Archive of Our Own

Sochi, Russia. February. 2014. 

Let it go on the record that Svetlana Vetrova is Ilya’s saving grace. He hadn’t even spotted her before, though, he hadn’t been looking at much of anything, eyes unfocused and glazed over, looking but not seeing, straight ahead, halfway to dissociated as his father said something to the minister about a lack of leadership. Ilya isn’t sure how long has gone by, he zoned out not long into the conversation about his own failure to lead Team Russia to victory. It doesn’t matter that the team isn’t clicking or that the goalie is hurt. All that matters is that Ilya is captain, and Russia is officially out of contention to medal, losing to fucking Latvia, as he’s been reminded his father several times. 

Grigori says something else, though Ilya isn’t sure what, and then Svetlana appears, beautiful and smiling and far too bouncing and excitable for a place like this. She’s charismatic in a way that not even Ilya’s father can turn down, as she whisks Ilya away from what he imagines would have continued to be his verbal lashings until either himself or his father dropped dead. 

“You look beautiful,” he tells her as she leads them down the stairs. “Thank you for saving me.” 

“Mm, you looked like you needed it. Your father is an asshole.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But, not wrong. Russia is a failure, and I am captain, so what does it make me?” 

Svetlana makes a sound of annoyance as she leads them to a suite and opens the door to a grand bathroom where she and Sasha are staying. Sasha is doing a line of cocaine on the same counter Svetlana hops up to sit on. Ilya doesn’t acknowledge him. 

“It makes you exactly what you were before this; the captain of the Boston Raiders. Did you forget?” Svetlana continues. 

Ilya leans on a counter on the opposite side of the room and shrugs off his jacket, waiting for her to continue as Sasha snags a bottle of vodka and brings it to the bath tub, lounging in it. 

“The Olympics don’t matter. Okay, for some people they do. But not for people playing on major professional teams, no? You’ll leave here, and you’ll go home, and you’ll play for your real team. You have a real shot at the cup this year.” 

“Okay,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes. “How do you figure?” 

From there, Svetlana lays out exactly how, step by step, Boston could win the cup this year. 

“Wow,” Ilya answers. By the end of her speech, he’s almost convinced Boston does have a shot. “How do you know so much?” 

Svetlana rolls her eyes. 

It’s then that Sasha waves a little baggie of white powder in her direction, in offering. 

“Mm, no. I should get to bed. You boys should catch up anyway, hm?” She says, and looks pointedly at Ilya, who, he supposes, has been pointedly ignoring Sasha since he walked into the room. 

Ilya watches as she kisses Sasha goodbye, and then she  crosses the room and kisses both of Ilya’s cheeks. “Love you,” she says softly. 

“Love you. Goodnight,” Ilya answers, watching her until she’s out of the bathroom. He almost wishes he’d followed when Sasha speaks. She’d looked beautiful, and she’d probably have him, if he asked. Now he’s stuck here with Sasha, having to formulate an exit plan. 

“Hi, Sasha,” Sasha says. “How are you? How’s Paris?”

It’s pointed, and Ilya deserves it, getting called out for ignoring the man. 

“Hi, Sasha,” Ilya says. “Good to see you.” His voice does not convey that it is even remotely good. 

Nothing is good, really. Russia is out. His father is declining. His father is disappointed in him. He’s here. In Russia. And on top of it all, there’s an unanswered text from Shane burning a hole in his pocket. He almost wishes his phone would buzz again. Maybe he’d answer it. Maybe if Shane pushed a little more, he’d stop being a fucking coward, and he’d answer. He’s say: No, I am not okay. I hate it here. I hate my family. I hate losing. I hate that you worried about me. I hate that you came and found me. I hate that I pushed you away. I hate that I told you to leave. I hate the way you looked at me before you left. Like sad, but not because I made you leave. Sad for me. Pitying. I do not need pity. Please don’t text me again. I am not good. I am worse when I am here. Save yourself while you can. You won’t be able to resist me if I let you near again, we both know it. So stay away. That is why I told you to leave. 

His phone does not buzz. 

Sasha climbs out of the bathtub. “I love Paris,” he continues. “The girls are hot. And the boys… Well. You have seen Paris boys, haven’t you, Ilya?” he asks, stepping into Ilya’s space. 

Ilya doesn’t react, not even when Sasha tilts his head down and brushes his lips against Ilya’s. He smells like gaudy, overpowering French cologne and vodka. 

Sasha frowns when he straightens up, at the lack of reaction from Ilya, but then he pulls out the white baggie he’d offered Svetlana, and shakes it twice in front of Ilya’s face. 

He should say no. He used to partake in this vice more often, when he was younger. He still does occasionally, during the off season or if there’s time between games. It’s not smart, not when getting caught would be detrimental to his career, but every so often, he does. 

And, well… There is no more hockey to be played here, and he’d test clean by the time he’s back in Boston. There is no more reason for him to be tested here, no excuse that he needs to perform well. He eyes the white powder and then shrugs one shoulder, noncommittal, casual, sure. 

