Chapter Text
The Soulmate Principle is something not very many people bother to believe in anymore.
It isn’t, contrary to popular belief, because people no longer believe in love itself, or in the concept of someone having a cosmically-bound Other Half. It isn’t because people have other, bigger fish to fry than to scour the Earth for their designated One True Match.
No. The Soulmate Principle faded into ambiguity the same way people stopped believing in Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny, or the Loch Ness Monster. All myths are rooted in some amount of truth, but then they grow and grow into legends that simply cannot be real. They’re too simple to be real.
And really, one person bound to another for all of eternity? It even sounds fake.
The legend is as such: no pair of soulmates can hurt their partners.
The truth is this: no pair of soulmates can intentionally inflict physical harm on their partners.
The nuance of it is this: soulmates cannot inflict malicious physical harm on their partners.
It’s a tricky subject, and one many scholars have devoted their entire lives to, but there’s always been a kink in the road to discovery. Namely, the lack of ability to properly study alleged soul bonds.
And so, the trouble is this: malicious harm cannot be studied in lab-developed tests, with research grants and government funding that rely on strict, moral and ethical boundaries and codes. Yes, many soulmates have allowed themselves to be studied, investigated, poked, and prodded for the sake of knowledge, but ultimately — it is their choice to be studied. They can endure the physical pain inflicted by and towards their partners because it is, ultimately, done in the pursuit of education. It is, by definition, consensual.
Another layer to be added for further consideration: there is no physical, definitive, concrete evidence that proves two people are soulmates. Only their word against the world’s. True, some pairs swear they feel a tangible connection to their partners. A red string of fate that connects them together no matter what. Some say they feel physically ill if separated from their partners for too long, and only physical closeness can remedy their maladies. The most outlandish claim is that some soulmates maintain a psychic link with their partners — claiming their bond is empathic, even telepathic — but never consistent enough to garner legitimate, tangible evidence.
Ultimately, it’s all hearsay. There has never been a test developed to properly confirm or deny the existence of soulmates. They simply exist in the aether as a general concept, myth, or joke.
It doesn’t stop little kids from daydreaming about their potential soulmates, though — kids who are too young to understand the implications of a person who could never harm you, the implications that one could be dealt so much intentional violence that the outlier of a person who can’t (much less won’t) harm them could be such a novel concept.
Kids like Shane Hollander never placed much stock in the concept of soulmates. His parents said they were, sure, but in the same way they nod and smile and agree that of course we think green vegetables are delicious!. They believe in their bond as soulmates not as a concrete concept but as a loose construct. They know they love each other, that they would do anything for each other, and that they would never, not in a million years, want to hurt the other, so why not consider themselves soulmates?
So Shane “believed” in soulmates like he “believed” in the tooth fairy. It was a nice idea, a nice fairy tale to be whisked away in, but never more than that. He didn’t pity those who still believed, but maybe he thought they were childish. Maybe immature. They’d grow out of it one day, he decided, because to him, it was simply not likely that people would be so accustomed to violence that the lack of it would be novel.
Then there were the kids like Ilya Rozanov. He’d heard stories of soulmates from his mother: whispered tales under the cover of stars, sitting on a balcony and feeling so entranced by the romanticism of it, the magic of it that how couldn’t he believe, really?
For kids like Ilya, violence was regular. He saw it every day from the fists of his father. He saw it in the bruises his mother hid behind shawls and cardigans and blankets. He saw it in the way she flinched when something too-loud hit a countertop. He saw it in the way she shut down as soon as they heard his keys jingle at the front door and feet echoing through their halls.
Ilya knew violence well, and it was why his mother’s stories of someone physically incapable of hurting him sounded almost too good to be true. He wanted to believe, he did, but it made his chest ache in a way that he wasn’t really old enough yet to understand. He allowed the thought to carry him through most of his childhood — the concept of loving someone, of being loved in return, of never hurting because of them, of never being the reason for their hurt — and it allowed his heart to buoy in his chest, holding him afloat over the stormy seas of his father that threatened to pull him under.
