet. He wants Hollander drenched.

“I got myself ready but then he said— Sometimes he likes to make me wait.”

“Is cruel,” Ilya’s two fingers deep already. “You want it so much.”

“No.” Hollander looks back over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn defensively. “He’s not cruel. He knows just what I need.”

“And I do not?” Ilya eases his fingers out, gets lube everywhere as he tries to slick his dick up one-handed. “You don’t need this?” His dick slides through the mess of lube, catches on Hollander’s hole then slides again. Hollander groans in frustration, and Ilya lines himself up, careful, and pushes in. He’s been hard for so long he’s sweating, hair stuck to his temples.

“Good, that’s good,” Hollander says, and angles his body in some yoga twist, back flat on the bed so he can reach Ilya’s mouth. Ilya clutches at his thigh, fingers skidding before he can cling on. The angle is terrible and brilliant all at once; Ilya fucking into him shallowly, Hollander’s arm around him, urging him closer, fingers in his hair.

Ilya’s never fucked anyone without a condom before in real life, and he doesn’t remember it ever coming up in a dream before; he can’t actually work out if it really does feel different, or if it’s just the very thought of being bare inside Hollander that’s driving him crazy. Hollander is clenching around his dick, making greedy panting sounds as Ilya kisses him harder so his lips hit off Hollander’s teeth, almost painful.

“Harder, please,” Hollander says, and he yanks Ilya’s head downwards by the hair. “And please suck my—” He leaves the word unsaid, urges Ilya onto his nipple and Ilya sucks at it until Hollander is squirming back onto his cock, and he knows a bruise must be blooming. Ilya thinks of Hollander nuzzling at Ilya’s tit earlier in the corridor; maybe he leads by example, or maybe everything he does is driven by what he wants, because he’s gone tense and trembling in the bed. He had done something else earlier too; Ilya takes the cue and buries his face in the soft, sweet-smelling hair of Hollander’s armpit. It tickles, tastes of chalky body spray when Ilya licks into the soft secret hollow between his lats and pecs.

“Fuck,” Hollander says fervently, his whole body lifting off the bed as Ilya licks again. “Fuck. Yeah, that’s good.”

“Harder?” Ilya asks him. “Like this? It’s okay?” He’s getting out of breath, sweating all down his stomach where he’s fucking up against Hollander’s body. He gets a hand around Hollander’s hip, onto his dick.

“Don’t keep fucking asking,” Hollander says. His teeth are gritted. “Just do it.”

Ilya does it, fucks him harder, jerks him off too dry, keeping his fist tight and unrelenting over the head of Hollander’s very nice dick. Hollander is practically rolling back onto him, eyes shut, face peaceful.

“Ilya,” Hollander says, urgent, and Ilya tries to keep thrusting; he’s been so turned on for too long, and he wants to come so badly. “Ilya, more.”

“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya says, desperate, and Hollander’s eyes fly open, shocked wide, as though he hardly recognises Ilya for a second.

“Oh,” Hollander says, long and surprised, and he starts to come, his stomach throbbing and heaving, splattering Ilya’s wrist, his own abs.

There’s a weird period after where Ilya’s sure he should pull out, but Hollander reaches back and grabs onto him, dragging him in close so he can grind deeper, face pressed so hard to Hollander’s spine that he’s half worried he’s going to break his nose.

“I thought you were him,” Hollander says. He clenches around Ilya and Ilya’s whole body jerks as though he can somehow get closer, deeper. “I forgot, for a second. God, that felt so fucking good.”

Ilya had known from the way Hollander said his name, the druggedly slow tenderness of the word, that he had meant someone else, the other Ilya. Bizarre, to put himself through the slight sting of rejection even in a dream fuck. He wonders for a second whether, if he really concentrated, he might be able to wake himself up, but then Hollander constricts around him again and Ilya wants to be stuck in this moment for as long as it takes. He knows he’s about to come, finally, feels it in the base of his dick and in his stomach, the swoop like going too fast over a dip in the road in Sveta’s dad’s old Mercedes on a late-night drive. He’s only tethered to his body by Hollander’s body, jamming himself as close to it as he can get as he closes his eyes and comes and comes.

