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The night after that disaster between Ilya and Shane Hollander at the club in Montreal wasn't awkward. Cliff had broken his hard-and-fast rule of only jacking Ilya Rozanov off as a pre-game good luck ritual. More than that, the two had gone a hell of a lot farther than they ever had before.
But it wasn't awkward - Ilya and Cliff didn't do awkward.
What they were great at was compartmentalizing.
So they still joked with the team at breakfast. They talked hockey and boarded the plane and Ilya fell asleep on Marlow’s shoulder during the flight - even if the move he was listening to was playing so loudly that Cliff gave up on his own film just to watch what Ilya had on.
It was an early flight, and most of the team nodded off in the first hour. Cliff glanced around, before shifting his head. To anyone looking, he was probably just glancing out the window over the top of Rozanov's head. Nobody would have considered he did it just to feel the guy's hair on his cheek.
He cornered Ilya at the baggage claim.
“You heading home?”
“Of course.” Ilya had his hands stuffed in his pockets, glaring up at Marlow challengingly. “Where else would I be going?”
“You could come to my place.” Marlow said evenly, watching the bags slowly make their way around the turnstile.
“We don't do that.” Ilya said shortly, similarly staring ahead.
“We don't, what? Hang out?” Marlow smirked. “That's cold, man.”
“Is that what you want to do?” Ilya glanced alongside at him under his lashes. There was a dangerous curl to his lip there, showing his teeth.
“Yeah, man. You got dumped-”
“- I did not get dumped-”
“When Connors' girl dumped him we took turns babysitting his sorry ass for a week.”
“My guest room still smells like his socks.” Ilya said darkly.
“Come eat some shitty takeaway on my couch and watch hockey with me.” Marlow picked up his bag with one hand, and Ilya's with another as they came around side-by-side.
“Unless you have something better to do?”
“Give me my bag.”
Marlow handed it over dutifully, and walked off. Ilya would either follow, or he wouldn't. When he slipped into the cab, the other passenger door opened as well as Ilya slid inside with him.
-
Ilya knew the way to Marlow's guest room. He had stayed over plenty of times, and moved in the space in a familiar, comfortable way.
He spent a long time in the shower. Marlow didn't rush him. It felt good to do after a long time away from home. Probably the first place Ilya allowed himself to let down all those walls and feel properly miserable for himself. Jane was a staple fixture of Ilya's life for so many years. Seeing him dancing up on Rose Landry at a nightclub had clearly done a number on him. You can only stuff a full drawer closed for so long.
Marlow pulled out a heavy sherpa blanket from his closet and stuffed it into the dryer. He went through Ilya's bag irreverently, hefting his dirty clothes under one arm and his suit bag with the other.
The suit he set on a hook in the hallway for his drycleaning service. The clothes he chucked into the washing machine.
Sure enough when he emerged, Ilya was noticeably subdued. His skin was a bit pink, damp curls throwing off steam. There was a distinct lack of shine in his eyes as he slumped over to Marlow's big, wide couch and threw himself down on it.
That was good. Marlow felt a grim sort of satisfaction that Ilya felt safe moping around him, instead of cobbling himself together with mud and sticks and pretending he was alright.
Marlow pulled the blanket out of the dryer and threw it irreverently over Ilya’s body as he walked by. The guy made a soft, cute sound as it landed on him, warm and heavy. The corner of Marlow's mouth ticked up as Ilya gripped it, tossing about a bit until he was neatly cocooned before falling back asleep. Or maybe just pretending to be asleep. That was alright too.
Marlow let Ilya rot on his couch for a few hours before insisting he get up and eat something. He fished through his phone to find a Russian place with a decent rating that delivered.
“Hey, you up?”
When Ilya didn’t stir, Marlow just ordered one of everything from the two dozen kinds of dumplings they had on their menu along with three different kinds of soup. He skirted around anything that had herring in it and hoped that would be enough.
The bags of food arrived, along with the savory scent of spiced meats and fried dough, and Marlow was rewarded with the sight of Ilya poking his head out from over the side of the couch. He snapped a mental image of the picture of it, Ilya half buried in a big fuzzy blanket that he still had wrapped around his shoulders and over his head.
“If you get sauce on my blanket, you’re buying me a new one.”
“I will get you new blanket. This one is mine now.” Ilya said, stuffing another dumpling into his mouth.
“You’re such an asshole, Rozy.” Marlow laughed.
Marlow tried one of everything, and circled back around to the ones stuffed with pork and fried onion.
