a private and independent writing roleplay blog for captain of the ottawa centaurs, ilya rozanov from rachel reid's game changers book series and heated rivalry. ESTABLISHED, JAN '26. i ask that you please read rules prior to following & headcanon driven and crossover friendly
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affiliated blogs above indicate that due to the timelines developed between our muses, their portrayals are very integral to my muse's lives, and will often be mentioned in my portrayals.
a quick peck on the cheek as one party is rushing off / and if i said on the ice before a game??
the ice has continually been the one place where he can outrun himself. it strips him down to function until there is nothing remaining but the parts that have learned how to survive. the cold enters his lungs like a cleansing blade, precise and merciless, and for a few suspended moments he exists without the weight of memory, without the silent, gnawing impulse to anticipate loss. it's a language he has spoken since boyhood, long before love complicated the formation of him, long before he ever learned that wanting something could feel indistinguishable from bracing for its absence. even now, with everything he and they have built, everything he has allowed himself to selfishly keep, there's still a part of him that returns to this place like confession... because nothing here has ever lied to him, nothing has hurt him here.
and yet in this moment, he is no longer untouched by memory. for marcos exists in this space with him in a way that has nothing to do with positioning or drills or shared ice time. he resides in the deeper parts of ilya, in the parts that have created softness around pain, in the parts where new memories live. ilya doesn't need to look to know where the other is on the ice; that awareness sits in his intuition, ingrained and carved into him through years of watching, and tracking, of paying attention. it used to be vigilance, sharpened by amiable competition, at times honed into something almost aggressive in its precision. now it is something else entirely. it's deeper and tender now, no less consuming for its softness.
marcos resides in his awareness the way his breath does: constant and unannounced, necessary to endure.
so when he cuts close, when proximity replaces distance in a rather subtle, inevitable way it always appears to, ilya's already braced for it without realizing he's bracing at all. the kiss is swift — infuriatingly so. a brief press of warmth to the cold of his cheek, gone almost before his mind can fully catch up to what had just occurred, as if were nothing, as if were casual affection between teammates, as if it doesn't leave a surge of affection that scorches hot beneath his ribs. marcos doesn't linger. ilya notices that he rarely does when it comes to things like this. he gives affection the way he plays — cleanly and devoid of sought spectacle, as though it does not require acknowledgment to be real.
ilya remains where he is for half a second too long, something in him seizing. perhaps it's the breath in his lungs stuttering, it's not panicked or stunned, but slower, heavier, almost disbelieving in its persistence. there was a time when that kind of touch would have sent him retreating, instinctively creating distance before it could root itself too deeply. unless he were the one initiating it. wanting has always been accompanied by consequence in his world; it has always required estimation, restraint, a way out. but marcos had dismantled that, piece by piece, through consistency so relentless it became impossible to contest with. he stayed. he kept staying.
and somewhere along the way, ilya stopped preparing to leave, and he stopped bracing for the impact of others leaving him. of marcos no longer choosing him.
“ Ты издеваешься? ” slips out under his breath as he finally pushes off, the words more reflex than forethought, but softer than they would have once been. he brushes his glove over his cheek like it doesn’t matter, then angles back into the flow of the drill, cutting across the neutral zone, collecting a pass cleanly off his backhand. his voice drops just enough when he passes marcos again, threaded through the scrape of skates and the thud of sticks. “ brave, though. ”
the puck moves quickly — tape to tape, a clean give-and-go that forces him to pivot hard, shoulders rolling as he slips past a defender practicing, dragging the puck across his body before snapping it low toward the far post. it’s muscle memory, this instinct of play can no longer ever leave him, but even as he resets, even as he loops back into position, his awareness remains divided: half on the play, and half on the gravity of marcos moving through it with him. eleven years of this gravitational pull, and it took them too long to accept it. he tracks him without looking, anticipates where he’ll be, where he should be, the way he always has. it no longer carries opposition, only trust.
they're married, his wedding band sits alongside his mother's cross around his neck. the thought of their life together has never once disrupted him once it began, it doesn't send disbelief through his system anymore. he deserves this, he's worthy of this, of him. it settles and grounds him, it reinforces his role in marcos' life and stabilizes him. there is no recalculation required, no instinct to pull back before he overcommits. marcos is not something he is borrowing for a moment. he is something ilya chose, and who chose him back. that certainty threads through him now, lovingly and unshakably, even here under the bright scrutiny of an arena beginning to fill.
the whistle pierces loudly and official this time, a summons to all — linesmen taking their places, the opposing captain gliding toward center ice, the arena noise cresting into a beast that sounds full and alive. ilya circles once, twice, then cuts inward, and instead of passing by, instead of letting the moment dissolve into routine, he reaches forth. glove catches briefly at marcos’ arm, enough to pull him in, enough to anchor him there for a fraction longer than anything brief. the kiss he gives him is not fleeting, it's firm and full and an announcement pressed into the middle of open ice before he lets him go just as smoothly as he took him in. nothing the crowd hasn't seen from them before.