When he pulls out Hollander starts to leak with the movement. And when Hollander’s thighs clamp together, it makes Ilya want to shove back into him, keep him stuffed full. Ilya’s wet with sweat and lube and come from his balls to his navel; he’s going to need to get a washcloth, or even haul Hollander into the shower. Hollander seems unworried; he rolls over fully onto his back, grimacing as he rocks his hips back and forth a little, then pulls Ilya down onto him. They’re both wet with sweat; the horrible patterned comforter on the bed is damp and unpleasant. Hollander sighs, a brief, delighted sound, and Ilya buries himself in it, pressing his face into Hollander’s chest.

They stay there for, oh, who knows how long; dream time, it could be forever.

“Big day tomorrow. You nervous?” Hollander breaks the silence happily. He’s been stroking Ilya’s hair, stealing a curl at a time, wrapping his finger in each one and letting them spring back when he releases. It would be sending Ilya to sleep, except that his whole body is fizzing, overloaded, at the playfulness of each touch. No one, no one at all, ever touches him like this.

“Not nervous.”

This close, Ilya can hear Hollander scoff.

“Don’t you want to know what happens? You know I know everything about you, right? Been there, done that.”

“I do not need you to tell me. Already know I am number one pick, going to Boston. Poor Shane Hollander will be number two, so sad for him.”

“It’s all about the right fit,” Hollander says. He squeezes Ilya’s shoulders in a hug, but when Ilya looks up at his face, he’s looking at the ceiling, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. “Boston need that aggressive goal-scoring; they don’t want steady.” He corrects himself. “Didn’t. Though I guess now I can admit that I was kinda pissed about it at the time. Number two, ugh. My mom was so mad.”

“Do I still play?” Ilya doesn’t know he’s going to ask until the words are out, and he doesn’t know why he’d ask this stupid question; they’re in his dream — his brain is going to tell him exactly what he wants to hear. But he’s got that slight hitching breathless feeling when he waits for Hollander to answer anyway.

“Yeah, you still play, are you crazy?” Hollander’s surprise is so genuine that it makes Ilya feel better without having known he needed that. “I can’t even imagine— Ohhh, you mean, like, did you have to quit because of injury, or something? No, no, Ilya, you still play. You’re, like, so great, still. Really.”

Hollander is a very soothing presence; so warm. Ilya curls in closer. Like he had known it would, Hollander’s arm tightens around him, keeping him there.

“Tonight, on the roof, I wondered… hockey, it’s something I am so good at, yes? The best. Number one.”

“Yeah, okay, asshole.”

“But it is very hard to know, do I play because I want to play, or do I play because it is my only choice? What else do I do, if I want to get away from home… from Moscow? Have I done everything I do just so I do not have to stay there?” Ilya wrestles with the words. “I think about priorities, is that how you say it?” He feels Hollander’s nod. “How do I know what my priorities are if I have not been free to choose them?”

It sounds stupid as he says it; maybe it’s just the English words, so clunky, so charmless. But Hollander is thinking about them, taking them in, Ilya can tell.

“I guess you just have to try it.”

God, Hollander is so simple; it’s like he is a scrubbed-clean window that Ilya can see right through.

“I thought you were supposed to have the wisdom of old age, Hollander. What is this very boring advice you give? Just try — okay, thank you, Dyedushka.”

“Fuck off, I’m not your grandpa. I mean, okay, maybe hockey is like, your way to escape right now? But when you come here next year, and you’re living in Boston on your fat paycheck with your sponsorship deals, and you’re driving the most fucking stupid, expensive car you can buy—” Ilya murmurs, a long pleasured ahhhh, and Hollander laughs “—then you can make your choices, right? And that’s when you’ll have to think, well, am I doing this because I want the car and the hot girls and the money and the passport. Or is it for the hockey?”

“Can it not be both, Hollander?”

“And I can tell you, because I know you. I’ve known you all this time, Ilya. I know what things are worth to you. And it’s hockey, always, truly. Or, at least, nearly always. Maybe one time, you choose something else. But that’s worth it, too.”

“So you are here like, what do you call it? The old woman who looks into the ball, you know—”

“A witch? Fuck you—”

“No, no, she has the cards...”

“A fortune-teller?”

“Yes, I think this is it. You see everything that lies ahead for me. How many Cups? You can tell me?”

“I guess, I mean it’s not as if you’re going to remember this anyway. How many do you think?”

“At least two.” Ilya watches Hollander’s little headshake. “More? Three?” A nudge upwards with the chin. “Four?” Hollander’s spread hand, all five fingers held out triumphantly. “Fuck off, Hollander, are you joking with me?”

“Nope. See, I told you, you make your choices.”

“This is the weirdest dream of my life,” Ilya says, shaking his head so that Hollander pats his cheek, presses him still again. “Like you are here just to make me feel better.”