They watched the Detroit - San Francisco game on the television. Ilya relayed texts from Svetlana who seemed to have an uncanny ability to predict how each half was going to play out ahead of time.
Svetlana was Ilya’s New York girl. She sometimes came down to Boston as well to see him.
Marlow was glad to hear things were going well with her. If he had lost her and Jane, they were probably going to need more than a big order of dumplings to fix that mess.
No, not Jane.
Shane Hollander.
Man, Cliff wanted to ask about that.
If that was Hollander all along, then the two of them had been hooking up for ages. How did it even start?
He had gotten the vibes that it was about to get serious as well.
It was too bad Hollander wanted to be with women. He got that. Maybe Hollander just had an Ilya-sexual thing going on like Cliff did.
It wasn’t like this sort of thing could go on forever. Long-term, Cliff had always figured he’d do the same. Find a woman capable of tying him down. Have the two-point-five kids.
Ilya had finished eating and slid back into his usual spot with his head on Marlow’s lap.
He couldn't really ignore the truth of it, especially not with the guy curled up on his lap like a big, sad, half naked cat. They did have sex the other night.
Ilya-sexual. Was that it?
Marlow turned the word over in his head once or twice. He didn't hate the feel of it on the soft palette of his mouth.
Yeah, that was okay.
Ilya wasn't like other guys, after all. Nobody thought so. He was his own thing.
Marlow closed his eyes, trying to imagine any other guy sitting where he was right now. Unbidden, the image of their coach came to mind and it took all of his willpower not to jerk away from the thought.
No, definitely not. But Coach was in his fifties with a bald patch and a beer belly. Maybe a good looking guy? Who on the team was good looking?
Marlow tried and failed, drawing an honest blank. They were all just. Guys.
Without thinking, Marlow’s hand was in Ilya’s hair. It had long since dried from the shower now. When Ilya wasn’t bogged down by sweat or had them slicked back with some kind of product, his hair got fluffy and soft.
The movie ended, the television queued up a second.
Neither of them moved. Ilya was possibly asleep again.
If he was, he really ought to move into the guest room.
Cliff slid down a bit on the sofa, letting his head rest against the back cushions.
He should really go to bed.
He woke up late in the evening, or perhaps very early. The big sofa was large enough for both of them easily. His shoulders were bare and cold, while Ilya was radiating warmth in his big blanket.
“Nugh, stop that.” Ilya huffed, as Cliff tugged the blanket to wrap over himself as well. His voice was thick and slow with sleep.
“Don’t be a baby.”
“Your feet are cold.”
“Then move.”
“You move.”
Cliff woke up in the morning, feeling a bit sweaty and gross. Ilya was tucked against his stomach under the big sherpa blanket. He must have felt the same, as his shirt had come off sometime during the night.
The rosy morning light cut along the profile of Ilya's face, causing his eyelashes to glow white-gold. His lips were shiny and soft. Ilya had one leg half-bunched over Marlow's.
Ilya murmured and shifted. His eyelashes brushed against Marlow's neck and -
Ah fuck. Shit.
Why the hell did that of all things set him off? Eyelashes, really?
Marlow leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to summon up the image of their coach on his lap again. But he was still tired and fuzzy-headed, while his dick was perfectly awake and more than happy to call the shots. That was how Marlow's hand ended up on the small of Ilya's back, his thumb stroking the dip there just above the tailbone.
Ilya's shift in position gave away something else as well. He made a warm, appreciative sound under Marlow's touch. Still mostly asleep, Ilya shifted again, grinding lazily against Marlow's leg. He woke up sluggishly as he did, a ripple of tension shook down his spine.
“Shit, sorry.”
“S’okay.” Marlow's hand pressed down against Ilya's lower back, thumbing the subtle dimple at the base of his spine. Ilya breathed out. Marlow could feel the tendons of his ankles flexing from where their legs were loosely tangled.
“No game tonight.” Ilya warned, his voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah man, it's cool.”
His hand slipped under the waist of Ilya's pants. He rubbed the hard, solid curve of his thigh. Ilya shifted up slightly onto his knees, allowing Marlow to take his hard, solid cock into his hand.
It felt familiar. They'd done this so many times already.
Ilya leaned up on his elbows across Marlow's chest. Cliff’s own cock was painfully hard, angry and neglected. With their shimmying the tip was dangerously close to pulling free of the confines of his waistband.
