Chapter Text
The first time Shane Hollander dreams of Ilya Rozanov, he hasn’t even met him. All he knows about him is that he’s Russia's up-and-coming star player, that he’s going to play against him in the upcoming tournament, and what he looks like. Shane definitely knows what he looks like.
Those hazel eyes are haunting, even on a two-dimensional flat screen. Hazel eyes and light brown curls, moles that almost remind Shane of his own freckles, but those aren’t what he dreams about.
He dreams of Ilya on the ice, gliding over its smooth surface, nothing but the gentle sound of the blades scraping over it as he moves. Shane isn’t sure where he is in the dream; it’s almost like he’s watching this with different eyes, like he’s out of his body entirely.
Ilya isn’t even playing hockey in the dream; he just wears a Team Russia jersey, no gear. His thighs tense visibly beneath the joggers he wears as he makes a turn around the rink, the curls of his hair blown back from his face.
It’s oddly beautiful, Shane thinks, to watch him, to see the concentration on his face. In that moment, he decides he wants to get to know this man, to know who Ilya Rozanov is and what makes him tick. They’ll both be at the same arena tomorrow, he supposes. He’ll find and introduce himself then.
The Russian comes to a stop in front of him, Shane’s breath catching in his throat, as if he has suddenly gained corporeal form in this dream. Ilya holds out a hand, a smirk pursing his lips as he waits for Shane to take it.
“What are you doing?” Shane asks, his hand hesitating to reach out to him, but he finds that he wants to take that hand, wants to embrace it and allow it to pull him closer.
Ilya says nothing, merely retracts his hand and skates away, leaving Shane standing on the ice, shocked and a little disappointed. Oh well, he supposes. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he tells Rozanov, then his eyes open, and he wakes to tiny flurries flying by outside his window.
*
After their encounter in the gym, Shane dreams of Ilya.
He dreams of the shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, the pants straining over the bulge of the erection he seemingly refused to hide. Worst of all, he dreams of that stupid mouth, the one that pisses him off every time they play, every time they’re near one another.
They’re officially on rival teams now, he supposes that mouth will be pissing him off a lot more in the future. But in his dream, it isn’t quite doing that. Here, Ilya’s mouth does something else entirely.
Dream Shane has placed them back in that gym, the sweat still dripping from their bodies, only his pants are mysteriously missing. Normally, this would incite quite a bit of panic, as Shane knows anyone could’ve just walked in and caught him with his pants down in public, but as Ilya crawls between his legs, eyes dark as they rest on his hardened cock, he’s relaxed.
Maybe part of him knows it’s a dream—somewhere deep down.
Shane’s breath catches in his throat as Ilya’s hands grip his knees, pushing them apart as he practically dives in, mouth seeking Shane’s cock. “Fuck,” he breathes, a hand splaying out on the mirror they’d sat by.
But despite him desperately wanting it, Ilya’s mouth doesn’t land on his cock. Instead, his lips press against the inside of Shane’s thigh, fingers curling around the muscle. A pitchy gasp leaves Shane, his body tensing as he feels another kiss right next to it, then another, each one drawing closer and closer to where he needs him most.
“Rozanov, please,” he whispers, their surroundings forgotten as his head slumps against the wall. “Please…”
“Not yet,” Rozanov purrs, that stupid accent of his only making Shane harder. He places a kiss right next to Shane’s dick, then smirks at him. “Soon.”
“Fuck you.” Shane pants as Rozanov places a kiss further down his other thigh, his cock now so hard he’s already leaking precome. He shivers as his rival sneaks closer and closer, then finally, he licks at the tip, lapping up that bead of precome and swallowing it with a satisfied look on his face.
Their eyes meet then, and Rozanov winks before taking Shane’s cock in his hand, stroking it gently a couple of times. His thumb brushes over the sensitive head, Shane moaning as he fights to keep his hips rooted to the ground. Then, when he’s about to beg for more, Rozanov finally grants him mercy, taking his cock in his mouth as Shane’s eyes roll back in his head.
Shane swears, the sound echoing off the gym walls—odd, given he hadn’t remembered the gym having particularly good acoustics—as he watches Rozanov’s sinful mouth take the entire length of him in one go. In hindsight, this is definitely going to be an unrealistic feat, but if Shane can fly in his dreams, Ilya Rozanov can take the entirety of his cock in his mouth.
The curls of Rozanov’s hair sway as he bobs up and down over Shane’s cock, and he can’t help but reach a hand up into his hair to grab it firmly, pulling Ilya tighter against him, as if he has anywhere else to go. Rozanov’s nose practically nuzzles into his pubic hair every time he goes down, the head of Shane’s cock nestled deep in his throat.
It’s driving Shane wild.
