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He’s huge.
Broad shoulders, hands that swallow a stick whole, the careless sprawl of him. It’s ridiculous, really, how much room he takes up; in a doorway, in a bench stall, in Ilya’s head.
At All Star games people are thrown together, teams that clash all throughout the year suddenly sharing space. Mostly it’s fine.
And you don’t talk about what people look like in the locker room. On a regular team maybe, months later, when everyone’s comfortable enough to start chirping friendly about anything and everything. But people are stiffer at these games. Careful. Polite in the strange way men get when they’re sharing space with people who are meant to be enemies.
That first time, playing on Shane’s team, the glee of passing to one another rather than away was overwhelming.
Later, in the showers, the pride he feels has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the careful eyes of their teammates as their glances skate away, their deliberate focus on the tile beneath them. The collective effort not to notice what was right there in front of them. Ilya loves it, because he has no problem noticing. He loves to look at it.
Ilya likes the stretch it forces on the crease of his lips, the way his jaw aches when he gets it all to fit halfway down his throat, tears burning in his eyes but careful never to fall. He likes the way it weeps onto the carpet when Shane repays the favor, his tears falling readily as he gags around Ilya. His hands can wrap around it, left pinky and right thumb brushing, and still that pink head peeks out over the top. When they rut against each other, when he snakes a hand between them to hold them together, he loves that he can’t fit both of them at once. Not fully.
He loves watching it bob between them, big and heavy and lewd, dripping more than it has any right to, as he fucks into the hot wet heat of him.
“What’s the point of it, so big?”
He’s seated deep inside, feeling not enough and too much all at once, ouroboros. His fist wrapped around it, distracting himself from the war within, watching the beautiful, perfect, big body beneath him jerk, drinking in his open mouth, his hooded eyes, his sweat, wishing he could live here, drown in the puffs of desperate air that mix between them, “For show, like decoration?”
Shane likes when he mentions it. That first time at 18, when he’d gotten to squeeze it through jeans, Ilya’s easy, sure-of-himself confidence had dropped for a moment in favor of surprise, and he’d not been able to help himself from saying, “Fuck, Hollander, so big!”
He’d groaned then, just like he does now as he fucks himself harder down onto Ilya’s cock, and then fucks himself harden up into Ilya’s hand, alternating, undulating, unsure which direction is better, desperate to have both and neither all at once. He likes when Ilya talks about it, and so he does.
“Just a pretty decoration, hm?” Shane’s eyes aren’t even brown anymore, just black pits of want and desire and more, more, more, “Pretty boy, with your big,” He thrusts to punctuate the words, ”Pretty,” Shane shakes below him, “Cock.”
Ilya cannot help what comes out of his mouth, when they are like this. He cannot be held responsible, “Big cock, just for me to see.” He squeezes his hand around it, and Shane’s breath hitches beneath him, the tightening of his abs the only warning before he’s coming in hot streaks of white, some on Ilya’s fist, some reaching all the way up to the strong column of his throat. Ilya is helpless but to lean over, folding him further, grinding into him as he mouths desperately at the golden expanse of his neck, savoring the acrid tang mixing with the familiar salt of his skin. It only takes a few more rutting thrusts before he’s gone too, panting into the joining of throat and shoulder. He collapses and enjoys the way their skin sticks, the cooling cum between them barely even registering.
Shane is hot like a fire, and Ilya wants to crawl into the hollows of him, find every empty spot and fill it completely and totally until they are one big, muscled, unending, and inseparable mass.
Irrationally he notices his size most in the summer, when he’s far away, like noticing the space where something is supposed to be. They text, all day, every day they text, but Shane is careful never to send photos of himself. So Ilya makes do; if he can only see him in online clips and compilations, then he will find as many as he can and he will drink them up until he is somewhere close to satisfied.
The problem is he never is. Satisfied. He goes clubbing. He drinks. He sleeps with beautiful Russian women. They are all so small. They moan appreciatively at his size, hulking as he is, and none of them take up more than their share of bed as they tuck themselves tidily into his side, delicate like a bird, leaving him ravenous with nothing to satiate. Once he sends them home his nights are filled with dreams of bare, firm skin stretched over bands of muscle.
Andrei and Papa are like cancerous sun spots. They drench the summer in guilt and negativity. That inability to find satisfaction must be hereditary, Ilya finds himself thinking. It makes him want to scream, makes him home sick, which in turn makes him angry because he is, ostensibly, at home. But there is no stupid, freckled, big man here.
Their first game back, Ilya is desperate to get his eyes on him. And when he does, across the ice, relief rolls over him. He is huge, like the sun. Apocalyptically big. It is scary, how screwed he knows he is. It is scary, how he knows he is not strong enough to put a stop to it.