Fuck it. Cliff had never really been one to reign in what his dick wanted to do. He'd probably wind up in trouble for that one day. Possibly he was getting into trouble right now. He spat into his free hand, thrusting their dicks together for sweet, untidy friction.
Ilya made a cut-off little whine into the crook of his neck, rolling his hips gracelessly.
Good boy.
Marlow was immensely relieved he managed to keep that one behind his teeth. He gripped the back of Ilya's thigh for balance, just below the curve of his ass and - fuck, he has an amazing ass. He shifted his hand up a hair, enough to sink his index and middle finger into the thick, muscled flesh.
Their breathing hitched up. Ilya had woken up hard and wasn't too far off. Cliff caught up embarrassingly quickly. They came within two breaths of one another, messy and rough and still more asleep than awake.
Though he wasn't particularly proud of it, he had to appreciate the convenience of keeping some strategic supplies in a compartment under the armrest. Marlow grabbed a fistful of tissue wiped the two of them down while Ilya tucked himself back into his pants.
“I’m hungry.” Ilya flopped down against the sofa.
“There’s a place that does egg sandwiches by the park.” Marlow rolled out of bed. “We can stop by there after the run.”
“I don’t want to move.”
“Breakup playbook. You gotta do one hour of cardio for every eight you spend moping.”
“I didn’t get dumped.” Ilya moaned, burrowing under his sherpa blanket.
“Okay, man.”
“None of your clothes will fit me.” He continued to protest.
“My shirts will be a little big on you, yeah. Your ass will definitely fill out my shorts though.”
Ilya gaped in outrage, at least he did his best before Marlow hit him in the face with a fresh change of clothing.
“Come on, man. You need endorphins.”
-
The day was fresh and bright - possibly just to spite Ilya.
The two jogged around the park at a brisk pace. Marlow was quietly impressed that Ilya kept going, even if it was clear that with every step the guy wanted nothing more than to lie face down and let the earth decompose him.
He stuck it out, and true to his word Marlow bought him an egg sandwich stacked high with bacon and a blissfully runny yolk.
After they got back to Marlow’s apartment he sucked Ilya off in the shower for good measure.
After, Ilya was feeling enough like his normal self to play a few rounds of Chel. As usual, they had to take turns playing Boston.
“Don’t worry, I won’t pick Montreal.”
“Why the fuck would I care about Montreal?” Ilya said, glaring daggers into the television screen.
Marlow weighed his options. It’d be pretty easy to shake it off with a half-truth.
I figured you had enough of Montreal after this weekend.
But figured he might as well air it out. Marlow was the type of guy to forget he was supposed to be keeping it a secret.
“Because Jane is Hollander.”
The controller clattered to the ground. Ilya shot to his feet as if electrocuted.
“Go fuck yourself, Marlow.”
“Oh come on, man.” Marlow groaned, throwing his head back against the sofa as Ilya stormed off into the guest room.
“What the fuck did you do with my clothes?” Ilya demanded, re-appearing with his empty suitcase and shaking it angrily.
“They’re in the wash, jackass.”
“My suit?”
“Drycleaner. You want to go home in your underwear?”
“Don’t think I won’t.”
“Sit down.” Marlow growled, continuing to set up their game. “Who the hell do you think I’m gonna tell, anyway?”
“How did you find out?” Ilya demanded.
“Cause I’m your best friend. I figured it out.”
Ilya watched Marlow for a long, angry moment. Marlow started the game and turned away from Ilya. It wasn’t until he scored the first goal unopposed on the virtual Boston team that Ilya sat down and picked up his controller.
“Does anyone else know?”
“No, definitely not.” Marlow said evenly.
Ilya breathed out sharply through his nose, turning his full attention to the game.
“You wanna talk about it?” Marlow asked after the silence cooled into something more comfortable.
“Nothing to talk about.” Ilya clipped back, nearly neat enough to hide the simmer of misery underneath. “Maybe it was. But. Not anymore.”
“If you say so, man.” Marlow said quietly, leaving it at that.
-
The first time had been rushed.
Both of them were drunk, impatient and keyed up.
This time was slower, more careful.
“Careful-”
“I know what I’m doing man. I’ve done this with women before.”
“I’m not a- Aah!” Ilya shuddered and fell back.
Marlow rubbed Ilya’s stomach soothingly, slipping another finger in as he worked around that sensitive patch of skin.
“That’s it, baby.”
Ilya clenched at once, squeezing Marlow's fingers like a vice. A beautiful flush of pink darkened his cheeks.