Ilya’s eyes are closed, but Shane can see the concentration on his face, focusing on counting the spattering of moles on his features so he doesn’t come too soon. Not that it helps much, he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, precome already leaking from his tip long before Rozanov started sucking his cock, but he tries.
“Gonna come, Hollander?” Rozanov asks, a lewd line of spit trailing from his lip to Shane’s cock as he continues stroking him with one hand.
“Fuck you,” Shane growls, clenching his eyes shut as he tries desperately not to come, but god, he wants to.
It’s an uphill battle, but he holds out for as long as he can. Though he knows it’ll make him fall apart, Shane chances opening his eyes, watching Ilya’s head bobbing over his cock like his life depends on it.
He loses the war with a whimper, coming apart as his eyes clench shut, and Ilya hums around his cock. “Oh, fuck, Rozanov,” he moans, then he’s spilling onto his bed sheets, hips rutting into the mattress as he grips the pillow with both hands.
Wait… The mattress?
Shane’s eyes burst open, his body scrambling back as he realizes where he actually is. This is his hotel room—Shane isn’t actually in the gym still. He’s been asleep, dreaming of the encounter with Rozanov and how differently he’d almost thought it would end.
Panting slightly, Shane rolls away from the come stain, running a hand through his damp hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, realizing he’ll have to change the sheets soon. It’s still dark out, and according to the clock on his bedside, barely half past three in the morning. He has hours yet before he needs to be up.
Not that he’ll be able to sleep after this. How the fuck is can he risk dreaming of Ilya Rozanov and his stupid, perfect mouth again?
It’s not like this is the first time he’s had a sex dream about a man. He’d had a few about the guy on Law and Order with the great ass, but he’d never dreamt of someone he actually knew—much less someone he fucking hated.
They barely know each other outside of this rivalry that’s started between them in the media. Shane and Ilya. Montreal and Boston. Versus, really—not and.
Why am I dreaming about him?
Whatever, he supposes. As long as it doesn’t happen again. Rolling over in the bed, Shane forces himself to close his eyes, refusing to think any further on the dream—nightmare?—he’d had about Ilya Rozanov.
He doesn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night.
*
It’s hard to sleep after he and Ilya suck each other off, but Shane manages. Sure, he has to jerk himself off in the shower first, but it works. His orgasm leaves him nice and sleepy, his body collapsing onto his mattress—barely leaving him time to get his clothes on before he climbs under the covers.
Shane dreams that Ilya had never left his hotel room, that they’d kept going.
Rozanov’s tongue laps at his hole. He’s got Shane splayed out on the mattress, keeping him pressed down with a hand spread over his back muscles. “Good, Hollander,” he says, then his tongue presses harder on Shane’s rim, pressing gently inside.
“Fuck off,” Shane grumbles, but he arches against Ilya, seeking more as the bastard licks him once, twice more. The pressure is good—so fucking good, it’s got Shane seeing stars already, though his climax is still looming far in the distance. “More…”
“More what?”
“Please…” Shane breathes, looking back at Ilya. “I need you inside me.”
Pulling back from his ass, Ilya licks his lips, Shane’s heart skipping a beat at the sight. After a couple of seconds, the Russian reaches into a drawer beside Shane’s bed, though Shane himself is unsure when he would’ve told Rozanov where they were. Not that it matters.
All that matters to Shane now is the way Ilya rolls the condom over his erection, the heat in his eyes as he takes out the lube next to it. He squirts a generous amount into his hand, rubbing it between his fingers before gliding it over his cock. Shane’s breathing quickens as Rozanov presses inside him, crawling over his body as he settles in, placing kisses over the back of his neck.
“Oh yes,” Shane whispers, loving how good—how full he feels. “Shit, Rozanov…”
A light chuckle tickles his ear, Ilya pressing a kiss there a moment later before he begins moving inside of him. The first thrusts are slow, gentle, a light pressure against Shane’s prostate that has him whimpering softly into the mattress. “Want you so bad,” he tells him, the stupid accent turning Shane on more than it should. “Want you to come on my cock.”
It’s at this point, Shane starts to realize he might be dreaming, as Ilya starts to move a little faster, but not fast enough. He’s never done this with a man, but he’s seen gay porn, he knows what to expect. He should be able to move faster, but it’s almost like Rozanov is moving through water. There’s still that friction there, the heat, but Shane wishes there were more.
“Go faster,” he says, reaching between himself and the mattress to stroke his weeping cock. “Harder.”
“Can’t,” Ilya whispers in his ear, fingers running through Shane’s hair as he leans down to kiss his neck. “You’re dreaming.”
Shane cries out, frustrated, then he wakes up, furiously taking himself in hand. It takes him a maximum of five seconds to come, but the orgasm is dissatisfying to the one Ilya had given him earlier. Apparently his hand can no longer compare to the sweet depths of Rozanov’s throat.