“Ah,” Sasha’s eyes light up. “I knew you still knew how to have fun. Here I almost worried those days were behind you.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but he pushes off the counter and follows Sasha across the room where he pours out more of the powder onto the counter, beside what’s already there. He takes the razor blade sitting there, and uses it to cut up the powder more finely, and then he uses it to divide the powder into four crisp, nearly identical lines. They aren’t small lines either. There’s a rolled up bill beside them.

Sasha steps back and gestures for Ilya to go first. “Be my guest,” he says. “You need to catch up.”

Ilya picks up the bottle of cold vodka first. “After this. Need something in me first,” he says. He’s not about to snort coke with just the one cocktail from earlier in him. He brings the bottle to his lips and downs a few mouthfuls, then another just to be sure it’s enough. It’s good fucking vodka, but it’s enough all at once that it still burns a little going down. 

He exhales roughly and wipes the back of his hand over his lips, before picking up the rolled up bill and bending down. He takes the first two lines in succession, pressing his thumb over his other nostril and inhaling evenly through the other until both are snorted. 

He stands up and sniffs deeply a few times, swiping his thumb over his nose, and then he feels that familiar sensation, the numbing, the slight chemical taste of his post nasal drip as his body absorbs the stimulant. 

Sasha looks him over briefly before he bends down and takes the other two lines. 

“It’s good shit,” Sasha tells him, straightening up. “Not like what we’d do when we were teens.”  

“Yes,” Ilya nods. He can feel it already, the buzzing in his body, the sharpness, the alertness, the feeling that he’s moving just a little bit faster. 

“Maybe,” Sasha says, angling so their hips are facing each other, his hand trailing along the edge of the counter until it’s just inches from where Ilya’s hand rests. “There are other things that have gotten better since we were teens too, hm?” 

Ilya stiffens slightly and makes a sort of noncommittal grunt, like it doesn’t matter either way. Maybe it doesn’t. Nothing else really seems to matter right now. What’s one more mistake on a list of them, one more thing to regret, to look back on and chastise himself for?

He doesn’t move, but he also doesn’t resist as Sasha steps in close and presses his lips to Ilya’s. He moves them slowly against Ilya’s, parted, breathing softly against him, and after a few seconds, Ilya reacts, letting their lips slot together. He kisses Sasha back, but he doesn’t reach out to touch him. 

Sasha has nice lips, and Ilya can feel the slight stubble from a day of not shaving brush against him. It reminds him of Shane. 

Sasha does not taste like Shane, though. He doesn’t taste like ginger ale and tooth paste, like mints Shane pops into his mouth probably moments before meeting Ilya, worried he won’t taste good for him. Sasha tastes like vodka and cigarettes and the same vaguely chemical taste that’s lingering in the back of Ilya’s throat. He doesn’t smell like Shane’s woodsy cologne. Sasha’s is too spicy, too showy. He isn’t what Ilya wants. 

His hand goes down to Ilya’s crotch and squeezes before he makes a disappointed sound, pulling back. “What? I don’t do it for you any more? The American girls are too good?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes again. 

“Coke didn’t use to make your dick not work,” Sasha laughs sharply. 

“Fuck off,” Ilya says, and then he lunges forward and kisses Sasha again. This time, his tongue pushes into Sasha’s mouth and he feels the man gasp and then moan into the feeling. This is two fold. One: he can see if his dick really doesn’t work, if it’s not American girls but rather one Canadian boy who is making it impossible for him to get hard right now, and two: he can dip his fingers into Sasha’s back pocket and snatch the little baggie under the guise of grabbing his ass. 

When his cock doesn’t get hard, he pulls back, breaking the kiss, and discretely tucks the baggie into his own pants. 

“Guess I am old now,” Ilya shrugs. “I should go.” 

Sasha frowns. “My dick still works,” he protests, and takes Ilya’s hand, guiding it to the bulge in his pants. 

“Not tonight. Sorry,” Ilya says, feeling very far from sorry as he pulls his hand away.

He feels mad. He brings the bottle of vodka to his lips and takes one more pull before leaning in and kissing Sasha on the cheek, the same way he’d done for Svetlana. If he means that to be cruel too, emasculating in any sort of way, he blames it on being back here and the regressive impact it has on him. “It was good to see you,” he says plainly. 

Sasha glares slightly. “You too, Ilya. Always a pleasure. Take the bottle, if you want. I’m going out.” 

Ilya does, capping it, before he throws his jacket back on and leaves without looking back. He hesitates, debating staying at the opulent hotel where the party is being held, filled with other Russian athletes, diplomats, and minor celebrities, or going back to the Olympic village. He has a room there, of course. It’s small, shared, dull. He’s slept there so far, staying close to his team, being central to practice and games. He also has a room here, though. Russia is not necessarily good to their athletes, but Ilya is high profile enough, and the captain, so he does have a room at the hotel his father is at, a few floors below him. It’s not uncommon for athletes to have external habitation arrangements if they’re important enough. He doesn’t necessarily feel like going back to the village and hearing parties of other athletes, celebrations of wins. He doesn’t want anyone to recognize him, to tell him it was a tough break. He doesn’t really want to be anywhere, so he chooses the path of least resistance. He opts to stay at the hotel, and goes downstairs to a service elevator, not one that any of the party guests would get on. 