“Do not call me this.” He said murderously.
“I think you like it.” Marlow teased. He reached around, heaving Ilya up so that he was straddling the man’s lap. His curls fell askew into his face, the flush traveling down his neck to bloom across his chest.
Marlow smirked. Ilya wasn’t used to being manhandled, and rankled against it like a stray cat.
“I do not.” Ilya said sternly, grabbing Marlow’s shoulders for purchase.
“I got you.” Marlow gripped himself, aligning up with Ilya’s body. “Take a breath.”
Ilya made more of a gasp, falling forward with his forehead braced against Marlow’s shoulder.
“We can stop if you want to.”
“No-” Ilya gritted. His hips were slowly lowered onto Marlow’s cock, a few centimeters at a time. “I just… I want,”
“What do you want, baby?”
“Fuck you.” Ilya bit at Marlow’s earlobe. “It’s just… ah-” Ilya closed his eyes, taking a little more of Marlow’s girth.
“We never did this… me and him. I need something… that won’t remind me…”
Marlow rubbed his hands across Ilya’s hips and over his thighs.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” He soothed. Ilya had settled on to his lap like he was made to sit there. Marlow kneaded the glorious curves of Ilya's magnificent ass the way he'd been wanting to do since before they had even left Montreal. Ilya's legs were trembling slightly, his face screwed up in concentration as he did his best to accommodate Marlow’s cock. “You need me to fuck you till you can’t think, is that it Rozy?”
“Yes,” Ilya’s voice was soft, teetering just on the edge of breaking. “I need that.”
Marlow paused, briefly overcome by the softness of the moment. Marlow knew he wasn’t always the most observant guy. But he was able to recognize the incredible show of trust on display.
Fuck, it made his chest feel tight. Aching.
Maybe he should see a doctor.
Though it would have to wait until he fucked Ilya Rozanov within an inch of his life.
Ilya wasn’t a light guy. He was solid muscle all the way through. Marlow started off slow, treating it like a workout. He worked his hips in shallow, circular motions upward. He tried a few different angles until Ilya's tentative little gasps honeyed over with pleasure as he found just the right spot. Marlow set his feet against the bed, raising and lowering Ilya onto his cock.
Marlow leaned back and breathed out slowly through his nose, steadying himself. Ilya's body was so hot and tight, squeezing him in all the best ways. While he was a bit of a playboy himself, Marlow hated to climax and finish before whatever woman he was with as a point of pride. He'd gotten good at keeping himself in check, even going so far as to practice at edging himself during nights alone.
“That's it baby, move with me,” To Marlow's delight, Ilya couldn't do much more than whine softly at the endearment. He was focused. Nervous, maybe. Ilya didn't like to be out of control. Though this position gave him some degree of it, letting him bounce himself on Marlow's hot, slick cock.
Ilya's eyes were heavy, his mouth hung slack.
Marlow let his hands run greedily up Ilya's body. The hard planes of his stomach and the swell of his chest. To his delight, Ilya hissed and flinched as the calloused pads of his thumbs brushed against his tight nipples which he made note of greedily. He grasped Ilya around the back and turned them over smoothly, pinning him against the pillows.
“Fucking hell, Marlow,” Ilya groaned.
Speak for yourself. Cliff thought. Did Ilya realize how gorgeous he looked right now?
He probably did, the little shit.
His arms were flung above his head, his cock full and flush against his navel. But it was mostly the look on his face Marlow was drawn to. He'd been steadily chipping away at those walls this entire time. Down to this soft, vulnerable thing that was hurting.
Marlow hitched one of Ilya's legs up over his shoulder and placed a reverent kiss to his knee before he continued to move in earnest.
They had all night, and Marlow fully intended to make use of it.
Connors: Hey man, have you heard from Rozanov?
Connors: He’s not answering his phone. I went to go check on him and it doesn't even look like he went back to his place.
Marlow ran a towel under a scalding hot tap in the kitchen, wringing it dry. He smirked to himself. Connors was an early riser, probably just up and getting a smoothie ready for his crack-of-dawn jog.
His phone on the countertop buzzed again.
Connors: Sorry, probably sounds paranoid. He seemed weird this weekend, right?
Marlow tapped out a reply as he returned to the guest room.
Marlow: All good, he’s with me.
Marlow: Girl problems.
Ilya was lying prone facedown on the bed. His hair was a beautiful mess, his skin glowing with a damp sheen of sweat that pebbled on the dip of his spine. His eyes were far away and glassy under heavy lashes. The room was suffuse with the heady, lingering musk of sex.
