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Ilya doesn't go home for Christmas. It's only a short break in the season and it's not worth the millions of hours on a plane for that little time.
Or at least that is what he tells people when they ask in the weeks leading up and all anyone is talking about is what they're doing for fucking Christmas. The more real answer is that Ilya has no desire to spend the holidays with his asshole brother and deteriorating father in his childhood home that might as well be a haunted house for the ghosts that live inside it. No, thank you. Ilya will pass.
He doesn't regret his decision two days before Christmas, even as his social media and texts fill up with well wishes and pictures of smiling hockey players sitting in front of fake Christmas trees in matching pajamas with their families. Ilya, personally, does not understand the pajamas tradition.
Still, an odd restlessness does settle over him.
There's so much anticipation in everyone else, his teammates and friends, the whole city of Boston. It's strange to have nothing to do in the face of that. A couple Raiders had offered that he could spend Christmas with them and their families and Ilya easily said no. He doesn't regret that either. He is also not interested in standing on the outside of someone else's happy family when he does not belong.
Still. Still, still, still.
The day before Christmas Eve he gets so fucking restless he throws on sunglasses and a hat (in his head he hears Shane say, "It's a toque," like that is a more normal word in English) and ends up on the T, riding all the way to the end of the green line and back. The cars are empty because the millions of college students have all gone home for break. It's boring, but at least it's boring in motion, which is better. Maybe. It's different.
It's dark by the time he finally returns home to his big, empty house. He orders takeout from a Japanese place he likes and tips the driver $300 in cash. The driver counts out the bills standing on Ilya's porch, clearly examining to make sure they are not fake. It is American rude but Ilya thinks is very funny; the driver folds the bills into his pocket and says, "Thanks man, that's very generous of you. I don't know your name, but one of my cousins has a poster with your face on his wall, so good luck with whatever it is you do," and goes.
Ilya eats dinner on the couch watching a marathon of action movies without subtitles. It's a game he plays with himself to test if his English is actually getting better or if that's just something Shane says when Ilya says something that surprises him and gets him hot but he doesn't want to acknowledge that. The movie he's watching also has Russian bad guys who are making sort of Russian sounds, but are definitely not saying anything in Russian.
Shane is spending Christmas in Ottawa with his genetically boring family. Shane did not tell Ilya this, of course, he posted a selfie of the three of them sitting at a kitchen table. Ilya sprawls out on his couch and pulls the picture up again. It's not really a good picture, because Shane sucks at selfies almost as much as he sucks at sexting. They all look pretty happy, at least to Ilya. His dad is a boring middle aged man. His mom is prettier; Ilya thinks Shane looks like her more, of the two. Both of them are smiling. It's nice.
Shane's smile, however, looks like it is a little painful to have on his face, which makes Ilya laugh. Shane Hollander, model and ambassador for one million important things, hates having his picture taken so much. Ilya wonders how many hundreds of pictures the photographers have to take to get one good one for an ad. Shane's face isn't so common in Boston, when they play in Montreal Ilya sees him everywhere. It's funny to compare advertisement Shane to real Shane; it's a little bit like a secret they share.
Ilya taps his thumb against Shane's chest in the picture. Ilya's maybe being a little unfair, it's not that bad. Shane is wearing his Olympic team jacket, the very fluffy white one, which looks very soft. There's some red on his cheeks and little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, like maybe he just finished laughing at a joke. Maybe he's just really happy.
Ilya pulls up their text message as the opening credits of the next movie in the marathon begin. Janes's last message is Happy holidays and safe travels. So polite. So Canadian.
There has been no call from either Alexei or his father. If there is one, it will probably be his father calling him upset because Ilya has not come home from school or because Ilya's mother has not started cooking Christmas dinner or some other memory of past winters that he can no longer keep in their right times. Alexei will ask for money and not say thank you.
Ilya shakes his head and looks again at his texts with Shane. The videocall button is right there. Maybe Ilya is a little lonely. Ottawa is 702 kilometers from Boston.
He taps it before he can think too much about it.
Really, he reasons with himself, the chances that Shane will answer are very small. And when he sees the missed call, he will probably assume that it was an accidental call and forget about it. In six weeks Boston will be in Montreal and Ilya will go to Shane's weird building with the murder alley and fuck Shane until neither of them can remember their names.
"Rozanov? Why are you calling me? What's wrong?"
Ilya almost drops his stupid phone in surprise. He almost says Shane, like that is something they do anywhere outside of Ilya's own mind, but corrects to, "Hollander," and even sounds mostly normal.
"Rozanov," Shane says. His voice is hushed and he's glaring at Ilya through the screen. On the wall behind him Ilya can see posters for Ottawa's shitty Centaurs team that are years old. His hair is damp, like maybe he just got out of the shower and he's only wearing a tee shirt.
It is, in fact, Ilya's tee shirt that Shane borrowed one time Ilya used his to wipe them off because they fucked im Ilya's living room and towels were very far away.
"How is home?" Ilya asks, folding his other arm behind his head.
Shane stares at him for several extremely funny seconds, his face scrunched up in annoyance. "It's fine. It's good. Why do you care? Why are you calling me?"