At twelve years old, after finding his mother cold and gone, he decided soulmates were bullshit.
It didn’t lessen the ache in his chest if he let himself consider his own possible soulmate, but it ignited a rage in him that burned brighter than the grief.
If ever there was a person who deserved a soulmate, it was Irina.
If ever there was a person who deserved to be loved unconditionally, it was Irina.
If ever there was a person who deserved to be protected, it was Irina.
The fact that the universe saw fit to designate some people with soulmates, but not those most deserving? It threatened to break Ilya.
After twelve years of nonviolence, of choosing peace for his mother, Ilya learned how to fight back.
He learned how to hold his fists so he could get as many hits in as he got. He learned how to fight fast and fight dirty, because ultimately he was a scrawny, short twelve year old and he needed all the leverage he could get.
He threw himself into hockey because at least there, on the ice, he could use his anger and his sorrow and his grief and put it towards something that could get him out, far away from Grigori and Alexei. He could chirp and tease and bully on the ice and not only was it allowed, it was encouraged.
Best of all? He could fight on the ice.
Twelve became thirteen and he hit his first growth spurt. Thirteen became fourteen and he looked less like a boy and more like a man, putting on muscle that finally took shape on his gangly limbs. Fourteen became fifteen became sixteen became seventeen, and every year that passed marked another year of anger, of rage, of mourning, of violence that was never the answer but always seemed to solve his problems anyways.
Ilya savored the violence in a way that made his stomach churn. It wasn’t right. He knew it wasn’t, in the base of his stomach, but it was justified, at least. On the ice, there was always a reason for it, and he never allowed himself to fight just for the sake of fighting.
Off the ice, he felt hollow, and no amount of drugs or booze or sex seemed to fill the void that only opened its maws up wider with every passing year — and by God, he tried to fill it.
He never allowed himself to think of his soulmate after losing his mother. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her only to gain in his life what she’d never gotten on her own. He refused repeat partners, dismissed the notion of soulmates, and made a very clear, very distinct reputation for himself as a great lay and an evening of fun, but nothing more.
And then, of all people to meet, he meets Shane Hollander.
It isn’t supposed to be anything. He’s only supposed to step outside for a quick cig and then return like nothing ever happened, but then there’s a teenager extending his hand out to him and his breath is puffing tiny white clouds in the cool air between them and all Ilya can make out through the condensation is freckles.
He isn’t supposed to give a shit about bullshit fake-nice Canadian guys, except he recognises Shane from tapes his coaches have sent him and he knows Shane’s reputation from the other players he’s spoken to, and he knows Shane is actually a bullshit nice Canadian.
But all he can think about in that moment, as Shane tells him he’s excited to play against him and extend his hand out for a second handshake in as many minutes, is how pretty his freckles look against the wind-flushed pink of his cheeks.
And it makes Ilya kind of want to scream, just a little, because it’s been years, now, since he’s had such a physical and visceral reaction to someone, much less a man, much less a fellow hockey player that he’s heard so much about in only a few short months that he thinks he could recite Shane’s stats from memory if pressed.
Except as Shane walks away, Ilya’s left standing there, a cigarette still hanging loose between his lips, and for the first time since he was twelve, he feels a twinge of hope begin to stir.
He returns to Russia with a gold medal around his neck and a mission: make it to the draft. If, at the draft, he just so happens to run into Shane Hollander again, that is his own business.
Ilya Rozanov is not obsessed with Shane Hollander. He’s professionally curious.
That’s all.
He hasn’t had a rival in years, so of course he takes note of the one person whose stats are comparable to his own. It makes sense, then, to find and study tapes of his gameplay. It makes sense to follow Shane Hollander’s career, because Ilya has no one else who could genuinely show him up at, for example, an international competition. Or the MLH draft.