He takes it up to his room, and sits on the bed, setting the bottle of vodka and the baggie of coke on the night stand, and then he pulls out his phone. 

[02/16/14]

3:43 PM

Hey, you okay? 

He looks at the words that have been mocking him for the last two days. 

He’s so angry. He feels his jaw clench enough to hurt, and he huffs out of his nostrils, glaring at the phone. He’s angry at Canada for still being in medal contention. He’s angry at Russia and at himself for not. He’s angry at his father for hating him. He’s angry at his father for making him feel sorry for him, for making him remind him that Irina is dead. He’s angry at Andrei for everything, for not even showing up, though, he’d probably be angrier if he had. He’s angry at Shane, for being the perfect golden boy, the polite Canadian, the exemplary captain, the impeccable skater. He’s angry at Shane for asking him if he’s okay. For caring. For existing.

02/18/14 

11:23 PM

You awake?

The answer is immediate. 

11:23 PM

Yes

Are you okay?

11:24 PM

I want to see you. 

11:25 PM

Okay. 

Where? I’m just leaving a party in the village, but I can meet you anywhere. 

Fuck Shane for being nice. For being accommodating. Ilya knows why. He thinks he does. He’s worried about Ilya. He’d said as much. Even if he hadn’t, Shane could read it all over his face. He can tell Ilya doesn’t like it here. He knows Ilya is upset Russia had performed so badly. He’s only so willing to meet you because he feels bad for you, Ilya’s mind supplies him. Fine. He can make sure Shane doesn’t feel bad for him. He can make sure Shane doesn’t ever worry about him again. He can get this whole thing, whatever it is, out of both of their systems before it gets any worse. 

11:26 PM

I am at the Swissotel. Outside of the village. There is a shuttle.  

11:27 PM

Okay. Will I be seen coming in? Does the shuttle run late going back? 

11:28 PM

I will get you. There is a back entrance. 

I don’t know what time the shuttle stops, Hollander. You don’t have to come.   

11:29 PM

That’s not secure.

There’s a shuttle in twenty. I’ll text when I’m in back. 

Ilya doesn’t respond to Shane’s worrying about the security of the hotel. He does cut two more even lines of coke at the coffee bar, using his hotel keycard to line them up, and he rolls up a bill and snorts one. He does down another swig of vodka, and he does run his hands through his slicked back hair, tucking back a few strands that have come loose over the course of the night. At the last second, he tugs off his stupid bow tie and tosses it somewhere in the room, before he heads back down to the lower level, below the party, below the front desk and the lobby and any sets of eyes that might question why Shane Hollander is here.

He’s not supposed to be down here, he thinks, but no one else is here. He wants to go outside to get some fresh air and to smoke, but he thinks this door only opens from the inside. Hollander was wrong; it is secure. So, he waits by the door and sends Shane a text explaining how to get to the back of the hotel, and he looks out the window for the image of a man he doesn’t deseerve.

Sure enough, he spots Shane, bundled up in a team Canada puffer jacket and a team Canada knit hat, and team Canada gloves, white and red and fucking reflecting every light outside, walking up to the back door of the hotel. 

Ilya only opens it at the last second when Shane is a foot away, and closes it immediately once Shane is inside. He hadn’t been entirely sure some alarm wouldn’t go off when he’d open the door. 

“Hey,” Shane says breathlessly, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold. Ilya can feel the cold radiating off of him and resists the urge to pull him close.

“Keep your head down,” Ilya says instead, and he quickly brings them back to the service elevator he’d taken earlier. 

Shane stares at him on the elevator ride up. It’s unnerving. Ilya can feel the weight of questions held just behind those pretty lips, but Shane can’t seem to choose which one to start with, so he just stares all the way up to Ilya’s floor. Ilya can’t stop fidgeting either, his thumbs restlessly stroking his pants, and he wonders if it’s equally unnerving. 

Ilya peeks out briefly once the elevator doors open to make sure no one is around, and then he grabs Shane by the wrist, his fingers sinking into the plush coat, and guides them down the hall, swiping his card over the reader, and he shuts the door to his room behind Shane loud enough it startles both of them.

“Hey,” Shane says again, a little sharper this time, so much unsaid in the one syllable. Ilya can read between the lines. Hey, look at me. Hey, what’s going on? Hey, are you okay? Hey, you’ve been ignoring me. 

“Hi,” Ilya says, giving Shane a quick nod, but avoiding eye contact. “Take off your coat and hat and-” he cuts himself off, gesturing to Shane’s entire body. 

“Okay,” Shane says.

Again, Ilya knows he wants to say more. He probably wants to call Ilya an asshole, but he’s still holding back because he’s fucking worried about him or pitying him again. Ilya hardens his expression. He’ll make sure by the end of this, Shane has no trouble calling him an asshole. 

Ilya steps into the room and turns his back to Shane as he takes off his hat, his coat, and his gloves and folds them all nicely before setting them on the chair. He toes his shoes off, and sits down on a corner of the king sized bed.

Ilya turns back to face him, holding the bottle of vodka. “You want?” 

Shane shakes his head. “No. We play again in two days.”