as he turns, skating backward toward center and lining himself up across from the opposing captain, something slots into place inside his chest with the very same determination he brings to every faceoff. his gaze flickers over once more toward his husband and the corner of his mouth twitches, a touch restrained but unmistakable. when he speaks next, it's meant solely for him even across the distance, stance lowering and stick braced against the ice. “ if you are to kiss me out here… do it properly next time. ”
I KNEW BECAUSE I COULD NOT REPLACE HIM. it was such simple answer, and yet, it was so powerful. it held so much power and authority - just like her uncles when they were on the ice. like her own dad too. she didn't understand loving anything like they did hockey - and she hadn't been sure she would ever find that epic love, the one that makes your heart sing. but then she met a boy on the beach. a boy and his guitar, and suddenly the stars and moon started singing too. the sun was a little warmer, and the world was.. it started shining. she felt lighter, like she was drifting on a cloud. it was a little silly, but so life altering. just don't disappear from yourself.. and she's deep in her own thoughts now. but he did promise that she was past the dangerous parts right? lily would never lie to her. she was safe whenever she was at the beach - whether that was ilya and shane's, eddie and santi's, or her own family's beach house. the beach house that houses her mom and dad, her little sister, her uncle jeremiah and uncle emmy - it even hosts steven, shayla and sora too. it was home more than anything, coming back to that house washed away all the sins of yesterday.
" but uncle lily, it feels very magic. a little dramatic - he writes me songs, you know. i think i'm going to marry him. if he asks. " a dreamy sigh, looking to her uncle. " who proposed? you or shane? " it's too late, ilya. there's no escaping the dreamy eyes that follows a heart's desire for more love, more romance. her cousin's asleep - which means plenty of time to pick her uncle's brain for the quest of love he'd been on (insert another dreamy sigh) " do you think dad's going to be okay? - if i get married and move away? ... oh god. moving away from the beach sounds.. like the worst thing ever! "
he watches her carefully now, not interrupting the way her thoughts spill out in soft, glowing waves, she is sunlight and salt and possibility. it is so different from how it had been for him — no slow corrosion mistaken for rivalry, no years of teeth-bared denial — but he recognizes the center of it all the same. that brightness. that quiet reordering of the world around one single person. it unsettles him a little, how easily she speaks of forever, how lightly she holds something he had once treated like a fracture he refused to set and heal. still he doesn't move to seize it from her. there's a special kind of cruelty in dragging something young and luminous into cynicism too early, and ilya, for all his piercing edges, has never been careless with the things he holds close to his heart, with what he loves.
his gaze had drifted somewhere between musings, but it finds its way back and settles on her again, ever steady now, something almost thoughtful softening the usual steel found on ice. “ it can feel like that, ” accent threads through words in a way that rounds nothing, only grounds it. he doesn't care about enunciation when comfortable, when with family. “ with him, with shane… it was not like that. we did not have songs. no stars rearranging themselves. just — i understood that everything made more sense when he was there, and nothing was right when he wasn’t. ” the corner of his mouth lifts faintly, “ he proposed, only us there. very inefficient romance for your standards, yes? ” there is a pause then, a drawn out suspension in time, his attention shifting not away from her but deeper into the query that drifts from her fond lips, what sits underneath the dreamy sighs and soft fear of leaving.
when the ice king speak again, it is smoother and less clipped, words carrying more weight without breaking their rhythm. “ conrad will live, ” for once, he is careful to not seem too dismissive, instead he's certain in the way of someone who has already lived through various versions of this. “ he will miss you. he will worry. he will probably call too often. you know him, he is boring. does not have life. ” a faint exhale ensues, amusement bounding across amber hues. “ but you are not meant to stay the same just to make it easier for him to keep you close. ” his eyes flicker briefly toward the house around them, toward the history and magic soaked into its walls, before returning to her. “ and you are not leaving anything behind. you are just… adding to it. if this boy is real, if what you feel holds when is not summer and not easy, then it will fit into your life without asking you to give up everything that matters. ” he pivots his frame towards her fully then, torso careening forward until forearms descend upon the counter. “ do not decide marriage because it feels like a fairytale, little beck. decide because, even when it stops feeling like one, you still choose him. ”
not open to any new romantic dynamics here. i have less than a handful that i’ve poured a lot into and are extremely dear to me, and that's all i can take on atm. it can be hard for me to juggle a lot of romantic ships at once for a muse, especially ilya. i’m a sucker for familial and platonic dynamics just as much though, and we can always do things with those ♡
ordinarily, fionn only finds single-minded focus at work, when adrenaline courses through his veins and there is no space for anything but being entirely focused on the task at hand. lives may not be at stake, here, and neither is there the urgency, but fionn is entirely present nonetheless; the constant needling, destructive voice in his brain has quieted down entirely, silenced by ilya. by his warmth, this intimacy. it feels sturdier than anything he thinks he's ever felt, as though they are laying a foundation here, instead of rushing into building walls that will quickly collapse—and if anything scares him, it's that, not ilya himself. because fionn isn't used to getting to keep hold of things; when he has let previous sexual partners go, it's often only been because trying to hold onto someone who never saw you as anything more than expendable gets you hurt. he's torn his fingernails enough times, that way, trying to hang onto something that was never his to begin with. and maybe he will still get wounded (he thinks, in his dazed, kiss-drunk state, that he'd let ilya cut him a hundred times over if it was soothed by his mouth), but it won't be today. he's gonna see ilya again.
and there's no turning back now; they passed the point of no return about the time he took his shirt off. maybe even before. fionn doesn't know what they're doing...but he can feel that this isn't as simple as friends who fuck occasionally. if it was, after all, they'd already be fucking. he'd want to be fucking. but fionn wants to stay in this, right here. he's in no rush to be done with this, to turn up the heat so it's over quicker. this is plenty warm enough. ❝ i know you wouldn't be doing this if you didn't want to. ❞ unlike fionn, ilya seems so sure of himself, unwilling to let anyone move him without his consent. fionn, despite his façade of confidence, would bend himself into a pretzel if it made someone else happy. but this isn't a duty, it's desire. a different kind to that he's used to, perhaps, but desire nonetheless.
