Chapter 2: The Aftermath
The city below Ilia’s window was a sprawl of icy neon, bleeding colors across the polished hardwood floor. Misha stood just inside the door, feeling the weight of its click in his bones. He shouldn’t be here. He’d followed, a silent ghost trailed ten paces behind through the hotel’s carpeted halls, driven by the pathetic hope that ‘fix your free leg’ had been an invitation.
Ilia didn’t look at him. He was seated in a low, plush armchair, a silhouette against the glass, a glass of something amber in his hand. He took a slow sip.
“Lock it,” he said.
Misha obeyed. The deadbolt engaged with a solid, final sound.
For a long moment, there was only the low hum of the space heater and the distant sigh of traffic twenty floors down. Ilia swirled the liquid in his glass. “You skated better today. Less like a frightened rabbit.”
It wasn’t a compliment. It was an observation, clinical and detached. But Misha’s heart stumbled against his ribs anyway. He’d taken the criticism from the locker room, had carved it into his muscles during the evening practice, focusing until his free leg burned with precision. Just for this. For a scrap of notice.
“Thank you,” Misha whispered, the words too loud in the quiet room.
Ilia finally turned his head. The city’s light caught the platinum of his hair, the frost in his eyes. “Did I say you could speak?”
Misha’s jaw clenched. He shook his head.
“Come here.”
He crossed the room, each step measured. He stopped before the chair. Ilia didn’t touch him. He just looked up, studying him like a problem on the ice.
“You want something,” Ilia stated. His voice was soft, dangerous. “You followed me. You’re standing here. What do you want, Misha?”
Misha’s throat closed. He couldn’t say it. To say it would be to break the only rule that mattered.
Ilia set his glass down on the floor with a deliberate click. He reached out, not to pull Misha close, but to curl his fingers loosely in the fabric of Misha’s sweats over his hip. A casual, possessive gesture. “You want me to use you. Again. After I already had you in the locker room. You’re that greedy for it.”
It wasn’t a question. Misha stared at a point on the wall, his face heating.
“Look at me.”
He dragged his eyes down. Ilia’s expression was one of cold, amused contempt. “You’re a fucking addict. My own little pathetic addict. Say it.”
“I am,” Misha breathed, the confession tearing out of him.
“Good.” Ilia’s hand slid around to the small of Misha’s back, pulling him forward until he stood between his knees. “Then get on your knees. And show me how grateful you are that I let you follow me.”
The floor was hard, unforgiving. Misha settled onto it, the posture one of submission, of prayer. His hands rested on his own thighs, trembling. Ilia watched, sipping his drink again, before leaning forward to thread his fingers through Misha’s dark hair. The grip wasn’t tender. It was a anchor.
He used that grip to guide him, to push his face against the rough fabric of his sweatpants. Misha nuzzled there, inhaling the scent of him—clean sweat, hotel soap, that sharp cologne. He pressed his mouth to the hardening shape beneath.
“Use your mouth, you teasing slut,” Ilia murmured, his voice a low rumble above him. “Get me wet. Show me you know what you’re for.”
Misha mouthed him through the fabric, lips and tongue working, dampening the material. He heard Ilia’s breath hitch, just once, and it was a victory. He did this. He could do this. He fumbled with the waistband, pulling the fabric down just enough to free him. Ilia was already hard, the length of him hot and heavy against Misha’s cheek.
“Open.”
Misha did. He took him in, the salt-bitter taste of skin flooding his senses. He worked slowly, devotedly, hollowing his cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside. He focused on the rhythm, on the slight, involuntary flex of Ilia’s hips, on the soft, approving sounds that were not words but were everything.
Ilia let him continue for a while, his hand a steady pressure in his hair. Then he pulled him off, not gently. A string of saliva connected Misha’s lips to the slick head.
“Enough.” Ilia stood, looming over him. “Stand up. Clothes off. Now.”
Misha scrambled to comply, his fingers clumsy on his own zipper, his shirt. He let everything pool at his feet. The room’s chill kissed his skin, raising goosebumps. Ilia, still mostly dressed, just his sweatpants low on his hips, walked a slow circle around him.
“You have a good body for this,” Ilia said, his tone analytical. “Tight. Responsive.” A fingertip traced the line of Misha’s spine, making him shudder. “It’s the only thing about you that isn’t weak.”