"It is time of year for friends and family, Hollander," Ilya says.
Shane snorts. "We're not friends."
"I think we are."
"No, we're not."
"I think after my dick has been inside someone ten times we are friends."
"Rozanov," Shane hisses, clearly wanting to yell but also not wanting to be overheard. His face flushes red and Ilya thinks moy pomidor. "My family is down the hall."
Ilya shrugs. "Are Canadian walls made of tissues? Do your parents sits outside your door and listen to you?"
"What do you want?"
Ilya considers for a moment, then opts for mostly honest. "I am bored."
"Go spend time with your family!"
"I am not in Russia, I am in Boston."
It comes out softer than Ilya intended. More like a confessed secret than a statement of fact and Ilya suddenly feels like he has shown a little too much. Ilya does not trouble Shane Hollander with his family. Even if Ilya really did hate Shane as much as everyone thinks, Ilya would not subject Shane to his family. They are not his problem.
Shane goes still for a moment and an expression Ilya does not recognize passes across his face. He shoves his hand through his hair and it stays sticking up a little. "I'm sorry, that's hard."
Ilya shakes his head. "Is fine. It would be so many hours flying and at the airport. Not worth the trouble."
Shane's face very clearly says he does not believe that, which is sort of sweet of him, Ilya thinks.
Still, Ilya is surprised when Shane sits down on his bed -- his childhood bed -- and leans back against the headboard. The lighting is dim, so Ilya can't see very well, but he's pretty sure the sheets have little hockey pucks and sticks on them. The thought of little baby Shane picking them out comes so clearly to Ilya. He would have been very serious about it. Probably stood in the store for an hour looking at all the choices.
"So, fine, you're bored. Why are you calling me about it?" Shane asks.
It's an annoyingly fair question that Ilya does not have a good answer for. "Why not call you?" he asks.
Shane snorts again. "I can think of a hundred reasons."
"I like everyone else's families so I leave them alone from respect," Ilya says. "But boring is genetic in your family, so you were probably sitting quietly in three different rooms."
"My family isn't boring," Shane protests. His voice is still soft, but now almost normal.
"I think you are lying. What exciting things have you done?"
"We went and got our Christmas tree and decorated it," Shane says. "I helped my dad make Christmas cookies for the rest of the neighborhood. My mom and I skated at the pond for a while."
"Wow, so exciting. Like a boring Christmas movie."
Shane sticks his tongue out like Ilya has never seen him do unless he was going for Ilya's cock. Shane realizes this, too, a moment later and pulls it back into his mouth. He flushes red again and Ilya wants to reach through the screen and soothe the annoyed crease between his eyes.
"What did you do today that was so interesting?" Shane demands.
Ilya's first instinct is to lie. Make up a story. He saved a hundred children from a burning orphanage. He snorted coke off the dick of that guy who plays Captain America. He went to the secret annual orgy for people that are Jewish or work in Chinese food restaurants.
"Nothing," he says. "I did nothing."
Something in Ilya's chest goes funny as he watches Shane's expression soften, just a little.
Ilya wonders if this is what happens when Shane is at home, with his family that loves him very much and is proud of him all the time. Maybe this is the difference between Hollander and Shane. Maybe Ilya is not supposed to see this, but for some reason Shane allows it. It could be pity, too, but Ilya doesn't feel pitied. Shane has never once gone easy on him. That is part of what Ilya likes about him.
"Right," Shane says. "You're bored. And why is that my problem?" His words are annoyed but, but he also smiles. It reminds Ilya of after the first time the fucked, Shane sitting on the cold stairs in his murder building hallway, satisfied and smug and happy.
"Well," Ilya says. "If I am bored and you are boring, then maybe together we are less bored."
Ilya turns it into an innuendo mostly as a joke; Shane expects him to make everything he can a little sexy and it's fun to see how offended and scandalized his face goes. And sure, Shane looks very good even on the few inches of Ilya's phone, fresh from the shower. Ilya's shirt is a little too big on Shane, so there is a little bit of his collarbone visible. But really it's Shane, he's hot all the fucking time. Ilya always wants him. It's very simple.
Ilya does not expect Shane's mouth to fall open just a tiny little bit. The tip of his tongue darts out over his bottom lip. Ilya's cock starts to thicken.
"I. We can't," Shane says. "My parents are asleep down the hall."
"Lock your door."
"No, Rozanov, they might hear."
Ilya pulls his hand out from beneath his head and drags it down his neck. His heart is galloping rabbit-fast in his chest, even though there is no possible way Shane will do this. "You cannot be quiet?" he asks.
Shane flushes and shifts, straightening his shoulders and rolling his head. "Of course I can be quiet, you're not that good."
Tell that to the nice lady from the hotel in Tennessee that called after you left to ask please keep it down, Ilya thinks, but he didn't tell Shane about that for a reason, number one being that he fucking loves how loud Shane gets once he's not overthinking it.
"You should prove it, Hollander," Ilya says. "Prove to me."