he lets ilya look at him, neither abashed nor arrogant; this man has, after all, seen pages of fionn's soul that he's not sure he's ever let anyone read, and that feels infinitely more exposing than his gaze on fionn's body. physical nakedness costs him little; it's much harder for fionn to continue to let ilya see him. fionn spends his life trying to reshape himself into something people will like, trying to hide all the parts of himself he hates — a little difficult, when that's most of him — but he's not, at least, ashamed of how he looks. he's worked hard for this body. and under ilya's gaze and those firm, grounding hands, he doesn't feel the need to hide. he just watches ilya's face, his fingers stroking through his curls, his head tilting back as ilya's lips find his neck, and thinks that he might already be in trouble.
but it's a little soon to stay that.
instead, he notes. how gorgeous ilya is. the way he kisses, yes, but the feel of his hands, too. the safety he feels here, the lack of pretence; fionn's the most unguarded he remembers being in a long time. ilya hauls him closer and fionn, inhaling sharply in response, takes special note of that, too, his hand dropping to ilya's arm, fingers squeezing gently into the muscle as though he can assess his strength. definitely something he'll be thinking about later. ❝ ilya, ❞ he murmurs, warm and fond, ❝ there's no pressure here. ❞ not with fionn. not with the way ilya kisses again, the guidance of his hand settling with a sense of rightness. it's easy to let him angle his face how he wants; it all feels so right. fionn's not used to that. ❝ trust me, you've got nothing to worry about. ❞
it's so easy to lose himself in this. so easy, too, for fionn to shift with ilya, resting more of his weight against him, one hand on the back of the sofa by ilya's shoulder for support; there are enough points of contact, now, that he can feel each breath. maybe he'd be able to feel ilya's heartbeat, too, if his own wasn't pounding so loudly in his ears. and easier than anything at all to let ilya's mouth find his again, kissing deep and languid until he has no choice but to break it for air. even then, he rests their foreheads together, ilya's breath warm on his face. ❝ stay, ❞ he requests softly, meaning anything from for dinner to overnight. ❝ we can order food. do a whole lot more of this. ❞
the word stay vibrates through him like a cord pulled taut and he lets it, lets it anchor him in place, and the restraint he’s been nursing for years melts almost imperceptibly, replaced by the precise, willful weight of desire. he shifts, tilting fionn slightly against him so that the heat of their bodies presses more amply, the angle giving him access to the hollow at the base of fionn's throat. his teeth peek from behind his lips and graze lightly over the flesh there, testing the reaction, yearning to draw a faint, involuntary exhale. one hand slides from the small of fionn's back toward his hip again, pressing him closer, while the other drifts from upper thigh to low, tracing the firm curve of muscle as if memorizing it for later.
“ yes, ” he murmurs, voice low and roughened from kissing, tilting his head to press a soft, conscious kiss to the man's jaw. “ i stay. food can wait. ” the words are disjointed but casual nonetheless, yet the weight behind them is unmistakable — a choice made fully aware of consequence. he leans into fionn, letting their bodies settle against one another, and for the first time in years, ilya feels the luxury of not thinking ahead, of simply existing in a space defined only by touch, warmth, and the implicit magnitude of connection.
for most of his life, closeness has been something forced to manage rather than inhabit. hockey, a strict upbringing — the rigid structure of it all had shaped him early, carved away softness until what remained was precision and endurance. you learned to control the game, control yourself, control the outcome. emotions were inefficient variables. even outside the rink the same instincts steadily applied : take what you want, keep it uncomplicated, leave before the balance tips. it had worked. it had kept his life sharp and orderly, insulated from a chaos other people invited into themselves impetuously. not that he didn't invite recklessness into the parameters of his world, he most certainly did, but it was controlled. the ball unfailingly in his court.
and now, with fionn warm against him, requesting his presence as though it were the simplest thing in the world, ilya feels that careful architecture shift. it doesn't collapse, nor does it unravel, but it bends in a way he never quite planned for.
he kisses him again, drifting lower, lips gliding down the planes of fionn's solid chest, teasing teeth against sensitive skin, measuring reaction in the subtle catch of breath. every movement is intentional and exploratory, designed to draw responses without rushing, to make the heat linger. he notices how fionn responds — the soft tilts of his head, the pressing of his body into his hands — and feels the rare thrill of shared surrender : mutual inhabitation of the same moment.
ilya's hands wander with muted audacity, sliding over hips and brushing the inner curve of his thighs, anchoring him there, feeling the shape and tension of muscle beneath his wanting palms. the thrill of holding someone like this unravels something he has long buried : the desire to linger, fully, without a single urge to escape. there is no exit strategy here, merely the raw insistence of presence, and it intoxicates him. the thought surprises him however, he could stay like this forever, simply exploring and testing, and in this moment, he feels it could be enough.
he tilts his head too, letting fionn's fingers comb through his curls, guiding another deep, slow kiss that stretches into something sensual and consuming. mouth drifts lower along collarbone and chest, his teeth grazing in a teasing rhythm that promises more, so much more. every intentional press of lips and hands is a quiet testament, that this moment is theirs, charged but steady, and ilya allows himself to sink into it fully. he doesn't desire to consider what comes next or after ; no need to brace for the aftermath. ilya's here, and he is wanted, and he will remain.
