#ilya rozanov fluff

You extricate yourself with a kiss to his forehead and one to Shane's cheek, which he turns his head at the last minute to make it a proper goodbye kiss.

"Text us when you get there," he says quietly. "And when you're leaving. And—"

"And if any strangers breathe in my direction?"

"Especially then," Ilya says, suddenly serious. "Be good, lyubimyy."

Three hours later, Shane is reorganizing the spice rack alphabetically while Ilya attempts to beat his high score on Mario Kart when Shane's phone buzzes. Then again. And again. And again.

"Your phone's having a seizure." Ilya says, not looking away from the screen.

Shane picks it up, frowning at the notification flood. Group chat. Multiple people. Something about...he clicks the link. The video buffers for three seconds before showing strobe lights, a group of people on the dance floor, and you in the center of it all.

"Is that—" Ilya drops his controller.

You're dancing. No dancing is too gentle a word. You're wild. Body rolling in ways that should be illegal, shirt riding up, hair a mess, grinning like you hold the secrets to the universe. Someone behind you is extremely close, eyes locked on you, more specifically, the bottom half of your body.

The caption reads: Y/N came OUT tonight 🔥🔥🔥

"That's...that's our Y/N?" Ilya sounds torn between aroused and deeply concerned. "The same Y/N who falls asleep during The Bachelor? The same Y/N who needed three business days to work up the courage to ask the waiter for extra napkins? The same Y/N who—"

Ilya stops before pointing at the screen. "Is that a twerk?"

It is, in fact, a twerk.

Shane is already dialing, but your phone goes straight to voicemail. He redials but the same thing occurs.

"No signal, probably. Clubs always have bad signal."

"Then I'm calling Marco."

"Marco hates us."

"I know." Shane's smile is terrifying. "That's why I'm calling."

Twenty minutes later, they're in Shane's SUV because Ilya's car was deemed too chaotic for an emergency. "Left here," Ilya reads from his phone. "The building is called Pulse."

"Of course it's called Pulse," Shane mutters, turning the corner with unnecessary aggression. "Of course."

Pulse is exactly the kind of place Shane would avoid on principle. Loud, crowded, sticky floors, and absolutely no logical flow to the layout. Ilya, however, navigates it like he was born there, parting crowds with sheer confidence and the occasional elbow.

They find your group near the bar. You are, mercifully, no longer twerking, but you are standing on a booth, attempting to lead a chant that nobody knows the words to.

"Y/N!" Ilya shouts.

You turn. Your face lights up like Christmas morning. "SHANEY! ILYA! MY HUSBANDS!"

"We're not married." Shane corrects automatically, but he's already reaching to help you down.

"Yet," you add, swaying dangerously. You grab Ilya's face with both hands. "You're so pretty. Did you know you're pretty? Shane, tell him he's pretty."

"You're pretty," Shane deadpans, already calculating the fastest route to the exit. "Can you walk?"

"Can I walk?" You scoff, offended by the implication. "I can dance. Did you see me dance? I was like—" You attempt to demonstrate, nearly taking out the person beside you. "—like that. I have moves. Sexy moves. Watch—"

"Absolutely not." Shane has your jacket. He's also acquired your shoes from somewhere, God knows how, and is herding you toward the door.

The car ride home is an adventure in itself. You spend the first ten minutes with your head in Ilya's lap, insisting he stroke your hair 'like a war hero in a movie.'

"You're not a war hero." Shane says from the driver's seat.

"I fought for my country."

"You worked retail for two weeks in college."

"It was combat, Shane."

Ilya is trying not to laugh, his hand moving automatically through your hair. "Why didn't you tell us you could dance like that?"

"I was saving it," you mumble, eyes closed. "For my rebranding."

"Your what?"

"My rebranding. I'm not 'cute domestic Y/N' anymore. I'm Party Y/N. I'm Chaos Y/N. I'm—" You sit up suddenly, nearly giving yourself whiplash. "I'm gonna get a tattoo."

"No." Both Shane and Ilya say in unison.

"A face tattoo."

"No."

"Of both your faces."

Shane actually swerves. "Excuse me?"

"On my butt," you clarify, like this makes it better. "Left cheek: Shane. Right cheek: Ilya. So when I twerk—"

"We're stopping this conversation." Shane interrupts, his ears burning red.

"—it's like you're kissing—"

"Y/N."

"—through the butt—"

Ilya has his hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "Okay, lyubimyy. Okay. Let's...let's table the butt tattoo discussion for when you can walk normal."

You lick his palm.

"Did you just—" Ilya yanks his hand back, wiping it on his jeans. "He licked me."

"You're lucky he didn't bite," Shane mutters, but there's a smile twitching at his mouth now. "Remember when he tried to bite the paramedic?"

"That was one time and he was very handsome—"

"You thought the paramedic was handsome?" Shane's voice goes dangerously soft.

You blink, realizing your error. "No. You are handsome. Both of you. So handsome. Like...like if a sunset and a really good sandwich had a baby."

"A sandwich?"

"A really good one. With...with avocado."

Shane pulls into the driveway. He kills the engine and turns around, really looking at you for the first time since they dragged you out of the club. Your hair's a mess. Your shirt's inside out. There's glitter on your cheekbone that definitely wasn't there when you left.

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah." you agree, swaying even though you're sitting still.

"You scared us."