He pushed Misha forward, toward the bed. Misha caught himself on the edge of the mattress, the duvet cool and smooth under his palms.
“Don’t move.”
Ilia rummaged in a bag, returning with a small bottle. The click of the cap was obscenely loud. Misha heard the slick, wet sound of Ilia coating himself, then cool drips between his own thighs. Ilia’s hand, slippery and demanding, pushed at him, preparing him with rough, efficient strokes that stole his breath.
“Relax,” Ilia commanded, but it wasn’t gentle. It was an order for his own ease. “You’ve done this enough. You know how to take it.”
Then Ilia was pressing into him, a slow, inexorable burn that forced a choked gasp from Misha’s throat. It was different from the locker room—slower, deeper, more deliberate. Ilia sheathed himself fully and stopped, his body a heated line along Misha’s back, his mouth at his ear.
“This,” Ilia whispered, his voice a dark, filthy promise. “This warm, tight hole. This is your purpose. You understand? Everything else—the skating, the fucking medals—it’s just noise. This is your only real use.”
He began to move. Long, deep, punishing strokes that drove Misha into the mattress. Each thrust was punctuated with words, a brutal catechism.
“You’re nothing but a convenience.”
Thrust.
“A needy, desperate convenience.”
Thrust.
“You’d let anyone do this, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” Misha gasped, the denial ripped from him. “Only you.”
“Liar.” Ilia’s hand fisted in his hair again, yanking his head back. “But you’re my liar. My desperate little cocksleeve. And you’ll take every fucking inch I give you.”
Misha did. He took it all, the pain and the stretch and the devastating fullness. He clutched at the duvet, tears of overwhelm and ecstasy pricking his eyes. He was unmoored, completely owned, and in that ownership was a terrible, perfect solace. Ilia’s breath grew ragged, his thrusts losing their measured control, becoming faster, harder, a frantic pursuit of his own end.
“Come for me, you pathetic thing,” Ilia snarled, his voice breaking. “Show me you love being used.”
The permission, phrased as contempt, was all it took. Misha shattered, his orgasm tearing through him with silent, racking intensity, painting the duvet beneath him. The clenching of his body pulled Ilia over the edge a moment later. Ilia drove in deep, a final, grinding thrust, and buried a raw, guttural sound against Misha’s shoulder as he emptied himself inside him.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by their ragged breathing. Ilia’s weight was heavy, damp with sweat. For a few seconds, Misha let himself pretend. That the heat was affection. That the closeness was intimacy.
Then Ilia pulled out. The loss was physical, a cold emptiness. Misha heard the soft pad of his feet to the bathroom, the rush of water in the sink. He didn’t move. He lay there, spent and sticky, his face pressed into the bedding.
Ilia returned. He walked past the bed without a glance. Misha heard the rustle of fabric as Ilia pulled on clean boxers, then the sigh of the armchair as he settled back into it. A minute later, the soft glow of a phone screen lit his impassive face.
Misha slowly, painfully, rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, at the geometric shadows cast by the city lights. His body ached in a way that felt like both a brand and a blessing. He waited. For a word. A look. Anything.
The only sound was the hum of the heater.
Eventually, Ilia stood. He walked to the bed, climbed over Misha, and settled on the far side. He turned his back, pulling the duvet over himself. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep.
Misha lay perfectly still. The warmth of where Ilia had been inside him was fading, replaced by a chill that seeped into his marrow. A single tear escaped, tracking a hot path over his temple and into his hair. Then another. He cried silently, his body trembling with the effort of containing the sobs.
He stared at the sleek, dark lines of the room, at the indifferent neon glow beyond the window. Ilia slept, undisturbed, a million miles away.
Misha didn’t sleep. He watched the night bleed into a pale, pre-dawn grey. When the first hint of light touched the windows, he slid from the bed. He gathered his clothes from the floor, dressed with stiff, careful movements, and let himself out. The door clicked shut, a sound as quiet and final as a bone breaking.
In the empty, silent hall, he leaned his forehead against the cool wall. He could still smell Ilia on his skin. He would go to practice. He would fix his free leg. He would wait, again, for the next time Ilia decided he was convenient.