HIS EYES ARE NOTHING BUT KINDNESS, while he sits with ilya. his kids are playing, they're in a house now. mia was off today, their live-in au pair. she was a gem, and the kids love her very much - probably the one true female person who's a steady every day presence in their lives. eli watches as chloe bosses ollie around, not that he minds. they were best friends, even if chloe was usually the one in charge in the dynamic, oliver didn't seem to mind. he got all the words in he needs though, they are the greatest pair of siblings. because eli didn't feel like chloe's sibling. he felt like that kid was his own, as much as his fiancé's kid did. they were their dads, no less. taking a swig of the beer, black band around his left ring finger.
Q. " i never thought i would see the day. " ilya rozanov ... @rozenov.
" the day kaz tied me down? - or the day two men got married in the nhl? " he raises his brow while he asks, because one was surprising, one elliot had seen coming for a long while. it hadn't been loud or dramatic, it had been like everything else in their relationship. it had been safe and sound, slow but all at once. " he's just.. my best friend. there's no limits for what i'd do for him. including fucking over the commissioner and his gross opinions, " he looks to his friend with a bit of sorrow in his eyes. " i'm sorry, i know it's not easy for the two of you, what i'm trying to say is.. there's so much hope. there's so much hope and love out there, i barely notice any of the shit. fuck everybody else. it's this one life, you know? - i couldn't imagine spending mine without kaz, and the kids. "
the answer leaves ilya with a crooked half–smile, voice low and accented, consonants softened by years that still have never sanded the edges off his russian. he tips his head toward his friend like the joke belongs tucked safely between them, it warms him. his gaze drifts toward the children as he sits with eli — chloe issuing commands with the confidence of a tiny tyrant while oliver chatters back, unbothered, orbiting her like some loyal little moon. it draws a humming sound from ilya's chest, almost a laugh. “ other one… men getting married in NHL? ” he resumes, shrugging a shoulder. “ that one i already know is coming. world is slow, but is moving. ” amber hues drift back to eli then, thoughtful in that observant way he has when he’s really looking at someone. eli speaks about kaz with so much certainty — best friend, whole life, fuck everyone else — and a usually tensed place in ilya softens around the edges. he rubs his thumb absently along the chain at his throat, a habit he barely notices. “ you make it sound very simple, ” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth tilting. “ maybe it can be, yes? ”
fingers hook the chain and pull it out from beneath the collar of his shirt. the crucifix comes first, old and familiar, catching the light in a small and swift flash. alongside it hangs the other item — newer, heavier in a way that has nothing to do with the weight of metal. ilya lets it sway there between them for a moment, watching the way it rocks along the chain. “ shane asked me, ” he says after a beat, the words still foreign on his tongue. his voice had softened without him truly meaning to, but the smile that follows is bright and helpless all at once. ilya taps the chain lightly so the ring spins beside his mother’s cross, tempered by the fact that his two best friends are the only ones to know, and now eli, too. every person told feeling like a another brick lifting from where it crushes his chest. “ i keep it here. cameras everywhere, you know? easier this way. ” then he glances back at eli, eyes glinting in the soft light.
a quiet huff of laughter escapes him as he recalls that night, repleting in fear and relief and love, and he leans back in his seat, watching the kids again with a evident musing flickering behind his gaze. “ but you are right about something ” he adds, “ there is too much hope to ignore. ”
@rozenov said: 😭 kiss away the receiver's tears from their cheeks.
some things are conspicuous by their absence: time lost and memories never formed, large gaps in his mind that can never be filled, now, but are merely yawning chasms to be avoided. an arm, gone forever, a limb now cut short; fionn sort of wishes the rest of him had gone with it. others are more noticeable by their presence: the pain, for one, something he's going to have to make good friends with. the white chip lying on the table in a pile of things clearly unearthed from his pockets at some point, once a symbol of how far he'd come, a tangible thing to grasp when recovery didn't come easily, and now a taunting reminder that he's back at square one.
the man leaning against the wall. even before he opens his eyes, fionn knows he's there, somehow. he wishes he could remember if this is the first time — he remembers insisting ilya be told he was here, last time he was properly with it, and likely incomprehensibly before that — or whether he's been waiting the whole time, while fionn was too out of it or high to realise. he's lucid now. exhausted, but here. fionn, opening his eyes now, just looks at him, and to anyone else, ilya's expression might be unreadable. intense, restrained.
but fionn has spent a long time learning the language of his face, and he can see the truth of it. ilya looks devastated. ❝ ilya, ❞ he says, voice hoarse from dryness and disuse; when ilya doesn't immediately move, he tries again, a little more desperate, holding out his hand. ❝ ilya, please. i'm sorry.❞ what for? who knows. everything, probably. he sniffs, too focused on watching him to realise that he's crying; it is lips soft on his cheeks that clue him in, fionn's eyes closing, his body relaxing. his hand finds ilya's, and holds on tight.
he wants this. fionn is, as he has always been, a desperate, lonely man who spent far too long starved of the affection he needs to function; now that he has access to it, fionn wants to gorge himself on it. he wants this. he's so tired of being secret. but this isn't what they do. with his eyes closed, he can be anywhere else, with ilya's kisses, and not here, where his thumb strokes ilya's knuckles and he makes himself say, ❝ baby, someone could see. ❞
for several seconds after fionn opens his eyes, ilya remains rooted in place, shoulder braced against the wall as if the plaster itself is the only thing holding him upright. the room is washed in pale hospital afternoon light that flattens color and makes everything look fragile, distorted and unreal, like something that might disappear if he blinks. his mind can be a treacherous thing at times, and it creeps to a quiet room he once knew, another terrible stillness, to the moment he pushed open a door and understood — too late — that someone he loved had slipped to a place he couldn't follow. the memory presses painfully against his ribs until breathing is forced. then fionn says his name, hoarse but unmistakably alive, and the sound cuts cleanly through the fog of it.
