Chapter Text
It is a timestamp that trips Ilya up, that first time.
Not that he is aware, in that instant, of it being that: a first. Ilya used to see little sense in keeping track of those once he had gotten the most important ones out of the way: first friend (Svetlana, of course); first time on the ice; first night out, drinking, partying; kissing; fucking. Women, then — tentatively, dangerously — men. First time getting away with it. All of it.
Firsts downed like tequila shots without taking a moment to savor their unique flavor or bite.
Overrated, if you had asked Ilya then. Pointlessly sentimental. Who cares when exactly he started tasting a stranger’s cum on his tongue in the darkest corner of a club and feeling, for that brief and reckless moment, free?
He had done it dozens of times since. It was always fun, always good — and if it was not, there would certainly be more. Different location, different person. It was not that deep.
Then Ilya Rozanov met Shane Hollander.
Then Ilya kissed Shane for the first time. Gave Shane his first blowjob. Sucked Shane’s cock for the first time in return. A row of milestones, personal or interpersonal, knocked out in quick succession in the exhilarating and dizzying rush that was their first hookup. Neither of them could have imagined what would follow it. The years-long affair. The need for each other. The lonely nights. That huge fucking secret they have shouldered for each other since, a secret that binds.
So many firsts, but when Ilya first took Shane? Sinking into that tight and perfect heat, the space inside him that’s Ilya’s alone, that’s when it clicked.
What he was missing, slotting neatly into place.
Shane, who shivered under his hands with sweet tension, heart pumping so hard it felt like Ilya’s where they pressed chest to chest. Shane, who breathed this beautiful noise into that slow long thrust, who chose Ilya to fuck him and take care of him — and suddenly Ilya understood how an experience becomes precious and endlessly worth cherishing when shared with the right person.
This is not that kind of first, though it happens with Shane. It’s always Shane, now, and Hollander back then.
After Las Vegas — after Hollander performed for Ilya and Ilya burned for Hollander, every vodka-infused breath fueling his hungry heart — something shifted between them. Hollander sounded... different after. Unmoored? Definitely more distant, which is good, Ilya must remind himself. Perfect even. Sandwiched between the Olympics and a summer in Russia, anything else is foolish to pursue. For Ilya, and for Hollander.
Yes. If things only stay exactly like this, nothing will go wrong.
Nobody will get hurt.
The thought is jarring to Ilya, though not by much. He sprawls belly-down across the king-sized bed of his Boston apartment, muscles sore in that deep way intense drills bring, and scrolls through his texts with Jane as he does sometimes when they have not— Fucked. Or talked... in a while. Which, again, is fine by Ilya. They are busy people. They are not together. It is just sex.
Electrifying, mindblowing sex, the best Ilya’s ever had, but still.
More reasons Ilya could recite while asleep or black-out drunk or dead tired after a transatlantic flight:
It is summer.
It is between seasons.
It is... quieter. Than usual. From Hollander’s end.
Ilya scrolls.
Ilya cringes. He triple-texted Hollander. Again. Ilya Rozanov does not triple-text, he fucks people and instantly forgets about them. Not Shane Hollander though. Never Hollander.
His last message is from an hour ago. So far, it has gone unread.
The first one has not. The read receipt is right there. Of course, it was a pointless question to ask. The Metros already posted about setting off to their training camp a week ago. Hollander was in the photo gallery they used for that, even — captured in profile while gazing out the team bus window, freckles gently highlighted in warm sunlight. Ilya had to suppress a hot spike of anger at the thought Hollander’s teammates get to see that, up close, every fucking day, and he does not.
(Hollander looked good. Calm. For someone who does not follow the stupid Metros on Instagram, Ilya sure had stared at that post for entirely too long.)
Ilya should get up and eat a snack before bed. Smoke a cigarette Hollander would nag him for. Maybe soak in the bathtub to soften the ache held in his body, if sleep will not come after. Jerk off, you know, for good measure.
He does none of those things. Ilya cannot. The timestamp on those messages will not let him go.
Hollander has never ghosted him before.
No texts since July. No activity since earlier in the evening. No movement on Hollander’s socials either. They are currently in the same timezone, and yes, Hollander is a rule-following citizen with a prisoner’s mindset when it comes to maintaining his schedule, his diet, his training regimen and routines, but he cannot possibly have gone to sleep that early.
It leaves a time window of a few hours unaccounted for. Enough time to—
What exactly? Ilya’s stomach twists. His mind circles over the uncertainty at the end of that sentence while shying away from its core. His eyes, dry from on-and-off staring at a tiny screen for most of the evening, are beginning to hurt. Ilya closes them. He breathes.
Nothing. Nothing happened in those hours aside from boring Shane Hollander things and a few texts from Lily, sitting pretty and ignored on Jane’s lockscreen. The audacity of that fucking guy.
Hollander is fine. Ilya forces the notion into his hindbrain like it is his last minute on the ice and Boston needs another goal to win.
Yes. That first time, the fear comes and goes fast, a fleeting concern that unsettles but does not derail. Ilya pushes it down and out of sight.
But that is the thing about firsts: They are only ever a beginning.