The Shane Hollander he finds on tape is cool, calculated, and precise. He plays the game with the intensity of someone years beyond his junior league’s level. It’s unnerving, almost, to see him on the same ice as his peers when he is so clearly skating literal circles around them. Ilya thinks maybe he could win blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back — and that is what Ilya latches onto: his skill, his talent, his utter devotion to the sport.
He’s different, though, off the ice. So different, in fact, that Ilya almost doesn’t believe they’re the same person. Sure, they share the same inky black hair and rich brown eyes. He recognises the freckles that entranced him so profoundly the first time he met Shane Hollander. He’s a few inches taller this year and his body has filled out, eighteen years old and technically a man now, but his face is still smooth and his cheeks are still ever-so slightly rounded.
He’s also undeniably, unequivocally awkward.
Ilya wants to laugh at the stark contrast of Shane Hollander: Hockey Player, who practically flies across the ice with the fierceness and determination of a veteran player, and Shane Hollander: Civilian Man, who somehow manages to trip over his own feet and stumbles through his words when spoken to directly.
It’s almost as if Shane Hollander would rather fade into the shadows and be nothing and nowhere at all if he isn’t on the ice.
It takes Ilya by surprise. He expected someone as talented as himself to own it. Instead, Shane Hollander seems to be oblivious to the power he so clearly wields.
He wonders if that’s why he continues to surpass Hollander, first winning Gold at the 2008 Prospect Cup, then becoming the first draft pick of 2009. If, maybe, even the coaches and trainers and managers can pick up on the hesitancy and lack of grace that Shane Hollander radiates, despite his clear dominance on the ice.
Ilya doesn’t expect to find Shane Hollander in the hotel’s exercise room. It’s past midnight and if Hollander’s day began as early as his own, then surely he’d rather be asleep than jogging on an aging treadmill — but then again, Ilya is also there, so who is he to judge, really?
There’s no music playing in the room, so Ilya can hear every huff and pant coming from Hollander. Ilya takes advantage of the fact that Hollander hasn’t seen or heard him enter to watch the way his legs glisten from underneath the gym shorts he has on, and he stops himself from wondering what Hollander would taste like if he ran his tongue along the length of his neck, catching the sweat that’s begun to discolor the collar of the shirt he’s chosen to wear.
It isn’t like there’s much of a choice but to choose the treadmill directly beside Hollander. Even if there had been, he probably still would’ve chosen to be as close as possible. Partially to toy with Hollander, but also because he was selfish, and he wanted to take advantage of the proximity.
When he finally notices Ilya’s steady pace beside him, he refuses to acknowledge him, and it makes Ilya smile. A barely there, tiny, hidden curl of his lips that betrays his budding affection for Hollander.
Dark eyes dart towards Ilya every single time Ilya increases the speed on his own machine, and Ilya’s hint of a smile transforms into a full-on grin when Hollander matches his speed. They take turns, going faster and faster, no longer leisurely jogging but decidedly running, and Ilya is only seconds away from jumping off, his lungs burning and legs screaming before Hollander does it first.
And again, Ilya wonders if this is just another example of Ilya besting Hollander. If this is just one more showing of how Hollander is compared to Ilya: the way they push themselves to the brink of exhaustion and Ilya still manages to come out ahead while Hollander still comes up short. Silver at the 2008 Cup, second round draft pick, and now, the first to give in on an impromptu treadmill race.
(Too hesitant to go all the way, maybe; unsure of where the line is drawn before him so he draws it himself, reluctant to push the boundaries of what’s definitively Safe, and so building up the walls of his own self-made cell.)
They collapse on the floor, and Ilya can’t stop staring at the way Hollander looks when he’s flushed, sweating and panting for air. His gray shirt is soaked at his neck and under his arms, and Ilya — God, he wants to bury his face in it, wants to smell him and taste him, wants to feel the way his pulse is rocketing underneath his skin.