the apology slices at his heart before ilya has even moved.
of course he apologizes, he thinks with a pang that's both anger and near heartbreak combined, because it appears that fionn tremayne has somehow convinced himself that surviving requires forgiveness. that he must soften his own existence so that no one is inconvenienced by it. ilya crosses the room quickly after that realization settles, the chair near the bed nudged aside by his hip rather unceremoniously. hand closes firmly around the one his boyfriend holds out to him, and the warmth of it transmits a grounding shock through his chest. he bends over the bed and presses his mouth to the damp path of tears on the man's scarred cheek, once and then again, gentler the second time, as if he is soothing something bruised. thumb slides beneath fionn's eye to catch the moisture there.
❛ no. you do not say sorry to me. ❜ he draws back only enough to look down at him properly, his gaze leisurely traversing across the ever familiar face, every detail long committed to memory. the exhaustion, the pallor. ❛ you scared me, ❜ he adds, exhaling through his nose as his fingers tighten around the hand cradled in his, ❛ but that is not something you say sorry for. ❜
he does not say how quickly he left, how little thought there was in the decision beyond get there now. the flight, the constriction in his chest every minute the plane stayed in the air instead of delivering him here, the frigid certainty that had tried to creep into his mind every time he imagined this room. instead he releases a breath that resembles a near dismal laugh. ❛ coach will be furious when he realizes i disappear in middle of road trip, ❜ he professes quietly. ❛ but what was i supposed to do? stay and think about it? ❜ his thumb begins tracing slow, absent circles across the man's knuckles, a soothing motion he does not seem fully aware of making.
when fionn murmurs that someone could see, ilya's expression softens with something helplessly fond and faintly incredulous. here he is, lying in a hospital bed after nearly dying, and his first instinct is still to protect them from being noticed. ilya leans forward again, resting his forehead lightly against fionn's as if proximity alone could steady the both of them.
❛ let them, ❜ he murmurs quietly, and his hand tightens around fionn's just a bit. ❛ i do not care. i do not care who sees. i thought i might lose you. ❜ his voice lowers, stripped of its usual humor and effortless bravado, exposing the sincerity beneath it. ❛ you are still here, is the only thing i am interested in. ❜
shit, fionn had been joking about being special; there's not a single part of him that believes someone like ilya would really notice him, not to this degree. but ilya has been nothing but genuine, even when he's had his fingers dug deep into fionn's chest. if this has been intended as destruction, it's been remarkably gentle. ❝ just me, ❞ he echoes softly, gaze dropping for a moment before it makes its way back to ilya's eyes. he'd truly thought this was just something ilya did. it surprises him that it is not. ❝ why do i make you curious? ❞ he has to ask. even if he doesn't get an answer, he has to try. ilya has seen so much of the fionn that he keeps hidden away, shielding everyone from his broken edges and desperation to be held, but fionn's always known he was there. but, clearly, ilya also sees something that fionn just doesn't. a fresh pair of eyes often brings things to light; fionn just wasn't expecting it to be his fucking soul that got pulled out of the shadows. yours were obvious, he says, and fionn has to shake his head. ❝ not to anybody else. just you. ❞
the why is the part fionn doesn't understand. why him? why now? they were at a bar; what made ilya notice him? because this isn't just someone noticing him for how he looks, for what they want from him. but he can't say he minds. this may be one of the most intense days he's had, but he likes ilya. he likes the weight of his gaze on him — a weighted blanket, grounding and comforting, not an anchor dragging him to the depths — even as it discomfits him to be so seen.
with a fry in hand, fionn laughs, unbothered by being called boring. he's been called worse. ❝ you're the one still talking to me, man. ❞ he smiles, brief and bright around his mouthful. ❝ sometimes it's fitting smoke detectors for old people, and that is boring. ❞ tell me. fionn finds that he wants to; maybe it makes him party to his own psychological destruction, but he wants to tell ilya things. he wants to talk to him. ❝ what, do i do it so everyone looks at me like a superhero? jesus, no. no. ❞ he's no fucking hero. fionn's nose wrinkles briefly, taking the time to chew before continuing. ❝ i like that it's a challenge. every day's different, you know. but mostly i signed up 'cause i needed a purpose, a-a reason to get out of bed. and i was skint. uh, broke. ❞ he's in america now; it's no judgement on ilya's english skills to assume he won't know slang that the yanks don't understand, either.