"Sorry," you mumble, genuinely. You reach for his hand, miss, get his knee instead. "I just...I wanted to be fun. Like you guys. You're so... you're so much. And I'm just...me."

Ilya's expression softens instantly. "Hey. Hey, no. You're plenty."

"You're our favorite person," Shane adds, unbuckling his seatbelt to lean into the back. "We don't need you to be 'Party Y/N.' We like grandpa Y/N better."

"Really?"

"Really."

You consider this. "Can I still get the butt tattoo?"

"No."

Getting you inside is a challenge. You insist on being carried so Ilya hoists you over his shoulder in a fireman's carry while Shane handles the keys, the shoes, and the growing headache behind his eyes.

"Put me down, you big Russian oaf." you complain, even as you pat his butt affectionately.

"Make up your mind."

"I love your butt. It's like two firm hams."

In the bedroom, they manage to get you into sweatpants and one of Shane's oversized sweaters—"I want Ilya's" you whine, so they switch you to Ilya's, which smells like him and is approximately three sizes too big.

"Water." Shane commands, pressing a glass into your hands.

You drink. You also demand Shane tell you a bedtime story, which turns into you telling them a story about "the time I fought a goose," which is apparently a real event from your childhood that somehow involved a kayak and a territorial waterfowl.

"...and that's why I'm banned from Lake Michigan." you finish, already half asleep.

Shane and Ilya exchange looks over your head.

"Should we check on him every hour?" Ilya whispers. "Make sure he doesn't choke?"

"Already set an alarm."

They settle in on either side of you. Ilya curled against your back while Shane is pressed to your chest. You mumble something unintelligible, smushing your face into Shane's collarbone. "What?"

"Love you," you slur. "Both. So much. Even though you're...you're buzzkills."

"Go to sleep, Party Y/N." Ilya murmurs, his arm heavy across your waist.

You giggle, the sound fading into soft breathing, and finally go limp between them. Ilya waits a full five minutes before whispering: "We should video him more often."

"Absolutely not."

"But the twerking—"

"Goodnight, Ilya."

Was it love? You couldn’t quite say. It was hot, harsh, full of mutual need for both affection and barely disguised violence. But hey, no one was complaining, neither you nor Ilya.

It was late nights, 30-second phone calls to explain the bare minimum, your dark apartment or dingy motel rooms. It tasted more forgotten than forbidden, you liked the taste of insults on his lips, you relished in the absence of regret. It was almost fighting, sweaty and riddled in groans, skin against skin and sweat mixing in the space between your legs, along the lines of your abdomen.

But it certainly wasn’t love.

You can feel the already bruised skin of your knuckles growing more painful by the second, you’re almost sure you’ll find blood on your hands when you carefully unwrap them. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll have time to heal before the fight. The gym is empty, the heavy, stale silence only broken by the brutal sound of your fists hitting the punching bag, feet moving around nimbly, punching harder and harder until your entire back and arms are sore. And yet, you don’t stop.

Not until the gym’s door breaks open and someone walks in. You still, arms slowly dropping to your side as you watch the bag swing in front of you. You’d texted him, you hadn’t expected him to show up, not this late, not here, of all places. A dingy, dirty gym, so far from the lavish luxury he was accustomed to since he started playing big.

Ilya Rozanov.

You can feel the silence on your dry lips, it tastes of cheap gin and something bitter. His steps are quiet, calculated, when he moves closer, dropping his bag beside yours. You don’t turn to look at him until you’re sure he’s looking away.

He’s dressed casually, like he just finished training himself, and in the slight strain of his muscles, you know you’re right. His sweatshirt strains along the curve of his shoulders, and when he turns to face you, you avert your gaze, overcome by a sudden, ridiculous, sense of prudishness.

You turn back towards the punching bag, but your fists stay lowered, clenching and unclenching repeatedly to calm the shake. You’d rather not dawdle on the origins of the tremor, whether it simply be fatigue, or something else, something slightly scarier and more intimate. You wait for him to talk. You’d wait until the world crumbled, unfortunately, you hated making the first step.

He says your name quietly, accent roughening the edges to make it somehow sound more elegant.

“Ilya,” you finally mumble, turning to face him and starting to unwrap your unsteady hands.

“For someone who almost begged me to come find you, you don’t sound very pleased—”

“I didn’t beg, Rozanov.”

“Oh, you absolutely did,” he responds, a teasing grin gracing his face. 

“I did not,” you counter, unable to keep a small smile from your face.

“Do you want me to show you the messages? Maybe a reminder would help.”

“Okay, shut it jackass.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, slowly stalking closer to you, watching your hands with careful curiosity. The bands come off steadily, revealing roughened skin and vaguely reddened, bloody knuckles. You barely react at the sight, and you wish you didn’t catch a flash of concern on Ilya’s face. It quickly disappears, though, and he’s back to his usual, placid self so fast that you start to wonder if you haven’t imagined it all.

“Are you just gonna keep staring or do something?” you ask, tone hardened.

“Do what? You won’t even look at me.”

“Yeah, well give it a minute, okay? I’m dealing with something,” you mutter, wincing slightly at the vivid burn when you brush a towel over the wounded skin.

“Do you need help?”

“I don’t.”

“Fine then,” he relents, moving away to pull off his sweatshirt. You do your best not to stare when the t-shirt underneath rides up, revealing a stripe of his pale, impossible toned body. You fail miserably, but at least you manage to pretend you weren’t ogling him.