Ilya shrugs and takes a swig. “Must be nice.” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. “It sucks you’re out. You played well, still.” 

Ilya barks out a laugh. “We lost and I am captain. So.”

“So? Doesn’t mean you didn’t play well.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need to hear some consolation from Shane. “You’re still wearing clothes,” he says, finally looking directly at Shane.

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up. “What? You wanted me… Fuck, is that why you invited me here? I thought like…” Shane stands. “I thought you were upset or something, or you wanted to talk. I just got on a shuttle and snuck into a Russian hotel because you wanted to fuck? You really are an asshole,” Shane says, his voice getting slightly louder with each word.

Ilya grins at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “There we go,” he says, pleased, at least in some sick way, that he’s upset Shane. It’s better than pity. 

“I was worried about you,” Shane says sharply. 

“Why?” Ilya asks, taking a step closer. When Shane steps back, the backs of his knees hit the bed. 

“Why?” Shane parrots. 

“Yes. Why? Why worried? Why send that stupid boring text? Hm?” Ilya sounds a little harsher at the end of his questioning too. 

Shane frowns. “It doesn’t matter. Clearly you’re fine, and you just wanted to fuck after losing.”

“Tell me,” Ilya says, and he steps forward again, until Shane sits back on the bed, and Ilya looms over him. 

“It’s nothing,” Shane mutters. 

Ilya is quick when he reaches down and grips Shane’s jaw, forcing him to look up at him. “Tell me.”

“It’s just something someone said,” Shane says, jerking against Ilya’s hand. “Fuck, can you let go?” 

“No. What did someone say?"  Ilya answers quickly, tightening his grip. 

Now it’s Shane’s turn to roll his eyes. “My buddy in the figure skating program is gay. And someone said it was like… brave. To be out and gay. Here. In Russia. Like, it’s not a safe place,” Shane says, stilted and awkward. 

Ilya lifts an eyebrow and drops Shane’s jaw, watching as he opens his mouth then closes it, working out the strain Ilya’s grip put on it. “And? So?”

Shane gives him an incredulous look. “So? I just thought maybe it would be hard for you, being… whatever the fuck you are, and being from here. I don’t fucking know, okay? I was just trying to be nice. Checking in.” 

“I’m not gay,” Ilya says. “And I’m not out.” He stresses the last word like it’s poison, something unfathomable. “I know what it’s like here, hm? What, you visit once and learn a little fact, and now you’re worried? Like I haven’t spent most of my life here? Like I don’t know how to handle myself?” 

Shane starts to stand again, but one firm push to the center of his chest has him sitting back down again with a huff. “Clearly you can handle yourself. You have no problem sneaking a man you want to fuck into your hotel, huh?” Shane says. 

“You don’t want it? You can go,” Ilya says, gesturing to the door. “You’re not the only man who’d let me fuck them in this hotel.” 

Shane’s expression shifts at that briefly surprised before his eyes narrow. “Who?” 

Ilya grins. There it is, what he wanted, that jealousy. Shane can’t help himself, not when it comes to Ilya being with other people. “My coach’s son is here, hm? You remember, I told you about him? He kissed me tonight.” 

“In this room?” Shane asks.

Ilya laughs, low and dangerous. “No. Another room. Should I invite him? I’m sure he’d like you too.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane bites back. 

“He would be easier than you,” Ilya says, tone casual. “He wouldn’t ask so many questions. He wouldn’t talk so much. He’d just take me.” 

“Then why’d you text me, huh?” Shane says. “Sounds like he was more convenient.” 

And, well… Shane’s got him there, doesn’t he? Ilya doesn’t have an answer to that one, not one he wants to admit to either of them. So, with a lack of an answer, Ilya turns his back to Shane and approaches the coffee bar where he still has a line from earlier. He leans down before Shane can even realize what he’s doing, and he takes the bill he’d rolled up, and he snorts the other line, loudly sniffing it, tilting his head back when he stands to make sure he got it all. 

“Oh, what the fuck,” Shane mutters, maybe to himself. “I’m not fucking doing this,” he says, getting up for a third time. “You’re seriously doing that shit? What? Because you lost?” 

Ilya shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, does it? I have no more games to play. What is the word? Consolation prize?” 

Shane scoffs. “No wonder you’re being a dick. You’re fucking high.” 

Ilya stares him down. “It makes me last so long,” he says, and grins when Shane’s face contorts into an expression of disgust. Good. He should be disgusted. Ilya is disgusted with himself. It doesn’t mean he’s going to stop. “I’m lucky. Some people, they can’t even get hard on this stuff. Not me. Makes me last. Hard to cum, but I can go forever,” he says, dragging out the last word as he steps closer. 

“You’re unbelievable," Shane hisses, side stepping away from Ilya. 

“You don’t believe me? I will show you,” he says, shrugging again, swallowing down the feeling of the post nasal drip, the remnants of the drug, acrid in the back of his throat. 