he shifts enough to take his jacket off, warmed by the food and the restaurant's heater, his foot intentionally sliding back against ilya's when he's done, feeling the press of it through their shoes. for a long few moments he just looks at him, gaze steady, mapping warm eyes and a smile that he can spot, even as the man himself seems to be holding it back. it's there; fionn's pretty sure ilya likes him too, or else he'd have left already. ❝ hey, um, would it be okay if i came to one of your games? ❞
the question meets solid ground cleaner than a body check. why do i make you curious? ilya doesn't look away from him this time ; he lets the significance of it sit, studies the way fionn’s gaze drops and fights its way back up. most people either preen under attention or flinch from it. fionn does not seem to do either of them, not enough that he can tell in this moment at least. he absorbs it, and he considers it. ❛ you are not putting on show, ❜ ilya says at last, voice even and casual, as if he were detailing the events of his last parking ticket. ❛ not well, anyway. ❜ the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth softens the edge. ❛ you try, i think. but it fails. ❜ he takes a bite of the food awaiting him, chews a touch too vigorously, and offers himself a second to decide how much truth to hand over. ❛ and you look at me like you are not sure if i am problem or answer. ❜ a small shrug of a shoulder as he takes a sip from his glass. ❛ that makes me curious. ❜
not to anybody else. that earns him a prolonged look, it gives rise to dubiety and, as expected, more curiosity. he tilts his head just a fraction, considering the claim like he would a risky pass. ❛ other people are distracted. i am not. ❜ he doesn’t say by what — by fame, by egoism, by the constant churn of expectation — but it hangs there either way. he notices because he has spent his entire life being noticed for the wrong things ; he has learned to return the favor properly. when fionn laughs about smoke detectors and boredom, ilya’s mouth curves more openly before setting into a line. ❛ what? you are saying fitting smoke detectors is not interesting? ❜ dry sarcasm etched across his brow. ❛ the elderly will never recover when they hear. ❜ but when fionn speaks about purpose, about needing a reason to get out of bed, something in ilya quiets, he stills because of it. that part he understands intimately. that is not boring, it's honest.
their feet press again beneath the table and ilya lets his shoe rest there, a silent acknowledgment of the choices they continuously make that evening. eyes trail the action of the man across him removing his jacket, watches the flush in his cheeks and wonders if it solely has to do with the heat of the restaurant. there is an openness in the way he looks at him, and ilya feels the reciprocating tug deep in his chest, inconvenient and undeniable. he doesn't smile fully yet, but its imminent emergence looms.
the question about the game draws a pause from him — not hesitation, but moreso recalibration. amber hues sharpen, assessing his motives, an expectation. then once again they soften ever so slightly. ❛ you can come, yes. ❜ a beat between phrases, brows hiking up his forehead a second time that hour. ❛ but you do not get special treatment. do not expect me to smile and wave from ice. ❜
gonna keep writing here and on the multi tomorrow, but just wanted to inform you all that unless he's speaking to his brother who triggers him like nothing else, ilya isn’t yelling or raising his voice too much. when he does it’s cause he’s scared, not angry. do with that what you will
this should terrify him. the man that fionn has become has grown around the sharp, pressing barb of his parents' wish he had never been born (as though he'd asked) and his own self-loathing; invisible to most, it has still cut wounds into him with every breath, every lonely struggle, every dark night alone. for all that he has an open heart, fionn eschews this kind of vulnerability. it's one thing to feel too much, to put himself into situations where he cares more for others than they do for him, and quite another to give someone else that kind of power. to let ilya see who he really is, deep inside, is scary; fionn wants ilya to want him, and who would want that broken man? it's a little like pulling his heart out of his own chest and placing it in ilya's hands, trusting that he won't simply crush it.
it should be terrifying; it is not. fionn's spent his entire life chasing this kind of connection; an intimacy that comes not from giving his body to other people, as he's done so many times before (being wanted, yes, but only for a time, only 'til they're done with him, leaving him hollow), but from letting someone else see him. this isn't merely a shallow, carnal lust, but the desire for something real. ilya is, fionn's pretty sure, just as lonely as he is. no amount of money or acclaim can fill the kind of hunger that lingers in hearts like theirs. and fionn wants, desperately, to be the one to help fill those gaps up. to be as safe for him as ilya has clearly become for fionn. ilya may not be nearly as demonstrative as fionn, but he's made it clear how he feels. in words and actions.
❝ maybe i'm selfish, and want more of it.❞ it is strong, sure hands that keep fionn tethered, grounded in this moment, and the press of ilya's mouth that finally quietens his mind and lets him be present, bathing in the heat of this; he would, he thinks, follow anywhere ilya led. he presses closer — to the exploring hands, to ilya's body, to the feeling of being known, here — his head tilting to give better access to his neck.
(if the sound he fails to swallow down is a response to i like you too, four simple words that take residence in his mind, almost as much as it is to ilya kissing his throat, fionn staunchly refuses to mention it.)
his own hand slides beneath ilya's collar, the other travelling down his shoulder to the curve of his chest, mapping the strength he carries. a smile is pressed into another kiss with his tongue, lingering for long, languid moments before he pulls back, breathless and dazed as he gazes at ilya, lips kiss-swollen. how many times have they looked at each other, like this, saying nothing and saying everything? in the quiet, the only sound their breath, fionn pulls his shirt off, breaking eye contact for only as long as necessary, his hands coming to cup ilya's face the moment it's dropped. you can touch me, is the invitation, i want you to touch me.