You abandon the sweaty, bloody bands on the floor, near your bag, and take a few steps around, gently stretching the muscles of your hands and arms. You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and intruding.

“Teach me something,” he finally spits out.

“Teach you what?”

“Something. Anything. How to fight like you do.”

You laugh raucously, head tipping back and shoulders shaking.

“Do you know how many years of work went into that?”

“What, it’s just throwing punches,” he retaliates, and he can tell he doesn’t actually believe it, that he’s just teasing you.

“If you even try to throw a punch, you’ll fuck up your hand, or worse, my face,” you jest, like your face isn’t already littered in faint bruises and scars.

“Fine… MMA. Shouldn’t be too hard,” he jokes again.

“Calm down, big guy. If you want to try wrestling, that’s the best I can offer right now,” you say, eyes darting to your messed up hands. He catches the faint pain in your eyes. You brush it away, jerking your head towards the questionable tatami in the corner. He follows your movements, moving towards it, throwing a few experimental punches that make you chuckle.

“Shoes off!” you call out as you follow him, “I’m not getting yelled at for dirtying the mat.”

You watch him carelessly kick off his shoes and step onto the mat, stretching his ankles and wandering around. You know that he can feel you watching, you know he feels the weight of your gaze but he ignores it royally, rolling his neck and shoulders as he waits.

“Alright,” you huff, moving closer and removing your own shoes, brushing your bloody knuckles against your clothes one last time before stalking closer, shoulders already tensed, entire body ready.

“Do you know anything about wrestling or are we going in blind?”

“I’ve watched it on TV sometimes,” he explains, “never tried it though.”

“So completely blind,” you answer for him.

“Not completely,” he replies, looking mildly offended.

“Completely,” you repeat, and something in your gaze knocks the snippy comeback he was preparing right out of his mind.

“First thing’s first: your stance. It’s kinda like when you’re on ice, you gotta be stable at all times, and most importantly, never leave yourself open to attacks,” you explain, moving into stance, “that means you never stand up straight, because then you’d leave half your body unprotected.”

You watch attentively as Ilya moves to mirror your actions, but he’s stiff and looks uncomfortable.

“Rozanov.”

“Yeah?”

“Relax, okay? If you’re too stiff, you won’t react appropriately when it’s time to attack or defend yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” he grumbles, standing up straight again.

“Okay… maybe try a square stance, it usually works better for beginners,” you say, moving forward to guide his body.

“Legs a little wider than shoulder-width,” you explain, slowly pushing him to lean slightly forward, “back straight, arms bent at the elbows, hands forward. See? Not so hard,” you compliment, moving back to stand in front of him. You completely miss the way he shivers at the feel of your strong hands on his nape.

“Good?” he asks, neck craning up to meet your gaze.

“Decent. Make sure your weight is on the balls of your feet, not on the toes of heels. That’s how you compromise your stability. And always look in front of you.”

You settle back in stance, legs tensing to hold your weight.

“Get used to it, get comfortable, okay? Whenever you’re not in motion, this is the position you have to hold.”

He grunts, and your belly somersaults against your will.

“This isn’t easy,” he complains, voice treacherously whiny.

“Never said it was, Rozanov.”

He groans and you laugh loudly, body toppling forward. He catches you, hands firm on your shoulders, and you steady yourself quickly, huffing softly as you plant your feet on the mat.

“Okay,” you mumble, eager to move on, “next is motion. You don’t necessarily always have to be moving, but you have to be ready to. Always.”

You start moving slowly, tracing a circle, coaxing him to do the same.

“Always in front of your opponent, never let him out of your sight.”

“I’d never let you out of my sight,” he teases, and somehow, you manage to maintain your composure.

“Now’s not the time to flirt.”

“It’s always the time to flirt when I’m with you,” he replies, and you clear your throat, quickly moving on.

“The key is fluidity and speed. If you’re sloppy with it,” you pause, cringing at your own words, “ if you’re clumsy with it,” you correct, though it’s scarcely better, “you’ll get taken down in a few seconds.”

“Anything else? Or can I tackle you now,” he asks, a playful spark in his gorgeous eyes.

“Slow down. First of all, it’s called a takedown, not a tackle. Second of all, you need to learn a few more things before you can even consider attempting that.”

“Fine. Enlighten me, o great one.”

“Fuck you,” you retaliate at his sarcastic tone.

“Do it yourself,” he jokes, and you pray that he can’t sense how much that affects you. 

“Level changes,” you say loudly, trying to cover up the tremor in your voice, “level changes,” you repeat. “Before a takedown, you have to do a level change, which just means dropping your hips lower.”

You watch him move experimentally, but quickly reach forward to adjust his stance.

“Don’t slouch down. Your shoulders and back have to stay in place, just your hips and knees are moving,” you instruct, voice steady and assured. You’re back in your element, and suddenly Ilya’s the one growing red at the feel of your hands expertly fixing his position. He grumbles something about perfectionism before letting you move him, chasing his  positively filthy thoughts away violently.

“Okay… better,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but his heart does something stupid at the quiet praise.

“Better?”

“Somewhat,” you relent, placing yourself in front of him again, and you don’t miss the way his gaze follows you, hungry. Starved, actually.

“Now comes the fun stuff.”

“Finally!”

“Finally… Penetration.”