Shane frowns again. “You’re…” he sighs, and then his expression softens and he wrings his hands together. “I’m sorry you’re not happy here. And I’m sorry you didn’t place. But you’re self sabotaging, and you’re trying to drown how you’re feeling in-”

“I don’t know what that means,” Ilya says sharply. It’s not entirely untrue in the state he’s in, but he could imagine what the words ‘self sabotage’ mean. “Too much fucking talking. I can think of other things to do with your mouth.” 

Shane’s face does something Ilya can’t read, which is maybe the most frustrating thing of all. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk and high, or maybe this is a new expression, something Ilya hasn’t unlocked yet. Maybe he hasn’t sunk this low before. 

“Fine,” Shane says.

And… oh. That’s a surprise. Ilya wasn’t necessarily planning on being coercive, he’s not that terrible, he doesn’t think. But, he thought he’d have to beg a little, to apologize, and if he couldn’t manage that, he’d just piss Shane off enough until Shane left him to wallow, and that would have been better than Shane pitying him. 

“Fine?” Ilya asks. 

Shane takes his shirt off instead of answering, and folds it neatly, setting it next to the red and white coat. 

“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, and he undoes the buttons on his white button up, letting it fall to the floor in a crumbled heap. 

“No weird positions, okay? I can’t get a muscle strain,” Shane says as his hands go to the fly of his jeans. 

This is weird, Ilya thinks. Of course it’s weird. It’s all fucking weird. He isn’t supposed to fuck Shane in Russia. Shane isn’t supposed to be in Russia, with him. Russia is Ilya’s, not Shane’s. These are two of his worlds which were never meant to intersect colliding; the worst part of him and the best part, he thinks briefly, delusionally.

That’s not the only thing that’s weird, though. It’s Shane. Shane is pissed at him, Ilya knows that much. He’s high but he’s not stupid. Shane is pissed he’s doing drugs, pissed he’s being an asshole, pissed he’s being a sore loser.  He’s probably pissed Ilya hasn’t even congratulated him. He’s not supposed to just obey, to bend over and take it, literally and metaphorically. Shane fights back.

“Wait,” Ilya says, reminding himself that he’s an asshole, but he’s not terrible. He’s not entirely terrible. “You want to? You’re not just… don’t say yes because of pity, Hollander. I wouldn’t want that.” 

Shane scoffs. “Jesus, how little do you think of me? No. You’re being a dick, but you also have a good dick.”

Ilya laughs at that, genuinely. He thinks it’s the first time he’s had a genuine laugh in days. “Funny,” he says. He doesn’t fully believe it, because Shane is… Shane. Shane is boring and a little neurotic, and Ilya doesn’t think he’s even remotely okay with the drugs especially, but he did his part by asking, and he’s not going to interrogate himself out of sex. 

Shane doesn’t answer as he folds his jeans, and then he’s there in just his underwear. Ilya nods down at it. “That too.” 

Shane pulls it off, and Ilya is half worried he won’t be hard, but no, even with the way Ilya’s been treating him, Shane is hard. That’s good, at least. Ilya pulls his socks off, but allows Shane to keep his on; he knows his feet get cold. He pulls his black slacks off and lets them land on the floor too, and then he reaches for Shane before stopping himself. 

He doesn’t kiss him. He doesn’t deserve to. Not with his mouth which will taste like vodka and cigarettes, the tongue he had in Sasha’s mouth just hours prior, the mouth which has said cruel things, and will no doubt say crueller things in the coming minutes. Instead, he pushes Shane back toward the bed. 

“Hands and knees,” he says, and watches as Shane listens, getting into position near the end of the bed. He doesn’t think he could bear to look at Shane’s face tonight. 

Ilya steps away for a moment, losing his briefs, and then rummaging in a drawer for the lube he packed and a condom. He brought his own, just in case, not wanting to rely on the Olympic Village to not run out. He’d heard rumors of that happening. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks, checking in as he drizzles lube over two of his fingers. 

“Yes,” Shane answers softly. 

Ilya brings his fingers down, the lube still cool, and he traces one over Shane’s hole. It strikes him that not only have they not kissed, but they haven’t even sucked each other’s dicks. Ilya is going straight in, starting his attention right on Shane’s hole, efficient and targeted. 

He circles the pad of his finger over the ring of muscle and watches as it twitches in response. 

“Don’t tease,” Shane murmurs. 

“Don’t talk,” Ilya answers without much bite, but he listens, pushing his finger inside of Shane. He’s met with resistance. Fuck, Shane is tight. It makes something warm pool in Ilya, and he wonders if he’s still the only one who’s gotten to do this, just once before.

Shane lets out a soft sound, and Ilya can’t tell if it’s a hiss or a gasp, so he stills his hand, his finger halfway in. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane nods. “I’ll tell you if it’s not, it’s fine.” 

Okay, then. Ilya thrusts his finger forward until his knuckle is pushing against Shane’s rim, and he’s so hot, tight, squeezing around just one finger. Ilya can’t wait to fuck him, to thrust into the suffocating warmth of him, to claim him. He thrusts his finger in and out shallowly a few times, before he pulls it almost all the way out and plunges it back inside. He can feel Shane relax around it, the way his body softens and stops fighting the intrusion, and only then does Ilya push a second finger in.