❝ i'm gonna be thinking about the way you kiss forever, ❞ he murmurs, mouths pressed together for a long moment before he trails his lips along ilya's jaw. ❝ i don't remember the last time i kissed someone like this. it's usually... ❞ a hello. foreplay, at best. but this feels like its own thing; they are intentionally lingering, letting the heat build slowly. giving it a stable foundation. maybe they'll fuck today, maybe they won't, but fionn would be fine either way. this is a much deeper kind of intimacy, one he'd pretended he didn't need. he gestures vaguely to fill in the end of the sentence, switching to the other side of ilya's jaw, mouth tracing a hot, tender path across his skin. ❝ this is so good. ❞
he recognizes the silent edge of fear in fionn ebb and wane as the man leans closer instead of pulling away. that choice does not escape his notice. for most, intimacy like this arrives wrapped in instinctive retreat, a tightening of the body that prepares for impact. fionn does the opposite in this moment ; he presses in, as if the only way to survive the risk is to move straight through it. ilya understands that impulse more than he would ever profess. his recent years have been built around prudent and curated control — take what is offered, enjoy it fully, leave before the cost of it becomes too high. clean entries and clean exits. no lingering collateral damage. yet the openness in front of him refuses to behave like temporary encounters he has grown accustomed to. it beseeches presence, steadiness, for the sort of attention he has spent years learning not to provide. ❛ selfish? ❜ he murmurs against fionn's mouth, voice low and faintly amused. ❛ do you think this one-sided? ❜
strong hands move more firmly over bare skin now, palms flattening against the newly revealed warmth of the man's torso. the discarded shirt registers in his mind as an unstated turning point. not escalation or urgency exactly, but a conscious gesture of trust. ilya lets his gaze travel over him without haste, studying the shape of him the way he studies ice before a game — ever patient and observant, indexing every small shift in tension and breath. attraction has never been difficult for him ; it has always been immediate, uncomplicated. what unsettles him now is the awareness that this moment carries a weight beyond that simple instinct. he dips his head once more, letting his mouth follow the long line of fionn's throat with measured attention, the contact slow enough that he can feel the subtle responses in the body beneath his hands.
❛ if you are selfish, ❜ a quiet add as lips brush along warm skin, ❛ then we are both in trouble. ❜
the sound fionn makes in response settles somewhere deeper than ilya expects. it is soft and involuntary, the kind of reaction people rarely allow themselves when they are performing for someone else’s pleasure. he feels it resonate through the closeness between them and it draws his focus sharply back to the present. his hands begin to explore with greater certainty, sliding from ribs to waist, mapping the firm structure of muscle beneath his palms before settling briefly at fionn's thighs to pull him closer. the movement is intentional and daring, and the physical closeness that ensues is grounding in a way ilya can't remember ever having experienced before. for once, his mind isn't drifting ahead toward an inevitable exit. instead it lingers exactly where he is, attentive to the warmth pressed against him and the trust threaded through it.
when fionn tells him he will remember the way he kisses, ilya exhales a huff that borders on self-consciousness. ❛ is lot of pressure, ❜ he mutters. despite the dry remark, he promptly draws the other down again with a steady hand at his nape, guiding the angle of the kiss with the same natural precision he brings to everything else in his life. he deepens it gradually, letting it stretch into something slower and more consuming, a contact that kindles rather than extinguishes. he is distantly aware of how easily he could push this moment further, escalate it into something faster and less complicated. and yet he holds it at this pace, allowing the heat gather patiently between them.
fionn trails off mid-sentence, but the meaning that lives in the unspoken is clear. ilya has lived long enough in a world of fleeting encounters to recognize the rhythm of them : quick hellos, efficient intimacy, departures that arrive before anything real has the chance to grow roots. his thumb drifts along a stubbled jaw before his hand slides down the center of his chest, pausing briefly over the steady rhythm beneath his palm.
❛ mm, ❜ he says quietly. ❛ — usually different, yes. ❜ he shifts a fraction, leaning back just enough to draw him forward with him so their bodies press together more completely, head tilting welcomingly as fionn's lips trail across his jaw. ilya's splayed hands settle again at waist and thigh, holding him there as his mouth ventures to locate fionn's in yet another long, lingering kiss. the moment stretches comfortably around them, warm and unhurried. ilya notices, quite glaringly now, that's he's not plotting how to leave it behind.
describe a moment of grief and mourning between our muses.
the cold air in ottawa settles quite distinctly at night. it doesn't seem to rush him the way moscow winters used to, doesn't bite straight through wool and marrow. instead it lingers, thoughtful and patient, pressing its palm against the back of his neck as he stands on the porch and stares up at a sky wide enough to swallow him whole. ilya keeps his hands buried in the pockets of dark sweatpants, shoulders slightly hunched, as if bracing against something even less visible than wind. his backyard is quiet, the river beyond locked in a sheet of dim silver. he measures his breathing to the rhythm of it.
he's always needed the sky for this. needed the illusion of height, of distance, of somewhere to send the words that sit too heavy in his throat with every passing second of everyday.
when he was twelve, the sky over home suddenly felt smaller. or maybe he did. he recalls standing on packed snow behind their home, looking up at an expanse the color of unpolished steel, trying to calculate where a person might go when they choose to leave the world. at that time, he had not yet understood that grief is not an event but an architecture ; you build yourself around the missing piece, reinforce the weak beams, learn which doors not to open. in years following, he made himself useful. useful boys do not get left behind. useful boys win, score goals, gulp back tears until they calcify into something sharp and manageable. he became sharp. he became exceptional. he became someone no one could discard without consequence.
the league gave him a larger sky but the same instinct. prove first. feel later, if at all. therapy has begun to pry at that, gently, annoyingly, asking him to sit with emotions he would rather body-check into the boards. and still on nights such as the current, when something inside him swells too large for language, he steps outside and looks up. he tells her about the captaincy. about the river. about the man asleep in his bed inside the house. he tells her things he doesn't know how to say to the living.