Ilya’s eyes widen, and suddenly all pretenses of being serious fly out the window as he stands up straight, shoulders shaking as he laughs loudly, cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink.

“Penetration? You’re serious?”

You bury your face in your hands, more to hide your own smile than out of embarrassment.

“Jesus, I knew this was gonna happen.”

“Penetration!” he repeats, cackling, “we are talking about wrestling, yes?” he jests, leaning towards you. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Rozanov.”

He looks at you in tense silence, eyes stilled crinkled in laughter.

“You’re sure?” he repeats, and you groan in frustration.

“100%, Ilya.”

“Fine, okay… penetration,” he says, stifling a laugh as he gets back in position.

“That’s when you invade your opponents personal space before a takedown. It’s a step forward… the offensive, basically,” you explain, trying (and failing) to remain serious.

“Why don’t I just show you, it’ll be easier,” you mutter, getting into position in front of him.

“Show me?”

“Stand still, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me—” he mutters, but he barely has time to answer before you’re dropping your level and launching yourself towards him, pushing him down to the floor as he lets out a yelp of surprise. You move quickly, pinning him down with your bodyweight, and only shift, a triumphant smile on your face, to meet his gaze.

“See? Just like that?”

“You are an asshole,” Ilya says, trying to get up, but you’re relentless, standing your ground.

“Technically, I’d have to hold you here for a few seconds to get my victory,” you explain, moving to straddle him.

“Okay, you win, now let me up,” Ilya relents, trying to sit up, but you push him back down, hands firm on his shoulders.

“Shoulders have to be on the mat to count as a success,” you continue explaining, completely oblivious to the man beneath you’s flustered state. 

Ilya can’t help it really, your hands feel so strong on his shoulders, your legs taunt on either side of his hips, your face dug out by the dark gym’s shadows. You look too good for your own good.

“Малыш, I’d recommend moving now.”

“Why?”

He moves his hips purposefully and watches your face go from confused to outright shocked.

“You sick freak, this is turning you on, isn’t it,” you mumble, somewhat exasperated, but stay put, firmly pressing both Ilya’s shoulders and hips into the mat.

“Maybe,” he trails off, “can you blame me? You look very good from this angle,” he explains, and you groan.

“I thought you wanted me to teach you how to fight, not… wherever this is going, in the middle of a public gym.”

“Aw come on зайчик. It’s not different, we’ve done it before.”

“Sex is all we do, Rozanov.”

“Exactly, so why are you so worried suddenly?”

Your words stutter and die down on the tip of your tongue, because you’re not sure why you’re so hesitant, suddenly. Any other day, you would’ve jumped at the opportunity, but the relentless silence, the heat of his skin against yours, the grunts, the quiet explaining… the intimacy was killing you, oh so slowly.

“Ilya—”

“Oh, first name, must be serious.”

“Can you be serious for half a second?”

His face furrows in confusion, gorgeous eyes narrowing as they bore into yours, as if trying to pierce your skull and lay your thoughts flat in front of him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you finally say, like the words are escaping you.

“Like what?” he replies, that mischievous spark igniting again.

“Like you’re trying to figure me out. I don’t want you to do that.”

“You don’t want me to figure you out?”

“No, I’d rather you didn’t.”

The silence that follows is cloying, it’s thick like wool stuffed into your ears, you feel, for a few seconds, like you’re swimming underwater. The bright white lights catch against the angles of Ilya’s face, and it takes a lot of willpower not to linger on the details, not to follow the sharpness of his jawline or the soft outline of his lips. You focus on his eyes like they’re oxygen and you’re dying.

Which, all things considered, maybe you are.

You’re still very much on top of him, heart beating wildly, bloodied hands raw and hurting, thoughts scattered and brain rendered useless.

“Why?” he asks, shattering the silence with involuntary violence.

“Because then… it won’t be just sex anymore. It’ll all mean something. I don’t want—”

“You don’t want it to mean anything. Yeah, me neither.”

You start to move away, but Ilya grabs your wrist with startling strength, and though you could easily twist away, you decide against it.

“I think… I think it already means something, though,” he confesses, and something sharp grows at the back of your throat.

“No… it doesn’t. It’s just sex, don’t mistake that for anything else.”

“I’m not mistaking it—”

“Rozanov!”

“What?”

“Don’t say something stupid.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You absolutely were,” you mumble, moving off of his body and laying down beside him. The space between you is too large, yet too small. You hands aren’t touching, but you can feel the heat of his skin between your fingers, you can smell his bodywash and sweat, and you can hear him breathing evenly, perhaps a little too quickly.

You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you, either.

“I should go,” he ends up murmuring, sitting up, “I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

“Ilya,” you call out behind him, and you try to act normal when he twists around to look at you. You can see in his eyes the same startling depth that you feel in your own chest, the cavity shaped like him that you hadn’t noticed until now. “Call me… whenever you have a minute.”

The reminder is unnecessary, you’d never had to tell him that in the past. Today, for some reason, you need the reassurance that he’s aware. That he’ll call you again.

“I will.”

You watch in complete silence, still sitting on the tatami, as Ilya gathers his things, dons his hoodie and coat, glances at himself in the mirror. His steps feel less certain, suddenly, his body looks like less of an anchor to safety. You don’t linger on the thought.

He pauses for a second, his hand on the doorknob, and you hope think, for a second, that he’s going to turn around and come back to you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even turn around when he speaks to you for the last time.

“Goodnight, любимый.”