“Maybe that is why I’m here.” Hollander’s fingers work a little anxious rhythm against Ilya’s cheek. “Ilya — my Ilya — told me once that he had a dream about me one night. And you probably don’t know this yet, but sometimes in the future, you won’t always feel so good. In your head, I mean. And Ilya said he was having a bad night once and I came to him and cheered him up, he couldn’t really remember any of the details, but he said he felt much better when he woke up. Maybe I’m here because you need me?”

“That’s not how these things work, Hollander. You can’t just dream up a solution to your problems.” Ilya wants to get out of bed, have a wash. He wants to wake up. “My mother had no one coming to her in a dream to cheer her up, and she was the most hopeful person I have ever met. Sometimes, the bad things just happen.”

“Shit.” Hollander kisses him, once, then again, on the top of his head. “I’m sorry, fuck. I didn’t think—”

“No.” Ilya has made a fucking dream space weird. He pinches his own arm, sharply. “No, I didn’t mean that. Tonight, I did not feel so good, you’re right. Dream Hollander has cheered me up.”

“I think you mean that I've cheered up Dream Ilya. Which is weird because why am I worrying about the feelings of a dream? Also. Is it weird that we haven’t woken up yet?” Hollander scratches his chest, shifts a bit in the mess of the bed. “This is the only dream I’ve ever had that feels like it's taking place in real time.”

“Longest night of my life,” Ilya tells him. “Very boring.” Hollander swats him across the back of his head.

“Is there anything else you want to ask me? I can’t believe you’re not more curious.”

“Hollander, you are something I made up in my head. You are, of course, going to tell me everything I want to hear. You will tell me I am very happy, that I win five Stanley Cups, that I have beautiful Lamborghini Gallardo, that all is perfect in my life. That I am in love?”

“It’s a Porsche 911 Turbo and it’s awful,” Hollander says. “And you’re not happy all the time. But yeah, you have five Stanley Cups… and two Conn Smythes. And yeah, asshole, you’re in love.” Hollander shifts under him, wriggling down in the bed so they’re face to face again. He looks pink and pleased with himself. “Look, I’m not saying your life is perfect. But you’re happy, I think. I mean, I know. You say so, all the time.”

“So… you and me?”

Of everything about this crazy night, this is the one thing that makes Ilya know for certain that he’s dreaming. Him and Shane Hollander, a couple. He’s still curious to ask, to see what his overactive imagination will conjure up about him and this random guy.

“Yeah.” Hollander’s definitely blushing. “You and me.”

“We are… the phrase is seeing each other?”

“Yeah, you could say that. We’ve been together for a while.”

“Together.” It’s a vast word, and the night is so still and quiet, this hotel room the only populated place in the whole world, just the two of them. Together.

“We were, umm, lovers, I guess you’d call it?” Hollander’s face does something funny; embarrassed, maybe? Soft, though. “For years. Since, well, since next year, for you.”

“Rookie season? Fuck you, Hollander, you are taking the piss.”

Hollander shrugs, the movement bringing them closer together, their mingled breaths warm on Ilya’s face.

“We’re married now. If you can believe that.”

“No, I know for sure now that you are liar.” Ilya catches his hand. Their fingers slot together, smooth, almost practiced, Ilya’s still tacky with lube. “No wedding band. You think I would not notice that?”

“I don’t wear one. I have one, but I couldn’t get used to having something on my finger. I kept, like, catching it on things and fiddling with it. You wear yours, though. It looks good on you.”

“We live in Boston?” Ilya sounds indulgent, soft — he knows it’s because he just wants to see how far the dream can take this.

“Ottawa. Don’t make that face. It’s nice there. You’re a good Canadian citizen now. No more Russia, in case you care.”

It’s the one thing Ilya wasn’t going to ask, the one agonising splinter of a question he would never have dug out by himself. Hollander’s face is a lot to take in this close up, with this tender look of pity. Ilya closes his eyes; his subconscious is a horrible masochist.

“I can’t imagine this,” Ilya says, and it’s a lie, an awful blistering lie, because he can imagine it so well, every part of it, even all the bits Hollander hasn’t mentioned — his house, the one he shares with this version of Hollander; the other cars in the garage, maybe a sensible one, good for Ottawa winters; a dog, maybe? If Hollander is agreeable. “Tell me about it, tell me why you love me.”