The Shane Hollander he speaks to on the floor is not the same Shane Hollander who greeted him on a cold Saskatchewan day. He isn’t the same person who he watched stumble through the Draft only hours before, nor is he the same person who he’s faced off against on the ice.
This Shane Hollander is still a little awkward, but for probably the first time that Ilya can remember, he looks… sheepish? He doesn’t quite meet Ilya’s eyes, instead looking ever so slightly anywhere else, and Ilya can’t really place what it is about him that’s so different this time than any other time they’ve met or seen each other, except —
Ilya readjusts his legs to prevent the cramp he’s pretty sure will be coming any second now, and Shane Hollander’s eyes dart between his legs. They linger there before he pulls his eyes back up, swallowing hard, taking a deep breath, and refocusing on Ilya’s lips.
Ilya can’t stop the grin that flashes across his face when he realizes.
He watches the way Hollander leans forward to reach for his water. Stares at his mouth as he drinks, entranced by the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He’s mesmerized by the way his face flushes even deeper when Ilya tells him more before pulling another mouthful.
He decides, then and there, that he needs to know what Shane Hollander looks like when he’s completely defenseless.
Shane Hollander has so far shown Ilya at least three distinct faces: the unstoppable force, the awkward robot, and now this one. He decides this one is the competitive tease, even if he himself might not be aware of it. Still, he wears each persona like armor, clearly hiding something, and Ilya wonders if it’s his (in his opinion, crystal fucking clear) attraction. He wonders if Hollander is even aware he’s doing it.
Except Ilya wants to see Shane Hollander without the armor, without his mask, bare and naked and beautiful in all of his glory. He wants to take every single piece of Shane Hollander away and see who exactly is underneath. He isn’t sure if he’s the first person to want to do this — he isn’t even sure if someone else has done it, though he’s willing to bet no one has.
He wants to release the spring that Shane Hollander has coiled himself into and watch him fly.
And no, he will not look within himself to wonder why he wants to unravel Shane Hollander. Nevermind the fact that he’s never once wanted to sleep with a specific person so badly, nor the fact that he’s never had the desire to strip a person to the deepest, basest layer of themselves.
All he knows, and all he’s willing to acknowledge, is that his professional curiosity of Shane Hollander has now evolved into a proper, fully-fledged obsession.
It’s an obsession that only escalates when Hollander wins gold to his silver at the 2009 Prospect Cup, and Hollander has the audacity to grin at Ilya as he takes his hand and chirps, “See you next season,” with light dancing in his eyes.
A commercial is proposed, and Ilya knows through word of mouth that Hollander has been signed alongside him, so he casually suggests to his agent that a rivalry narrative could bring in a larger audience than separate commercials or photoshoots would.
He waits for Hollander to arrive at the dilapidated rink in Toronto with his heart hammering his chest for reasons that have decidedly nothing to do with the commercial itself or the warmups he’d been running to break his new, unbranded gear in.
And when Shane Hollander arrives, Ilya’s pleasantly surprised to meet him at eye level, his face now devoid of his baby fat but still smooth as a whistle. He’s disheartened, a little, to find his freckles have been subdued under a thin layer of makeup.
Later, his breath stutters when Hollander finally gives in and laughs beside him, much to the chagrin of the director.
His laugh is a beautiful sound — one Ilya isn’t sure he’s ever heard before. Huffs of breath that betray amusement, sure. Small chuckles here and there, definitely. But he’s never heard Shane Hollander properly laugh until now and it’s full and hearty and clear in the otherwise silence of the shoot.
Ilya decides he needs to hear it again, preferably immediately. Possibly forever.
The Shane he shoots beside is not unlike Competitive Flirt Shane, especially after he finally breaks. He’s teasing and his expression is warm, but it’s the way his eyes continue to meet Ilya’s before darting (subconsciously, probably) to Ilya’s mouth and back that truly has Ilya’s chest pounding.