This time, Shane makes a sound closer to a moan, but it’s like he’s trying to hold back. Ilya doesn’t question it. He pushes his second finger past the resistance, and then he fucks into Shane with both of them, avoiding the spot he knows drives Shane crazy for now. He doesn’t want him all worked up yet, not with how long Ilya expects to last. Now is just to prepare him for it, not to specifically derive pleasure. Ilya’s never really denied Shane pleasure before, and this isn’t that, not necessarily, but he’s also not going out of his way to provide that pleasure. 

“Do a third,” Shane instructs, sounding too put together. “I don’t want to be sore.” 

“Okay,” Ilya nods, and he does, lining his fingers up in a triangle shape before he pushes the three in together. There’s more resistance, especially around the knuckles, but he adds more lube, pouring it right over Shane’s hole, and that helps. It feels almost clinical in a way that makes Ilya feel slightly sick, but he ignores that and focuses on how soon, so soon, he’ll be inside of Shane. 

Maybe then things won’t seem so bad. He’s always been good at this one thing. At sex. Even when he’s been bad at everything else, when everything has fallen apart, he’s been good at this one thing. He’ll have to make Shane hate him some other way, maybe. Maybe this entire plan is futile. Maybe he’s forgotten what the goal was in the first place. Maybe he just needs to feel something that doesn’t taste like disappointment. 

He thrusts his fingers in and out of Shane quickly, and he’s almost certain Shane is biting his lip to stay quiet, because nothing but quick exhales and soft sounds that die in his throat come out of him. 

“Is that good?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says. 

There is no warmth to either of their tones. Ilya almost wonders if Shane knows exactly what this is, if he’s placating Ilya, letting him get distracted in this act because everything else is shit. He wonders if Shane will forgive him for being a dick. He hopes not.

Ilya rips the condom wrapper on and slides it over his cock, feeling slightly desensitized from the drugs in his system. That’s good, he thinks. He’ll last a while. He doesn’t want Shane to be sore for his game, but it would be nice if Shane felt him after. Maybe if Shane wins the gold, and he jumps up and down to celebrate, he’ll feel the slight ache, the reminder that Ilya may have lost, but Ilya still had him. What a sick thought. What an undeserved consolation. 

Ilya lines up his cock, one hand gripped firmly around the base of it, and his other hand goes to Shane’s hip, holding him. “Okay?” 

“Just do it,” Shane says. Ilya thinks he sounds tired.

Ilya does. He plunges inside of Shane and he moans, deep and guttural as Shane’s warmth surrounds him. He doesn’t ease in, he thrusts in deep until his hip bones meet Shane’s ass, until his balls smack beneath Shane’s hole, and he stills for a moment once he’s settled. 

“Fuck,” Ilya hisses. “You take me so good, Hollander.” 

“Early for praise,” Shane says. “You aren’t even moving.” 

Alright, if that’s how Shane wants it. Ilya grips Shane’s waist with both hands now, and he starts to move. He gives a couple of slow thrusts at first, just to get used to it, and then he starts to fuck Shane in earnest. 

This is not like the last time, easing him into it, holding back until Shane was begging for more. 

He jackrabbits into Shane, staccato and fast, and he hears a muffled groan, and when he looks up he can see that Shane has stolen one of his pillows and is likely using it to muffle his sounds beneath Ilya. Good. Ilya doesn’t deserve to hear them.

“Take it,” Ilya grunts. “You like it like this? You like taking me? Still going for the Gold, but here you are, taking my cock like a slut,” he groans. The sound of his thighs smacking the back of Shane’s thighs highlight just how fast he’s pounding into Shane. “This is what you’re really good at, huh? Fucking winner right here. Canada’s fucking pride, right?” 

Shane moans beneath him, loud enough even the pillow can’t muffle it. 

“You like that? Captain of Team Canada, but you’re a whore for Russian cock,” Ilya hisses, hating the words as they come out of him. That’s all he is right now, isn’t it? Russian cock. Not good for hockey, not a player for Boston, not here. He’s just Russian cock, claiming Shane Hollander, Canada’s golden boy. 

He brings a hand down to the small of Shane’s back and pushes a bit, forcing him to arch more, and it must change the angle for the better because Shane moans at every thrust now, some of them sounding broken and punched out, and Ilya swears he can feel them in his core. He looks down between them, and watches where his cock disappears inside of Shane, watches the speed that he pounds into him, fucking in and out of his hole. “How’s it feel to be a winner, Hollander?” he growls.

Shane just moans. 

“No, no. Answer. Tell me. How’s it feel to be a fucking winner, and then to bend over and take my cock? You feel like a winner, Hollander? Do you feel like a winner now?” Ilya hisses. He’s being cruel. There is no choice, he just is, no matter how much he hates it. It doesn’t help anything. He can’t stop it. 

“Yes,” Shane hisses. “Fuck, yes. I’m a fucking winner,” he gasps. 

“I hope you do win,” Ilya says between sharp inhales. “I hope you win gold so I can cum on your medal while you wear it. Maybe I’ll make you lick it off, huh?” Ilya feels his heart racing, and normally he’d be close, but he doesn’t even feel his orgasm building yet. He fucks him harder. “Or maybe you can suck my cock while you wear it. I can pull the ribbon, choke you with it. You’d like that?” 