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

And when he leaves, the door clicking shut like a gun cocking, the fear catches up to you. Despite the pain, you rewrap your hands and settle in front of the punching bag again, feet steady, gaze determined, eyes bordered with tears you refuse to acknowledge.

Days slip by in the semi-comfort of habit.

The new pet name, one you don’t know the significance of, floats, blurry, in your mind, and though you’ve tried to replicate the dissonant syllables into a translation app, nothing ever comes out of it, and you’re left wondering, painfully wondering. It had felt soft in his mouth, somewhat different from all the other ones he used. You try to ignore that feeling. You fail.

Ilya doesn’t call, and you don’t call him, either. It’s total radio silence, and maybe it’s for the best. When you say that in front of the mirror, it feels more like you’re trying to convince yourself.

You have a fight scheduled in two days time, you’re training relentlessly, everything in your body is constantly taunt, somewhat in pain, you’re at the gym more than in your own bed, you barely look at yourself in the mirror anymore.

You briefly consider blocking Ilya one night, just before your fight, because you know a single word from him could destroy your mindset. But you don’t. Instead you throw your phone to the other side of the bed and fall into deep, restless and dreamless sleep.

You don’t know why it bothers you so much. When brutal sex became something more. When you started to look at him, when he fell asleep beside you. When he started holding your hand when he buried himself deep inside you, not letting go, even in the hazy, post-sex naps. When the calls started growing longer, when the questions went from routine to meaningful.

It scares you, and in the constant silence of your life, in the emptiness of your shitty apartment, alone at the dinner table, the fear is too loud, slowly crushing you and rendering you deaf to anything else.

You wade through things like you’re walking through molasses, like you’re treading through a dream. The sickly sweetness of habit is the only thing keeping you afloat when you shower the night before your fight, when you lay down, naked, on your messy, dirty bed, when you try to keep the sorrow confined to your chest but it grapples its way to your throat, making it tighten, making your eyes prickle with unshed tears.

You fall asleep like that, you wake up sore and hurting, both in your flesh and in your heart. Your coach calls, prattles off some last minute things to do, you eat your bland breakfast like it's a moral obligation, you change into whatever clean clothes you find first and stumble out the door, your heavy bag slung on your shoulder. The sky is grey, the road is grey, your mind wanders and slips out the crack in the window, losing itself in the howling wind.

Your punches are mechanical, well timed and precise, sure, but your head isn’t in it, and everyone in the crowded gym can tell. There’s a sort of sorrow in your eyes that no one dares to question.

You stretch, run drills, spar a little with the various other athletes hanging around, you work on your reflexes, try to make your steps as little sloppy as possible, but your eyes are glazed over.

Really, you’re trying not to think about the last conversation you had in this room, two voices mingling, one roughened by a Russian accent, and somehow you feel like you can see a dark outline where your bodies had rested on the tatami, in the corner. You try to ignore it, but it’s all seared into your retina, his smell sticks to your nose and the feel of his skin clings to your palms like honey.

Nobody tries to break the bubble you’ve locked yourself in, they chalk it off to pre-combat stress, but no one’s fully convinced. You don’t explain to them what’s troubling, you physically can’t, anyway. You couldn’t even explain it to yourself.

Evening rolls around quicker than you’d want it to, but time is as inevitable as the feelings raging between your ribs, and suddenly you’re in a familiar locker room, tying the laces of your old shoes, ignoring the vaguely scratchy feel of the shorts you’re wearing, trying not to shiver at the cold air on your naked chest. You stretch methodically, dodge your own gaze in the mirror, get your heartbeat up with the jump rope you always keep at the bottom of your bag. The emptiness of the room is ominous, but you don’t even have time to feel the fear crash back into you before you’re being called out.

Time to do what you always did, what you did best.

Sharp, precise brutality, swift feet and a terrifying gaze. The crowd roars in your ears, you can feel the thousands of gazes prickling on your sweaty skin like a shower of sparks.

Each step, each punch is calculated and exact, but there’s something missing. There’s a fire within you that’s been reduced to glowing embers, not strong enough to flame up your being and push you to the ends of your capabilities.

Though you have a vague upper-hand, you don’t manage to get that one, definitive strike, your gloved hands stutter for a split-second too long, your steps, though quick, lack in  something that has cost you a few hard punches to the face. Another round ends fruitlessly, and you actively feel your strength waning, leaking out of your pores and leaving you helpless.

You crumble in your designated corner, spit out your mouthguard and gulp water greedily. Your coach is rambling, you barely listen to the words because you know what you’re doing wrong, but your body refuses to cooperate for long enough. Instead, you let your gaze wander along the furious crowd, faces pale like stars in the darkness, pressing against each other as they wait for the violence to pick up again. Nothing out of the ordinary, until your gaze snags on a face that’s all too familiar, smiling softly, tiredly, and your stomach drops.

Ilya Rozanov. Sitting right there, in the second row, somehow glowing. He looks like an angel of death, and your tired mind struggles to accommodate the grandeur of his presence. You notice, beside him, a bored looking Shane Hollander. You knew the two of them were friends, you didn’t expect them to appear side by side in public though.

Then again, you didn’t ever expect to see Ilya at one of your fights and yet there he was.

You gesture vaguely at him, trying to tell him to move closer, but the constant flow of people moving in between you makes it difficult to communicate. You relent to tapping on your coaches shoulder.