Marlow dabbed the hot cloth between Ilya’s legs. Ilya whimpered but didn’t stir, letting his body be handled. Marlow checked his phone with the other hand.
Connors: That’s rough. Nice one Marls.
Connor: You need to tag out let me know.
Marlow: Will do.
“Waz so funny?” Ilya groused. He threw an arm over his shoulder as Marlow ran the hot towel up his inner thigh.
“Connors checking up on you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I kicked your ass at Chel.”
Ilya choked out a dry laugh, slumping back onto the sheets. There was something deeply, primally satisfying about Ilya this way. Loose-limbed and sleepy and too tired to push away people who wanted to take care of him.
Marlow sat back, letting the feeling settle over him as Ilya sank into a deep sleep. He turned it over in his mind, this sudden desire to bolt the door and never let Ilya out of this bed again.
-
By the next day, Ilya was a bit more properly himself. At the very least, he was back to his usual, fierce brand of hockey at practice, laughing and joking and chirping at others on the team.
Marlow wasn’t kidding himself in thinking he had fixed anything. But maybe he had made it a little easier for Ilya to shove the drawer closed, and keep that bravado and mask he wore as Captain going a little while longer.
-
The next few weeks were a strange time for Marlow to reflect on in the years to come - after they quietly dropped the pretense of pre-game ritualistic fooling around in favor of a proper friends-with-benefits situation.
Sometimes it was a matter of necessity. Marlow would catch Ilya doomscrolling on his phone to articles of the new X-Squad movie. He'd drag Ilya by the scruff of his neck back to his apartment for a home cooked meal and then rail him into the sofa. Ilya still complained about bottoming, though not enough to keep Marlow from fucking him until he saw stars.
Marlow could practically smell Ilya's tension rising as the All Star game came nearer.
“Just don't go then. It's the All Star game, who gives a shit?” Marlow tucked an arm behind his head, shifting back a bit on the rumpled bed. His legs were casually spread, palming his cock a bit. Ilya was tugging on a pair of black boxer briefs. The little crease in how brow gave away his mind had gone to exactly who cared about the All Star game. Cared enough to captain this year, and probably take every single skill event way too seriously.
“Ditch it. Come with me to Cabo. We'll hang out on the beach, see who can get the most girls to do tequila shots off us.”
His cock twitched with interest under his hand. It'd probably do Ilya some good to get laid by girls again.
Maybe they could take someone back together. Fuck, that'd be hot.
It was a long time before Ilya spoke. He seemed to be considering it as he pulled on his clothes.
“I already said I would go.”
Ilya moved toward the door. Marlow reached out and grabbed him around the middle, dragging him back onto the bed.
“Whatever you say, man. Text me though, okay?” Marlow pressed a kiss into the crook of Ilya's neck. It was the closest they ever got. Kissing on the mouth was still a strange, final frontier that they both kept a wary distance from.
“What, you want the hot gossip on engagement rings?” Ilya said miserably.
There it was.
Marlow sighed, dragging Ilya down into the bed, crushing him tight against the solid weight of his body. Ilya did his usual routine of huffing and struggling. When he found he wasn't going anywhere, his body went lax.
There was a muffled sound dangerously close to a sob that both of them dutifully ignored.
It didn't sit right in his gut. Partying on a beach while Ilya had to play more fucking hockey with Shane Hollander. To stay at a hotel room with the guy and his movie star girlfriend. Knowing how quickly guys like them got tied down, there was a nonzero chance that Hollander was already engaged. He certainly wasn’t going to do better than Rose Landry.
Maybe it would help Ilya to move on.
Maybe it would make things that much worse.
Marlow scrolled through his phone, looking at flight times from Cabo to Miami and musing over whether he could convince his college buddies to completely scrap and change their plans. In the end, he reluctantly settled with giving Connors strict instructions to keep an eye on Ilya and let him know if things were going south.
Should I have gone?
Marlow wondered it for the hundredth time, turning the question over his mind with the care-worn consideration of something he knew would be with him for a long time.
Would it have made a difference?
Should he have tried to make a difference?
After that, things slipped away from him. And maybe it was okay to let them go.
Ilya was happy again. Happier than Marlow had been able to make him.
That was worth everything, it was the point of it all.
No amount of having Ilya with him, under him - was worth that lingering sort of sadness. Ilya Rozanov was a creature that was meant to burn brightly.