“Fuck,” he groans, then he grabs the tissues off the side of the bed, the box still askew from when Rozanov used them earlier. “Fuck…”
This is the third time now that he’s dreamed of Ilya Rozanov. It’s starting to become a pattern—and it can’t become a pattern. If he’s staying up half the night distracted by thoughts and dreams of his arch rival, what will that mean for his playing? How will he—how can he perform on the ice when his mind is otherwise… occupied?
Checking the time, Shane decides to get dressed for the morning, putting on his gym gear. With all this pent up energy, he can’t think of a better way to get it out than one of the very things that got this started in the first place.
Some god damned exercise.
*
Shane wins rookie of the year, but the award isn’t the most memorable part of the night. That comes when Ilya kisses him fiercely on the rooftop, pressing him into a column so hard his vision becomes a kaleidoscope.
Being in public, though, Shane can’t allow it to continue, but pushing Ilya away isn’t easy. He thinks about him the rest of the night—about Ilya’s lips on his and his hands in Shane’s hair. God, he wishes they’d been able to keep kissing, that Ilya had followed him back to his hotel room, that they’d fucked under the Vegas lights and—
Jesus. He’s a mess. But that kiss had been so perfect, so hungry, so—Haunting.
Once again, Shane Hollander dreams of Ilya Rozanov. The dream picks up basically where they’d left off, with Shane turning him around and pining Ilya against the wall, but this time, he kisses him again. It’s fierce, his heart pounding in his chest as his tongue swipes over Ilya’s lip, tasting the lingering hints of the cigarette in his mouth.
How he can taste Ilya’s cigarettes even in dreams, he is unsure, but Shane is barely aware he’s dreaming as Ilya grabs at his ass, hitching one of Shane’s thighs up around his hip. “Fuck, Hollander,” he breathes, and Shane can’t deny he loves the way his last name sounds in that accent.
“Touch me,” Shane begs, panting against Ilya’s mouth as he finds himself lifted off the ground. His legs wrap around Rozanov’s waist, his back meeting the wall behind them as he’s once again pinned there, only this time, he can feel Ilya’s erection pressed up against his.
“Like this?” Rozanov asks. “Is this good for you, Hollander?”
Shane’s hands tug at Ilya’s hair, their eyes meeting in the low light. One of the nearby buildings has color changing lights, shifting Rozanov’s face from red to blue and back again. “Yes,” Shane breathes, rolling his hips gently against Ilya’s. “It’s perfect.”
All he gets in return is a smirk, then Ilya’s lips are on his, and Shane’s blood is set on fire. There’s something electric about kissing Ilya, something he’s never felt before with anyone else—none of the women he’s ever been with have come anywhere close to igniting the sheer passion he feels when he’s kissing this man. Not one.
As Ilya tugs his hair, Shane feels pressure against his erection, a soft moan parting his lips, allowing the other man’s tongue access as he deepens the kiss. He chances another roll of his hips against Rozanov’s, both of them moaning as Ilya does it back, both of them moving together.
Maybe it’s because he knows they’re not actually here, maybe it’s because he knows no one will walk in on them, but Shane has never been harder in his life. Here on this dream version of the rooftop, Ilya Rozanov in his arms, his hair wound in his hands, Shane feels content, even as he’s being worked up to a climax unlike any he’s felt before.
Ilya begins grinding his cock against Shane’s in earnest. “Do you like that?” He asks when Shane gives him a pretty little moan, swearing loudly. “Hmm?”
“Fuck you,” Shane mutters, tightening his grip in Rozanov’s hair, rolling his hips just a little harder, seeking that extra bit of sweet relief. “Fuck…”
Laughter falls against Shane’s lips as he kisses Ilya again, teeth tugging on the Russians lower lip before he starts trailing kisses down along the line of his jaw. He buries his face in Rozanov’s neck, pressing kisses lower and lower until he reaches the junction of his neck and shoulder. It’s at this moment that the feeling between his legs reaches a fever pitch, and as he starts coming in his pants, he bites down against Ilya’s neck—which tastes suspiciously like a pillow now—and sucks the skin into his mouth.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” Ilya breathes into his ear, and Shane wonders if he’s coming, too, but he doesn’t get to find out.
Shane awakens to another set of bedsheets he has to change, and he groans at the sight. Great. He really must stop dreaming of Ilya Rozanov—clearly, it's good for his cock but bad for his sheets, and his mind. Mostly bad for his mind.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rising to his feet before heading into the closet for the spare bedsheets. This has to stop, he can’t keep coming in his pants like he’s just entered puberty.