The Shane he meets, then, in the showers, is more like Awkward Robot Shane: mechanically rinsing clean the makeup from his face (and finally, finally Ilya can look at all of his freckles in all of their glory) and the sweat from his body. He decidedly, intentionally, and deliberately refuses to look over at Ilya as he chooses the stall beside him.
There’s an etiquette to locker rooms and communal showers that they are both very, intimately familiar with.
Ilya decides to break that rule immediately.
He can’t help but glance over at Hollander’s naked body. He’s nineteen and curious and he’s been horny for Shane Hollander specifically for at least a year now, so sue him — but he sees the silhouette of Shane’s ass, a gentle dip in the arch of his back, the raw strength of his upper back, the smooth expanse of skin that begins at his collarbone and extends down his pecs, over clearly defined abs, and then —
He means to glance over and look away, but he physically can’t bring himself to do so when he catches Hollander’s steadily growing erection.
He says nothing to refute Hollander’s sputtering, but he wants to play with him. Wants to tease him. Wants to see just how far he can take it before Hollander either takes the fucking hint or leaves. He knows it’s a dangerous game, but his own dick is hardening and he turns his entire body to face Hollander, stroking himself until Hollander’s eyes dart back over and then it’s his turn to lock on, to stare, to fixate on Ilya’s clear-as-fucking-day attraction to him.
“Not here,” is what he says, his skin aflame from his hairline down to his chest and all Ilya hears is not no.
Even when Hollander insists they forget about it, he doesn’t tell him no.
And then, when Ilya’s standing before him in room 1410, with his hands finally, finally on him, holding his jaw as delicately as glass in his palms, he can finally press their lips together and learn exactly what Shane tastes like.
It’s tentative at first. He expects that from Hollander. What he doesn’t expect is for Hollander to lean into it, to dive into it like a man starving and Ilya is the feast that keeps on giving. He feels Hollander’s hands slide under his jacket and it takes no time at all for Ilya to shed both it and his shirt. When they pull away he’s thrilled to find them both panting for air, and Hollander can’t pull his eyes away from the expanse of his chest or his hands from where they’ve curled into the loops of his jeans.
He knows now that an unguarded Shane Hollander is a dangerous thing indeed.
Nervous fingers pull at the buckle on his pants before he’s fully registered what exactly Hollander’s getting at, but when he drops to his knees and drags his tongue over Ilya’s length, all Ilya can do is stifle a moan and weave his fingers through soft, dark hair. He guides Hollander, but his mouth is too hot, it’s too tight, too much around Ilya and he pulls him off gently, pulling him back to his feet and licking into his mouth to taste himself on Hollander’s tongue, and it’s nearly enough to take him over the edge but he can’t, he has to hold off, he has to wait at least until Hollander has come first.
As Ilya finishes undressing, he watches Hollander begin to retreat behind Awkward Robot Shane’s mask and he needs to say something, needs to break the tension that’s building back up because now that he can recognise it, he can see it happening in Hollander’s eyes and he can’t have that. Not now.
So he spits out a teasing, “You too,” and Hollander startles back into himself, chirping back but beginning to strip, and Ilya — fuck, he can’t believe his stomach flips at the sight of this man folding his fucking clothes, but he does and Ilya’s pretty sure his dick twitches at the sight.
Hollander lays down beside Ilya and his skin is warm to the touch, soft and firm and everything Ilya’s ever allowed himself to imagine, and when he can finally wrap his hand around Hollander’s dick he has to will himself not to bust on the fucking spot.
And the thing is, Ilya has known since he was a boy that he is attracted to other guys, but it’s one thing to understand, objectively, that he finds other men attractive. This is new. He’s never found himself so enamoured with one specific man. Not like this. Not like Shane.
The only other guy he’s ever had sex with is Sasha, and even when he had sex with him, it was never like this. Maybe the first time it had been out of curiosity and mutual attraction, but every other time it was about release. It was sex the same way he had sex with women: an outlet, an excuse for affection, a reason to touch and be touched in return. The additional layer of danger (of fucking another guy, of fucking his coach’s son, of fucking him in Russia) only made each release that much more rewarding.