“Y-yes,” Shane gasps.

Ilya watches his head nod where it hangs between his shoulders. 

Ilya can’t stop himself. “Maybe I won’t even let you do this. Maybe you’ll wear it and be my fucking foot stool for me. Medal can be a pretty decoration for my useless furniture,” Ilya growls, wondering how low he can sink, if there’s anything Shane won’t agree to. 

“Fuck, like that,” Shane moans, his body trembling a bit. “There, there, please. I’m close,” Shane gasps. 

“Jesus,” Ilya mutters. “You’re such a freak, Hollander.” 

Still, he listens. He pistons his hips in the same spot, brutal and bruising, and he thinks it’s the hardest he’s ever fucked anyone as he slams into Shane. If he can do one thing, it’s make Shane cum. At least he still has that. 

There’s a choked sounding sob that morphs into a yell, before Shane strangles it with the pillow, and Ilya feels Shane’s hole clench around him as he cums beneath him. His body trembles as he cums, pulsing with each rope of cum, and Ilya slows his hips down a bit, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking Shane through it, through over stimulation, not changing the angle, not even when Shane sobs again beneath him. 

It turns into a whine as Ilya picks up his pace again, going right back into it, until Shane speaks. “Please,” he gasps. “It’s so much.” 

“Please what?” Ilya barks. 

“It’s so much.” 

Ilya stops his hips. “Okay. Short break, okay? Hard to fucking cum on coke,” He complains as he pulls out and watches Shane’s hold clench around nothing, gaping slightly when he’s empty. Ilya’s hands go to Shane’s hips and he pulls him back, guiding his legs down so Shane is bent over the mattress, his feet planted on the floor, his elbows braced on the bed, so his ass is raised and exposed. 

“Can you stay very still for me?” Ilya asks. 

“Yeah,” Shane nods. 

“Okay. No moving,” Ilya instructs, and he steps away for a moment, retrieving the bag of coke. 

Shane will hate him for this. Shane will fucking kill him for this. 

He pours a small amount on the small of Shane’s back, just above his ass, and feels Shane stiffen immediately. 

“No fucking way,” Shane hisses. 

“Shh, stay still. Or it will go everywhere, hm? You don’t want that, do you?” Ilya coos.

Shane stays still. “Rozanov, I swear to god, get that shit off of me, what if it sinks into my skin and-” 

“Okay, okay,” Ilya says. “I will take it off.” 

Ilya leans in and snorts the small pile, just bump of it, right off the small of Shane’s back, and then he pushes his cock into Shane again, so any more protests are drowned out with a whine. 

“Fuck you,” Shane gasps. “Fuck, what if-” 

“Hollander,” Ilya barks out. “No what if’s. Nothing happened. You are fine. It was a little bit, gone right away. Here,” he says, and bends down to lick over the spot, ensuring there’s nothing left, nothing to seep into Shane’s skin.  Maybe that was especially cruel, but a few seconds on skin isn’t going to do anything at all, and he doesn’t actually need Shane to have a panic attack right now, so he speaks softer. “Promise. You’re okay.” 

Shane nods once. 

“Can I move? You’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, hiccupping on the word.

Ilya does. He starts fucking into Shane again, a little slower at first, but then he can’t help himself when he speeds up quicker than intended. Shane feels so good, sucking him in, and the sounds he makes are distracting in a way that shuts everything else out. He moans and gasps and then Ilya thrusts hard and Shane whimpers, warbling and high pitched, and it’s the best thing Ilya’s heard in weeks. Nothing else matters while he fucks into Shane. All the reasons he’s upset, where he is, it doesn’t matter. They could be at his place in Boston or in some hotel in Montreal, it doesn’t matter. He’s inside of Shane. 

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane gasps. “It’s so much.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Ilya coos, but there’s no real warmth behind it. “Because you came already, yes? It’s so much now, so sensitive.” The words are understanding, but Ilya makes no move to slow down. He feels Shane’s elbows shake with the force of Ilya pumping inside of him, and then he shoves him forward, pushing down on his back until Shane’s arms give out.

“Fuck,” Shane grunts.

Ilya notices the wet spot in the bed, the place where Shane spilled his load, glistening white cum on the clean sheets, and he acts on instinct. He lifts Shane’s head up by his hair, and he’s so pliant, so fucked out and posable, that it’s ease to deposit his face a few inches to the left, right into the mess on the bed.

“What the fuck,” Shane grunts, and he jerks away, but Ilya is stronger right now and the angle gives him an advantage. His entire hand pushes down on the side of Shane’s face and he holds him there, fucking into him while he grinds Shane’s face down into his own cum, cooling on the bed.

“Fuck,” Shane grunts, “you. You fucking-“ he whines then, his eyes screwing shut, “fuck, fuck, asshole, you asshole,” he manages to get out between gasps and fucked out, broken sounds. 

“Ah, yes,” Ilya agrees. “But you like it. You love it, don’t you? Tell me,” Ilya purrs.

“You wish,” Shane grunts, squirming beneath Ilya, as if his cum isn’t already smudged over the entire other side of Shane’s face.