Hollander kisses him, slow. “You’re a great player, like, so good to watch, I love that my husband is so fucking good at hockey. Umm. You’re very nice to me. You’re always thinking about me, it’s wild how much you think about me. You let me in on jokes. You think I’m pretty funny, actually, which hardly anyone else does. My mom and dad think you’re great. I dunno, we’re just very compatible.”

“A great guy, this Ilya. Playing for Ottawa, and his husband too. I would like to see that, us on the power play together.”

“We’re unstoppable.” Hollander grins. “It’s beautiful. I was worried, before I joined the team. But it just works.”

“You do love me.” Ilya can see it now. Hollander is radiant with it. Ilya believes him. “You love playing hockey with me. We are… compatible.” He doesn’t know what the word means, but he likes how it sounds. “We are good team? We get to play together and to live together too, it seems greedy.”

“Ilya.” Hollander pauses. “You’re my captain. And you’re my husband. It’s not greed, it’s… it’s good luck. And hard work, and patience, and paying attention. All those things you’re good at.”

“I’m your captain?” Ilya says, full of wonder, pathetic for it, and he rolls onto Hollander, buries his face in his shoulder. “I want it, Hollander. I want it all, fuck.”

“You can have it,” Hollander says, and Ilya moves down his body like he’s moving through water, pins him to the bed with an arm across his hips. “You do have it. I promise, it’s real. Ilya, again? I don’t think I can—”

“You can,” Ilya says. “I’m taking you, you’re mine. I don’t want him to have you.”

“He’s you, you fucking— Jesus.” Ilya hooks Hollander’s knee over his shoulder and is two fingers deep in him, squelching through the ruin of his own come, the leftover excess of lube. “Ilya, Ilyusha, please, I really can’t come again.”

“I think you can,” Ilya tells him. He’s gentle, careful of the soft swollen rim; he just uses his fingertips on Hollander’s prostate, rubbing and rubbing, a steady rhythm. “What does he call you when he has you like this? Shanushka? My Shane?”

“Yes,” Hollander says. “Sometimes. He tells me he loves me, he calls me his love.” It takes a second for Ilya to realise Hollander’s speaking Russian. His accent is awful, his inflection flat, but it’s not bad, not bad at all.

“I do,” Ilya says, and Hollander swears and spreads himself wider, letting Ilya shoulder his way in between his legs. “I will. I will love you, Shane.”

He sucks Hollander’s cock, fingers him until he does actually come with a shocked, pained sound, a weak dribble in Ilya’s mouth. Ilya doesn’t need to do anything at all to get himself off after that, just climbs back up Hollander and jerks himself off all over his tits. He needs to lie down after he comes, the bedding under him hopelessly screwed into twists.

“Absolutely not,” Hollander says, and drags him out of the bed. The shower is a haze; Ilya can’t stop blinking, can barely see Hollander through the steam. Hollander washes his hair for him, kisses his shoulder, leaves him in front of the sink with toothpaste in a neat line on his toothbrush. When Ilya emerges, the bed is remade, filthy comforter folded away. Hollander’s dressed in his own clothes, and is holding a laundry bag.

“All our dirty stuff is in here. I remember the laundry service at this place isn’t exactly quick, but you should have them back by tomorrow.” He opens the door to the room and places the bag outside carefully.

“Please stay.” Ilya’s already climbing onto the bed as he says it; he topples sideways, already mostly asleep.

“I’m here,” Hollander says, and the bed dips under his weight, his warm bare thigh turned invitingly, the perfect place for Ilya to lay his head. “Hey, tomorrow night you might not be able to sleep. Adrenaline, you know? They have a nice little gym here. Uhh. Just so you know.”

“Okay.” Ilya manages. “Okay, thank you.”

Hollander’s hand is in his hair, and Ilya is dreaming.

Ilya wakes. He can tell by the quality of the light through the crack in the curtain that he has slept well and long and dreamless. No hangover, a merciful relief when he moves his head.

It is draft day. Ilya will be the number one pick. Ilya will move to Boston. Ilya will never have to go home again, not if he doesn’t want to.

There’s a glass sitting on the nightstand, room temperature vodka, a waste. Ilya is glad to see he took his suit out and hung it up. He makes a coffee, sits at the table to drink it. His battered pack of Lucky Strikes is waiting for him, but he'll drink his coffee first. Under his chair, his bare feet encounter a plasticky squeak. A pair of glasses; a previous guest’s, forgotten.

He wishes, as he always does when good things happen, that his mama could be here. She would be glad, he thinks, to see his dreams come true.