Here, now, sharing a bed with Shane Hollander and seeing him grow harder by the second from Ilya’s touch, from his attention, he can admit to himself that, yes, it’s partially out of curiosity, but he’s also just… absolutely baffled by him. He needs to understand what makes him tick. He needs to understand how he works.
He can’t help but wonder what makes Hollander so different from every other person Ilya’s ever been attracted to, because as much as he wants to blame it on the danger of it all, he can’t. Sure, yes, it is dangerous. Men are dangerous to Ilya in general, much less this man specifically. A name just as high profile as his own, a name that’s surely only going to skyrocket in the years to come.
But Ilya has known dangerous lovers before: Sasha, his brother’s girlfriend, his teammate’s sisters. He knows what that feels like, and it’s not this, his stomach rolling and heart fluttering and all English swirling down the metaphorical drain in his mind.
He strokes Shane Hollander and his gasps sound like music to his ears, but Ilya can tell he’s holding back, and he wants more. He wants to make him moan. He wants to make him scream. He wants to make Shane Hollander cry, so overwhelmed by need and want and desire that he forgets he ever had anything to hide.
Hollander doesn’t allow Ilya to finish him off; instead, he guides Ilya’s hand away, shimmies down the bed and nestles himself back between Ilya’s legs, and fuck if the sight of him there doesn’t make Ilya’s head swim.
Ilya didn’t think before that blowjobs from men or women were particularly different. At least, in his experience, Sasha’s mouth hadn’t been all that different from any other mouth that had ever been around his dick. None were bad, and all of them had certainly accomplished their goals, but none of them could compare to Hollander’s in this specific moment.
And it was crazy for Ilya to even think that. He knew it was crazy to believe that this could be the best blowjob he’d ever gotten, because he knew this was Hollander’s first ever time blowing a man, but it made no difference. The angle, laying down, made it easier for Hollander to take more of him into his mouth than he had before and his hands were sure and strong around his thighs, and he nearly short-circuited when Hollander hollowed his cheeks and fluttered his tongue beneath him.
He decided against finishing in Hollander’s mouth, though when he pulled Hollander off of him this time it was to hear the smallest, faintest whine in the back of his throat that Ilya absolutely, one-hundred percent noted before he shot off into his own hand.
When he finally got Hollander into his own mouth, after a momentary tease and kissing his way down his body, he was glad to have gotten off first. His lips stretched wide over Hollander’s girth and he moved with all the skill he’d acquired over the years of getting off with Sasha: bobbing so deep his nose brushed against Hollander’s pubes, laving his tongue over the tip each time he pulled back so he could lap up the precome that pooled there, hollowing his own cheeks and looking up just in time to see Hollander’s eyes close, his brows furrowing, his mouth opening in a moan that he couldn’t take back even if he wanted to.
Ilya knew he was about to come, and he pushed himself deeper, taking the load with Hollander’s thighs clamped around his head, and he swallowed with a smile on his lips because this — this, right here, listening to Hollander’s hurried breaths and feeling his shaking thighs and holding his twitching cock between his lips, just might be the closest thing to heaven he’ll ever experience in his lifetime.
It’s an interesting thing, Ilya thinks, seeing this Shane Hollander as he redresses. Not the Unstoppable Force or the Awkward Robot or the Competitive Flirt, but Ilya knows in his bones that this still isn’t the raw, unfiltered force of Shane Hollander. It’s a new, fourth mask, one he decides to call the Translucent Shane: almost, but not quite, at his most vulnerable.
He thinks, maybe, he’s the only person who’s ever seen Hollander this close to himself.
The door clicks shut behind him and he just stands there for a few seconds. He knows he needs to let Shane Hollander go. He knows he should take this experience as it is and leave it alone. He knows nothing good can come from continuing to pursue him.
The thing is, Ilya has never been good at doing what’s expected of him.