“You do,” Ilya grunts. “You had to know how I’d be, hm? What did you expect? You’d come here and we’d talk?” He practically snarls the last word. “Or maybe you thought we would make love? Hm? I would be soft and… hm. Sentimental? In my home country?”

Shane doesn’t answer, but Ilya feels a slight wetness on his pinky that rests beneath Shane’s eye.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, meaning it.

“No,” Shane hisses.

“Say you love it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hollander,” Ilya whines. “Say you love it. Say you love getting fucked like this.”

“Fuck you. I love it,” Shane says like it pains him to admit, and he turns his head to bury it into the sheets, seeming to choose his own cum getting over more of his face than allowing Ilya to see his expression. 

Ilya fucks him for a while more, until he feels himself getting tired, until Shane is barely making any sounds, too drained and numb.

Ilya pulls out quickly and rips the condom off, wrapping a hand around his length. “Can’t cum like that,” he explains, then thinks of something mean, something to piss Shane off more. “Maybe you’re too loose now, hm? Maybe I stretched you out so much I can barely feel it. All used up, Hollander.”

“Shut up,” Shane says half heartedly. “Probably the fucking drugs you snorted.”

Ilya smacks his ass once, and that shuts him up, before he resumes jerking himself off. His grip is vice like, hard and fast and not particularly pleasurable as he strips his cock above Shane’s back.

It does the job though. He cums with a half shout, and it’s probably one of the worst orgasms he’s ever had, a relief more than actual pleasure, but it’s a pretty picture to see the ropes of cum over Shane’s back, now flushed pink with exertion and glistening in sweat. 

“Fuck,” Ilya says once he catches his breath, and he gives Shane’s ass two little pats, patronizing, a rude thank you for everything he endured for Ilya. He steps away and lights up a cigarette, watching as Shane straightens his legs and stands up, rolling his shoulders and then his neck, stretching out the muscles. 

“I’m showering,” he says.

“Mm,” Ilya nods, inhaling smoke. He flicks his eyes up long enough to see Shane’s face, damp with tears and streaked with cum. “Okay.” He looks away quickly, unable to see the result of his actions.

Ilya rests his cigarette on the lip of the counter long enough to rub a little coke onto his gums, and take one more swig of vodka just so he’ll be able to sleep once it wears off, and then he climbs into bed, pulling the sheets around his waist, and finishes off his cigarette by the time Shane gets out of the shower, the towel wrapped around his waist. 

Shane is quiet as he dresses, and… that’s not good, Ilya thinks. There’s no sharp words, no names. He feels guilty.

That’s an understatement. He feels fucking terrible because he is fucking terrible. He hates himself, he realizes. He’s never hated Shane. How could he? Maybe he hates himself more than he hates his dad and his brother and Russia, and he’s taken it out on the best thing he has, except he doesn’t have Shane, not really, and it’s easier to push him away than to admit that. He doesn’t know how to express that, though, so instead he asks, “Did I hurt you?” and it’s softer than he means it to be. 

Shane turns, looking surprised by the question. “No? I’m fine.” 

Ilya nods. “Okay. Good. I give you everything you wanted? Was it good?”

Shane huffs, pulling his coat on. “Everything I wanted? Don’t act like that wasn’t for you. Seems like you really needed it, so…. Hope it helped whatever you’re going through,” Shane says.

Ilya frowns. Maybe he’s been more transparent than he thought, or maybe he’s underestimated Shane. “I’m fine, Hollander. I don’t need you worrying. Focus on hockey. American team looked good. Tough competition.” He doesn’t say what he wants to say. He doesn’t tell Shane that he shouldn’t text him back. He doesn’t tell Shane that he deserves better. He doesn’t tell Shane that he isn’t worth all of this. He’s too fucking selfish and awful to say any of that, too worried Shane would listen. 

Shane rolls his eyes and starts for the door, and for a moment, Ilya really thinks he’ll leave without even saying goodbye, but he turns at the last second.

“You know,” Shane says, clenching his jaw briefly. “I hope you weren’t too fucked up tonight that you don’t remember all of this. I hope you can replay this memory while you’re sulking after I win gold, and I hope it helps you feel better about yourself for losing. I’m sorry you lost. I’m sorry you hate it here. But you don’t have to act extra shitty to try to make me hate you. Seems like you hate yourself enough already. See you in Boston next month.”

The door shuts before Ilya can even think to formulate a reply. He feels like he’s been slapped, and he wishes it were worse. He’d deserve it. 

[02/22/14]

7:23 PM

Silver is good. Have fun celebrating. 

7:46 PM

You aren’t ever coming near this medal. 

7:46 PM

Okay. Congratulations. Losing to Scott Hunter. Very impressive.

7:53 PM

Tastes better than losing to Latvia. Get your shit together for our game next month. Losing is an ugly look on you. 

7:54 PM

Will we see each other after?

7:55 PM

Try to win. We’ll see.

You have a lot to make up for. 

Ilya writes 'I'm sorry' about a dozen times, deleting it each time before he hits send. He doesn't deserve forgiveness, but he will do what he can to try to earn it.