Maybe it’ll stop when Rozanov finally fucks him, maybe then they’ll get some kind of relief.
*
It doesn’t stop when they finally do fuck. In fact, Shane just dreams about that after it happens, and his dreams are only more vivid now that he knows what Ilya feels like—what he sounds like.
Shane’s taken to sleeping next to a box of tissues each night. It’s all he can do to keep from embarrassing himself completely. It helps when they’re playing in Montreal, then he doesn’t have to worry about hotel maids thinking he’s constantly jerking off, but he’s still mortified every time he wakes up and there’s a damp spot on his underwear, on his sheets.
After the Olympics, he worries he’ll have more dreams about Rozanov, especially after Ilya blew him off at the figure skating event. He does, in fact, dream about him, but by some miracle, this is one of his first dreams where he doesn’t wind up in some kind of sexual situation.
They’re in his hotel room, sure, but they’re just lying side by side, staring into one another’s eyes. Ilya doesn’t say anything, he just watches Shane breathe, his chest rising up and down.
Shane shakes his head. “Why are you haunting me?” he asks quietly, running a hand over the expanse of Ilya’s biceps. “Why are you here?”
“You’d like to know that, wouldn’t you?”
Scoffing, Shane rolls onto his back. “Yes, I would, actually. You’ve made me come onto more bedsheets than I care to admit, and I’m not just talking about the waking hours.”
“You do realize this is dream, yeah?” Ilya asks. “I cannot answer.”
“Yes I realize ‘this is dream,’ asshole.” Shane sighs, listening to Rozanov laugh at the mockery of his accent. “I just hoped the version of you in my subconscious might have some insight.”
Ilya shakes his head. “Nope.” He grins. “But I am nice to look at, yes?”
“Fuck off,” Shane grumbles, but the dream version of Ilya is right. He is nice to look at—especially when he’s not able to be as cocky and shitheaded as he is in reality. He’s beautiful, even, all muscular curves and pretty moles, and Shane doesn’t even know where to begin counting them all.
A part of Shane wonders what would happen if they could actually just sit together like this, instead of always fucking. He enjoys their sex, enjoys kissing Ilya, being with him, even if it’s only convenient, but he thinks about the way Rozanov sets his soul on fire every time they’re around one another.
Even on the ice, there’s something about Ilya that makes Shane’s entire body ignite.
“Do you dream of me?” Shane asks, knowing he can’t possibly get an answer, but he wonders. Does he haunt Ilya the same way? Do they both spend far more nights than they’d ever admit with one another in their thoughts?
Rozanov leans closer, lips pressing against Shane’s forehead, and he shrugs. “I could be dreaming about you now.”
Oh, if that doesn’t send Shane’s mind into a tailspin--even though his mind is the very thing that conjured that sentence. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Technically, you are saying it. You have dirty thoughts.”
“Wondering if you’re thinking about me isn’t dirty.”
“No, but you wonder if I am dreaming of your cock in my mouth.” Ilya smirks. “That is dirty.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’d love it.”
“Bastard.”
“Calling me names feels good, yeah?”
Shane lets out a deep breath, then nods. “So good,” he breathes, then he places a hand on Rozanov’s cheek. “Why won’t you let me talk to you? I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“I am Russian, I’m always okay.”
“No, you’re not, and I wish you’d tell me why.”
Ilya shakes his head. “Someday, maybe, when you’re ready.” He leans in further, pressing a kiss to Shane’s nose. “You are not yet ready.”
Shane leans in, too, pulling Rozanov in for a kiss he can’t quite feel. It’s strange how these dreams work--sometimes they’re so vivid he’s coming in his pants untouched, and sometimes he can’t feel anything at all. He can see Rozanov, knows he’s there in front of him, but he can’t feel him.
What surprises him the most is how bad he wants to feel him, how much he wants this to be real.
They’re not fucking right now, they’re just kissing, and it’s… nice. The kiss is surprisingly tender for one he’s sharing with Rozanov, making his desire for it to be real, to really feel it that much stronger.
Shane wakes disappointed, a hand coming up to his lips as if he’s still seeking out that contact. “Fuck,” he breathes, resting his hands beneath his head as he stares up at the ceiling of his shitty, Olympic bedroom.
Turning over in bed, he reaches for his phone, checking to see if he’s received any kind of text messages from “Lilly.” He’s disappointed, but not surprised, to see there is nothing there, that he has no news from Ilya, not even a request for a sneaky hookup.
Hopefully, Ilya’s mood will improve in the coming days, especially once the Olympics are over and they can head back to North America. Shane finds he kind of misses him, misses the cheeky, stubborn asshole who makes him laugh despite everything.
And he supposes, if Ilya truly isn’t going to talk to him for the time being, he can always count on seeing him in his dreams.