“See that deadly-looking blond in the second row?”

“You mean Ilya Rozanov?”

Your breath catches for a second, before you remember that your coach wasn’t onto you, that Ilya was only a national hero.

“Yeah… him. Can you tell him to come here?”

Your coach quirks an eyebrow,  doesn’t move from his spot.

“What, are you a fan? I can’t have you distracted—”

“Not a fan. A friend. Now can you please tell him to come here?”

“You’re friends with Ilya Roz—”

“Dude, c’mon. Just call him over and don’t ask questions, will you? I don’t have much time.”

You watch the man shrug and weave his way through the crowd, all the way to where Ilya and Shane are sitting. The blond man’s gaze dances between your sheepish coach and your determined gaze, and when he slips out of his seat with effortless elegance, something inside you tugs at your heart. Shane is following close behind, more out of curiosity than anything else.

When Ilya stops beside you, right outside the ring, he says your name so quietly that you almost miss it, the sound getting lost in the surprising din.

“Ilya,” you respond, voice steady.

“Sorry… for not calling,” he apologizes, leaning forward. You take a sip of water, wipe a stray drop from your chin.

“‘S okay… I had to focus anyway,” you say, jerking your head towards the ring. He laughs but it sounds choked.

“Oh, this is Shane by the way,” he informs you, stepping aside to allow you to see the other man behind him.

“Nice meeting you,” you call out, “though maybe it’s not the best first meeting ever,” you conceded, wiping an open wound on your eyebrow with an already-filthy towel.

“Nice to meet you too. Ilya always has a lot to say about you,” you hear Shane say, and you smile lazily.

“Does he? That’s sweet—”

You’re interrupted by Ilya pushing Shane away with excessive force, mumbling something about him being a traitor, and how they’d lose their seats. Suddenly alone again, you’re not sure what to say.

“You’re doing good,” Ilya finally says.

“I’m not, actually, but thanks.”

He leans closer, placing his crossed arms on the ropes and resting his head atop them. You lean back, against the padded post, and tip your head in his direction.

“Why are you here?” you ask quietly, but he hears you anyway. He shrugs.

“Wanted to see you.”

“Sure. Right… but why?”

He shrugs again, and you feel like punching him.

“Ilya.”

“I missed you,” he confesses, and that thing that was pulling at your heart-strings doubles in force.

“I—”

“You don’t have to say it back,” he adds, cutting you off.

“I missed you too,” you say anyway, and you don’t miss the way his pupils dilate the slightest bit.

The words hang heavy between you, they form an invisible string that tethers you to him, a thread that wraps around your necks, holding your lives tightly.

“Let me finish this guy off, then we can talk properly,” you exclaim suddenly, head jerking towards your opponent, who’s standing up and stalking towards the center of the ring, much to the crowd’s pleasure.

“I thought you said you were not doing good?”

“Well… things change,” you say sternly as you stand up, you mind set, your gait stable, that dying fire within you suddenly rekindled, and Ilya follows the hard lines of your muscles along your bare chest, your powerful arms, the wings of pure strength on your back.

It only takes two more rounds for you to knock out the poor guy, in a few easy steps and well placed punches. The crowd goes wild as the referee holds up your arm in victory, and you smile that ferocious grin that’s become your trademark. You try not to look at the sidelines, but you know Ilya is right there, clapping, roaring in pride, and that’s enough for you.

You receive the trophy graciously, lift it up above your head for the whole room to see, sweat running down your tired body, feet planted solidly on the ground.

Ilya thinks you look as close to one of the ancient slavic gods as he’ll ever see. He’d be drooling if he didn’t have that impressive amount of self-control. 

The rest happens in a blur. After a few triumphant minutes, you’re out of the ring, almost limping to the locker room, head hung low in exhaustion. Ilya doesn’t try to catch up, he knows you well enough to try that.

You need your time to breathe, to catch up to yourself.

So he waits outside, after saying goodbye to Shane, in the back alley where he hopes you’ll emerge. A cigarette hands loosely between his lips, he leans casually against the dirty brick wall.

When the small metal door swings open, he tries not to react too eagerly. He tries, really, but from your perspective, he looks like a dog smelling food. It’s endearing.

“Hey,” you say, voice roughened by dehydration and too much yelling.

“Hey. You look like shit,” he says back. He doesn’t resist when you pluck the cigarette from between his lips and take a long drag.

“I just beat a guy half to death, and he did the same to me,” you answer, laughing softly, “but thanks for coming,” you add, voice going strangely soft.

“Hey, I knew you would not win without me,” he jokes, and that sense of easiness, of comfort, that you thought you’d lost, is suddenly back.

“I… I’m sorry about the other night,” you say, it comes out as a strained whisper. You refuse to look at him, instead looking at the sky to exhale the smoke.

“It’s okay,” he says back, sounding just as messed up as you, “we were both…” he starts, but trails off, unsure as to what to say.

“Emotionally starved and horny?” you offer.

“I was going to say ‘weird’, but yes, that works too.”

You laugh loudly, head tipping back, and the previous days’ tension slowly melts out of your back. In the sky of a setting sun, brushstrokes of red and orange light struggle to illuminate your corner of the world, the cool wind dances around you, ruffling your hair and clothes, cooling off your still-hot body, and for once, you feel like you can smell freedom.