ilya hears the door slide open behind him and doesn't turn immediately. he knows the cadence of marcos’ steps now, the unhurried quiet of them, the way he occupies space graciously, without demanding it. the porch boards give a soft creak as he comes to stand alongside. close enough that their sleeves almost brush, but not quite touching. ilya keeps his gaze fixed skyward, but in his periphery he registers the slope of marcos’ brows, the subtle pinch that forms there when he is concerned but trying not to intrude. the sunset’s last light catches on the slight bump of his nose, gilding his profile in amber. he says nothing at first. he never rushes ilya when he retreats like this. what he does is stay, he gives him time.
that steadiness undoes him more effectively than any argument ever could. marcos has always been like this — publicly composed, monumental and solid, yet in private offering touch devoid of calculation, benevolence without counting favors. ilya has built entire systems around the idea that love must be earned through excellence or endured in brief, controlled bursts. hookups are simple ; they begin and they end. no one lingers long enough to see where he ruptures. but marcos lingers. in hallways, in kitchens, in the hushed drag of night when their foreheads press together over the glow of phones. the attraction hums furtively and constant, a current beneath ice, but it terrifies him precisely because it is not only that. if he were to reach for marcos the way he reaches for others, it wouldn't be contained. it wouldn't be temporary. ilya has never trusted himself with something he can't survive losing.
he swallows against the lump formed in his throat, feeling the archaic ache rise in his chest, an adolescent bewilderment being left behind by someone who was supposed to stay.
some nights he comes out here with victories cupped carefully in his hands like offerings. he tells her about lifting the cup for the first time, about the way champagne burned his eyes and how he absurdly wished that she could see him on that ice. he recounts good dinners, loud bars, faces of teammates and rivals and the rare people who make him feel less alone. he catalogues his life for her as if she were merely abroad and awaiting updates. but in the stretches where there is no bright headline, when the good news thins and the quiet grows claws, he goes silent. he thinks about how young she was. how the world had not been kind to her, how the people meant to love her had instead been bitter and unyielding. he knows, with a certainty that feels almost defensive, that she was not weak. he has inherited too much of her endurance to believe that. sometimes he imagines that whatever darkness took her was something she couldn't fight, a current too powerful even for her tenacious heart. and there are moments — fleeting, shameful ones — where he wonders if, in leaving, she found a mercy that life had never granted her. the thought both comforts and devastates him. he misses her with an animalistic ferocity, and yet he hopes she's somewhere untouched by the cruelty that shaped them both.
the frigid air burns his lungs with every inhale. beside him, marcos exudes warmth, an ideal counterpoint to the cold. it occurs to ilya that this, too, is kind of a big moment. not a cup or a contract, but the realization that he wants someone to witness him when he's not performing. he drags a hand out of his pocket and scrubs it over his mouth, amber hues still fixed on the stretch of darkening blue above them. his voice, when it finally encroaches on his vocal chords, is low and unvarnished, stripped and offered without its usual taunt. he tilts his head slightly toward the man alongside, enough to acknowledge him without breaking the spell of the sky, ❛ is how i talk to her. my mother. ❜
HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT HE WAS EXPECTING. acknowledgement, maybe, that rozanov also noticed the absence of a kiss after their encounter. he didn't want to call it a hookup, even in his thoughts, because this had never been just a hookup. and he didn't know what word he would even use to describe what he and ilya were doing, he didn't even know if there was a word adequate enough to describe what they were doing in any language— english, russian, or any other. he thought ilya might say 'we didn't.' he didn't fucking say anything. goodnight, hollander. it wasn't like shane just typed up those four words and hit send. he typed them, deleted them, typed them again, deleted them again. he didn't work up the courage to send the text until the third attempt.
shane stared dumbfounded at the phone for a full minute, almost like he was waiting for a 'just kidding!' follow up text that never came. then he typed out three words : fuck you rozanov. he almost sent that text immediately, but something stopped him. finger hovered over send before he deleted the text, dropped the phone on the bed and brought both arms up to cover his eyes, barely resisting the urge to scream and wake everyone on his floor. there were three little typing dots, and then there was nothing.
the read receipt feels like a blade slid neatly between his ribs. 01:36AM. he stares at it until the numbers blur, until the silence becomes accusatory. he'd left shane with three typing dots, ones that likely bloomed and vanished like a mirage, and he's very well aware that that absence is louder than any curse shane could have bestowed upon him. goodnight, hollander. coward. he’d meant it to cauterize something — to cauterize himself. to make it easier to get on a plane to moscow and fold this entire, impossible thing into a locked compartment of his life. instead it feels like he has amputated a limb. he thinks of the faint scatter of freckles across shane's cheeks, how they had looked like constellations under the low hotel light ; he thinks of the way shane's jaw tightens when he’s swallowing words he doesn’t want to say. ilya had seen it tonight and had chosen not to soften. because if he softened, he would stay. and if he stayed, he would ruin them both.
he's moving before he can allow himself a moment of hesitation. down the corridor and up the elevator, knuckles rapping sharply against shane's hotel door, pulse thundering in his ears like he’s stepping onto fresh ice. the door swings open and there he is — shane, rumpled and bright-eyed and infuriatingly dear — and ilya doesn’t give either of them time to retreat. he crowds forward, one hand bracing at shane's hip, the other sliding into his hair as he drags him close. the kiss is not the kind he has perfected for cameras or conquests ; it is full and soft and searing all at once, a confession pressed mouth to mouth, slow enough to mean something and deep enough to utterly undo him. he feels the hitch of shane's breath getting trapped against his own, tastes the salt of everything unsaid, and for one reckless moment he lets himself hold him the way he has relentlessly desired to. when he finally pulls back, forehead resting briefly against the other's, his voice is quiet and exposed of its usual bounds.