Ilya drags his thumb over his nipple and feels it harden. A shiver shimmies through him that gathers as throbbing warmth in the pit of his stomach. His cock tents the front of his sweats because it is stupid how hot Shane Hollander is and it is stupider how much Ilya wants him.
"Rozanov," Shane says and he bites down on his bottom lip. His eyes flick back and forth and up and down, away from Ilya on his phone and back to Ilya, away and back, like he doesn't want to be watching so hard, but cannot stop himself. Red flush crawls up his chest and neck; Ilya wants to trace the path with his tongue and kiss all the places he knows make Shane shudder.
"Hollander," Ilya says. He pinches his nipple and inhales sharply. Shane's eyes finally snap to him and stay there. "Are you as hard as I am?"
It's a gamble, Shane equally as likely to get mad all over again about the sexting he hated so much that he asked Ilya to fuck him senseless four hours later. Ilya goes back to those texts more than he would ever admit under pain of death. "Maybe twice?" What a fucking answer, like Ilya was asking out of professional curiosity or for some scientific study. But it is so very, very Shane that Ilya can get himself a little hard just remembering.
"Fuck," Shane mumbles. "I don't know. How. How hard are you?"
Ilya pushes his sweats down his hips one handed, just far enough to free his cock. He takes himself in a loose grip and jacks it a couple times with a low groan. "Enough to fuck you hard like you beg me for," Ilya says.
"I don't beg," Shane murmurs, but Ilya doesn't think Shane is aware of what he's saying so much. His eyes are focused and intent as he watches Ilya's arm work.
"Want to see?"
Shane exhales hard. The little muscle in his jaw jumps. It does not matter what Shane fucking Hollander says, he wants Ilya just as bad back. Ilya decides the answer is yes, but it might take a year for Shane to admit out loud that he does, so Ilya taps the little change camera icon and his face is replaced by his cock in his hand. He lets go to spit -- loudly, of course -- in his palm and hears Shane's strangled little grunt.
Ilya returns his hand to his cock and tightens his grip, squeezing once to ease off the pressure in his hips and balls just a little bit. Shane's eyes have gone wide and wanting and he looks so pretty like this. A pang of regret pulses through Ilya's chest that Shane will never be one of the teammates that invites Ilya home for Christmas and Ilya will never get to bend Shane in half on his childhood bed and fuck him until he cries. Ilya shoves the thought away, it's stupid and not important.
Instead, he taps the camera again to switch back to his face.
"Fuck," Shane pants. "This is such a bad idea. Why are you like this? Jesus."
Ilya laughs. "Touch yourself, Hollander."
"Fine! Okay!" Shane rolls his shoulders in and shifts his arm. The moment his hand is on his dick, his eyelids flutter shut and he makes a soft, wounded little sound. "Oh, God. Rozanov."
"I am here," Ilya says. Really, he does not sound any better put together than Shane does. His voice is a low rasp that sounds hungrier than he ever does with anyone else.
"Okay," Shane says. "Okay. Fuck."
Ilya does not tease him and he does not suggest they slow down. This moment is a stolen moment and Ilya cannot allow himself to get more greedy for Shane Hollander than he already is. Eventually, it will be too much and Shane will crack and run away and Ilya is not ready for Shane Hollander to become a memory of something that shaped who Ilya is, that he cannot talk about and tucks away deep inside himself to keep safe.
He jerks himself off like they're racing, watching Shane's face contort in pleasure, listening to the little unh grunts he makes and the slick sound of his hand. Ilya loves that Shane gets wet like a girl, he loves thumbing at the slit of Shane's cock and gathering the wetness in his palm instead of spitting or lube. In his heart, Ilya thinks Shane only gets wet like that for him. He chooses to believe that.
"Rozanov," Shane gasps. "I'm gonna -- I need --"
"Come for me," Ilya says.
Shane's entire fucking body contracts, eyes screwed shut, shoulders bowed in, mouth dropped wide. It's so hot, he's so fucking hot. Ilya falls over the edge and comes too and a noise rips out of his own chest, grinding and rough and desperate.
For several moments, all Ilya can do is lay in silence as his cock pulses and his heart hammers. His vision goes hazy. He wonders if perhaps he died and thinks worth it.
"Roz?" Shane almost sounds drunk.
"Da?"
"Did you?"
"Da. Yes. You?"
"Obviously," Shane says, a little drunk and annoyed and Ilya can't stop himself from laughing.
He opens his eyes to Shane now flat on his bed, his hair standing up in a million ways, and his eyes a little glassy like he gets when sex has been very intense and Ilya has to coax him under the blankets until he comes back to himself. He is beautiful and Ilya wants to touch him.
"Fucking hell, Hollander."
Shane rolls his eyes but forgets to not smile. "You're fucking insane. We're never doing that ever again."
"You are liar," Ilya says. "You want to do it again so bad already."
"Fuck you," Shane says. "Now I'm disgusting and I have to shower again. Don't talk to me until next year, you asshole."
"You miss me," Ilya sing-songs.
"I do not," Shane insists, but his expression is -- fond? Something like that, and Ilya does not know what it means. "I gotta go, for real."
"Merry Christmas, Hollander," Ilya says and Shane smiles and ends the call.