When you look at Ilya again, he’s staring right at you, something unshakeable in his eyes, something strong that you know neither of you can fight. You don’t particularly want to fight it, actually, you’d rather just embrace it.

The back alley is empty, far away from the crowd pouring out of the building, far away from the busy street where life carries on. Here, in the shadow of the event, time has stopped, and you and Ilya are completely and utterly alone.

Maybe that’s why he moves towards you first.

Maybe that’s why he pushes you gently against the wall and you drop your bag to accommodate his bulk between your arms.

Maybe that’s why he kisses you, softly at first, but growing hungrier by the second, lips moving against yours with startling precision, tongue moving into your mouth.

Your shaky hands find his waits, pulling him closer, pressing him against the hard places of your body rendered soft by the layers of clothes. Your head hits the brick wall behind you, you make a soft sound of discontent until you feel Ilya’s hand card through your hair, gently cupping the back of your head and protecting it from impact. Your face grows hot at the intimacy of the gesture.

When you pull back, your grasp on him doesn’t loosen, and his hand slowly slides from your head to your nape.

“My place is close by,” you mumble. It’s not quite an invitation, but it’s enough. He jerks his head towards the street, and you detangle your limbs to move back towards the oppressive presence of the world.

The parking lot is empty, thanks to divine providence, and Ilya quickly slips into the passenger's seat, pulling his hood up to hide from potential prying eyes.

The drive is short, quiet as a dream, there’s an undeniable tension between the both of you, sharp as a knife that can’t be dulled, despite your best attempts. You keep your gaze focused on the road, Ilya rests his head on the cold glass of the window, eyes trained on your profile.

“What are you looking at?” you ask, a small smile playing along the edges of your lips.

“You,” he states simply, like the question answers itself.

“Me?”

“What else could I ever look at.”

Every coherent thought in your mind escapes you suddenly, your lips press firmly against each other, sealing in your words.

“You’re making it sentimental again.”

“Does that annoy you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t, but Ilya knows what you wish you could say. It doesn’t bother you, it never could. That tight silence stretches itself taunt on what’s left of the drive, when you step out of the car, even the frigid wind can’t dissipate it.

Ilya follows you, he lets you guide him even though he knows the way. He’s stepped these steps dozens of times before, in the dead of night, breath clouding in front of him as he kept his head low.

For once, he keeps his head high, eyes trained on your back.

You unlock the door to your building, press the button for the elevator, and as soon as the doors close behind you, Ilya’s on you again, brutally, starving, kissing like he’s trying to consume. You kiss back with all the strength you can muster, with all the heat left within you.

You don’t stop when the doors slide open at your floor, Ilya lets you lead him backwards, haphazardly, while you dig through your pocket for your keys. You only stop, breathing heavily, to quickly unlock your apartment door and step inside.

The second the door slams shut, clothes are being shed, forming a trail to your bedroom, the bedroom Ilya has only known in the dead of night. Today, he has the privilege to see the walls painted golden, and you have the privilege to see his face in waning daylight.

You’d easily sell your soul to see it every day as you see it now, rested and somewhat content, lines softened by the kind fingers of a setting sun.

“Ilya?”

He says your name back with a delicateness that threatens to undo you, and your face pauses, millimetres from his. You’re shirtless, jeans unbuttonned but still resting against your hips, the back of Ilya’s knees rest against the edge of your bed, trousers half pulled down, shirt abandoned by his feet.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, and you hear his breath catch in tandem with yours.

“So are you, любимый,” he responds breathlessly.

The word rings familiar, but just out of your grasp, your gaze drags from his lips to his eyes. They’re shining with something akin to affection, somehow deeper, like a bleeding wound.

“What does that mean, by the way?”

“Beloved,” he whispers back. The word has a weight on his lips.

“... you’re joking.”

“I am not,” he responds, voice like honey.

“You don’t mean that,” you insist, frightened by his certitude.

“I mean it,” he assures.

There’s a split second of complete immobility, the air freezes around your bodies, the noise streaming in from outside is muffled by the rush of blood in your ears.

“Ilya—”

Your words are cut out by the press of his lips against yours, gentle, slightly teasing, and you melt in his embrace, gently pushing him down on the bed.

What’s left of your clothes are removed with such ceremony that it feels holy.

It feels special, not like a stolen moment at witching hour, a moment to be consumed and forgotten voluntarily. It’s a moment eternally frozen in amber.

Your bodies shift, and suddenly your heated skin is pressed against your cool, rumpled sheets, and Ilya is kneeling atop you, knees planted on either side of your hips. Your gaze trails down from his face to his abdomen, then to his tenting boxers.

“Are you trying to win a fight or fuck me?” you joke, grinning.

“Oh shut up,” he responds, leaning forward to kiss you as he pulls down his boxers. 

Usually, it feels like a battle of strengths, a form of combat, it’s full of violence and slight intoxication.

That feeling is absent today, when you lift your hips in invitation, when Ilya gently palms your cock, still kissing you, when you feel the heat of him all over you and deep in your chest.

Your heart does something traitorous that you refuse to address.

“Ilya,” you whine softly.

“Tell me.”

“I need you,” you let yourself say. 

Not “I want you”.

I need you.

And that does something to the both of you, because suddenly all pretenses of civility evaporate, and you feel Ilya press against your entrance.

There’s no prelude, he simply slowly pushes into you, and you feel your back arch of its own volition, and low moan escaping you in tandem with a grunt from him.

“I missed this,” Ilya whispers, “I missed you.”

You can barely answer, words swallowed up by unfathomable pleasure before they’re even fully formed, and all you can manage is a groan of agreement.

“Rozanov—,” you start.

“Ilya,” he corrects, his gaze snapping onto yours as he bottoms out in a last effort.

“Ilya,” you start again, “holy shit, just—... fuck me already.”

He laughs, head tipping back, and you frown softly. It’s immediately wiped from your face as Ilya starts moving inside you, cock dragging deliciously against your walls. You’re so consumed by the feeling that you barely feel his hand against your own dick until it’s moving in unison with his hips, setting a slow, mind-numbing pace.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, and it’s your turn to laugh, though it quickly turns into a moan.

“What do you think?” you manage to grit out, face sculpted by ecstasy.

His cock hits your prostate at regular intervals, each probe making you fight back pitiful whines of pleasure. Your head tips back and your eyes flutter closed, but Ilya’s hand drags up your abdomen, fluttering against your tense abs, pawing at your pecs before grabbing your jaw roughly, guiding your face up.

“Look at me… I want to see you, любимый.”

“You’re killing me, Ilya,” you mumble, but your eyes bore into his. You’re both shining golden in the quiet mess of your apartment.

“I want to see you die,” he murmurs before leaning down to kiss you, cock driving deeper into you, the hard planes of his stomach pressing against your own overly-sensitive member.

“Gory,” you joke half-heartedly, groaning in pleasure at the new angle. He chuckles into your mouth and picks up the pace.

You’re ridiculously close already, too pent up and affected by the emotional intimacy to bother holding out.

“Ilya, I’m close,” you manage to groan out, voice rough and strained. Your tired muscles are being pushed to their limit as your entire body bends, pushing yourself up and towards him, desperately chasing the high. 

“Already?” he teases, and you dig your fingers into the skin of his back as punishment.

“Fuck you.”

“I’m fucking you, remember?”

The quip your were preparing floats out of your mind as his pace grows relentless, hip hitting yours as you struggle to accommodate the size of him between your legs. You can’t speak, not anymore, and it only takes a few more brutal thrusts to push you over the edge.

An animalistic moan is ripped from your throat as you cum, splattering over both your bodies, but Ilya doesn’t rest, keeps pushing in and out, his own face contorted in pleasure.

It doesn’t take long, he kisses you like velvet as he finishes inside you, you can feel the weight and warmth of him in startling depth as he cums, body collapsing over yours with a soft groan.

He places a soft peck on your lips, another on your jaw, the on your neck, soft little things that flutter like butterflies against your skin. Neither of you move for a long time, you just lay there in the heat of each other, breathing in unison.

The sun slowly finishes its decent, the room grows a deep shade of blue, then completely dark, and still, you don’t move.

“Ilya?” you whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile silence.

“Mhm?” he hums in response.

“I—”

“You do not have to say it, любимый, I know.”

A small smile twists your lips, cheeks aching from the strain of containing your quiet joy.

“But I want to,” you say.

“Then say it. I am not the boss of you.”

“Ilya Rozanov, I love you,” you whisper into the curve of his ear, only for him to hear. You feel him smile against your shoulder, where his head rests.

“I love you too,” he mumbles, “I do not ever want to anger you again.”

“I don’t think you could.”

“Good.”

The room is full of unsaid things that would die if uttered, so you both keep them within you, twisting around your bruised ribs.

“But these feelings cannot leave this room,” Ilya adds quietly, almost shamefully.

“I know… I know,” you whisper back, “they don’t have to.”

“No, they do not,” he confirms, pushing himself up to meet your gaze. Your hands grab his jaw gently, pushing away a stray golden lock. You kiss him quickly, furtively.

You slip on your favorite little black dress and matching tights. It's still freezing in Boston, so you mentally note to throw on your long, fluffy fur coat. You start to take down your curls from the bun on top of your head. Fluffing them out and grabbing the white rose claw clip Ilya randomly bought you. After he saw it in a store and said, 'It reminded me of you'. You go for a half up half down look, keeping your hair out of your face, but it still grazes the top of your collarbones.

Opting out on a lot of makeup, just a light layer of mascara, and finishing off with a simple, glossy lip. You're almost ready as you start putting on your earrings. Ilya lightly opens the bathroom door. "May I come in?" he asked, but he was already stepping through before you could protest.

"You look beautiful, bunny," wrapping his arms around your waist, swaying to "Paradise" in the background. You turn around in his hold, "and you look handsome," grabbing onto his sweater for support as he dips down to kiss you.

As he pulls away, he opens one of the many vanity drawers. You stand there with a lovely, confused look. "What are you doing?"

"You really don't pay attention, bunny. I could put an engagement ring in plain sight, and you would have no idea." he says with a smile on his face.

He pulls out a flower-covered box with a beautiful cream bow tied to the front. "Sorry if it's a little crooked..." Ilya rambled off, stopping him mid-sentence. "It's perfect". You say with a love-sick smile on your face.

You gently untie the bow and open the perfume box. The same one that you smelled when Ilya took you shopping in California back in January. You spray the light vanilla fragrance on your arms behind your ears, and Ilya lifts your hair so he can spray behind your neck.

He nuzzles his face in your shoulder, drinking your scent in "mhm, you smell good." A little thank you comes out as he kisses you, grabs your hand, and walks you into the hallway.