Two sticks for one puck

The quiet music of the event faded behind him, along with the evening, the awards, and all the other nonsense that slipped from Elian’s mind the moment he stepped outside. The street greeted him with a coolness—soft, almost playfully trembling—like in childhood, when he played with friends and felt the frost run down his spine the second his shirt rode up. His chestnut hair, grown out and gathered into a careless bun just minutes ago, caught the yellow glow of the streetlamps illuminating the empty sidewalk. His phone chimed softly, announcing a new message. The image of the possible sender flickered through his mind, and a short, characteristically cool smirk touched his lips. His fingers habitually tightened around the device, pulling it from the pocket of his custom-tailored trousers. The address of one of the expensive hotels felt like a challenge. Like a red rag thrown before an enraged bull. Elian did not consider himself a bull. More a snake—slippery, and at times frighteningly curious. At least until some trap might take his head off. The taxi he called a minute later pulled up neatly to the curb about five minutes after the request. Elian, a hockey player for a French team, slipped into the dark, plush, subtly luxurious interior, leaning back and stating the address. The car moved off slowly, gaining speed, soon racing along the highway of the metropolis between other vehicles flashing past the window like strokes of oily paint. Elian Morel was not like the other players who played hockey with raw aggression, overpowering opponents with force and speed. Elian was a strategist, instantly calculating at what angle to strike the puck, between whom to glide across the ice to avoid an elbow that would inevitably slam into his ribs, or how to evade a rival altogether. He was a mathematician—precise as the hands of a clock that had hung on the wall for years without failing once in twenty-three years. Though once, it had failed. And it seemed that was the beginning of the end. Ilya Rozanov—like a mistake in a math problem, an extra one in a formula that should not have been there at all. Yet he was. Brightly, tangibly present. So much so that Elian’s fingers trembled, and sounds escaped his lips that he had never made before. It wasn’t frightening, not exactly… more irritating. Like an annoying fly slipping into the room through an open summer window, buzzing unpleasantly by your ear. You wave your hand, but it lingers somewhere nearby, still buzzing. And Morel compared Ilya to that fly—one that would not leave on its own, and could not be swatted because you were lying too comfortably; if you got up, it wouldn’t be the same. Then came meeting Shane Hollander, also a hockey player like Ilya, and another mistake in Elian’s life—one he did not want to talk about, like a child embarrassed by a foolish error in a first-grade math problem. The Canadian was different, more… inexperienced, at times reminding Morel of a puppy—just as needy and charming. Right up until they ended up in bed, where the puppy, no less under Ilya’s influence, turned into a damn wolf—or something worse. Elian raised the hand holding his phone, its edge pressed against his cheek as he gazed thoughtfully out the window, tapping the fingers of his free hand against his thigh. His brown eyes—bright, almost amber—quietly flashed under the beam of a streetlight towering over the road, still filled with cars that had not yet formed traffic jams. For some reason, Morel had no doubt that by morning no one would be able to drive or even walk here, leaving drivers noisily fuming as they waited to escape the mess. His soft lips, naturally tinged pink, curved into a faint, barely visible smile as a quiet laugh rumbled in his chest, more like a purr—or, as Shane liked to call it, a cat’s rumble. Amusing that they did not behave like “cat and dog” with each other and got along just fine. Just like a couple. Ah yes… They were a couple. The three of them. Damn. The car stopped at the main entrance, and Elian stepped out after placing a hundred-dollar bill on the seat, shutting the door behind him before heading into the hotel. The reception desk greeted him with a pleasant woman who immediately straightened upon noticing him, offering a polite, professional smile. After asking for the room and receiving directions, Elian thanked her, leaving a piece of candy on the counter—quietly stolen from the event he had attended only twenty minutes earlier. A tasty candy, by the way. Morel had personally verified that. He headed for the elevator, which, as if by design, was waiting downstairs. The young man slipped inside quietly, like a shadow, and the doors closed once he pressed the floor button. His gaze settled on his reflection—his short stature (a cruel joke of fate or genetics, he did not know, since both his parents were tall), chestnut hair almost chocolate in shade still tied at the back of his head. With a single motion, Elian let it loose, running thin, pale fingers through it, lightly massaging his scalp. His amber, honey-colored eyes—as Ilya liked to call them—glimmered faintly with anticipation and a subtle longing hidden beneath his habitual coolness. He disliked relationships where they saw each other so rarely. Even if Rozanov insisted it wouldn’t last long. The elevator stopped gently, opened with a soft clang, allowing the hockey player to leave it and enter the corridor, along which the red carpet spread. The white columns, half-hidden in the wall, looked especially charming, rich and perhaps quite a bit royal. Small meter-high columns with flowerpots, where green lush bushes grew, and paintings of landscapes hung on the walls, so perfectly fitting into this interior. He stopped at room 333, snorting softly, wondering if it was an accident, or if the Russian oaf had chosen it on purpose. His hand rose and his knuckles hit the door three times, which opened a few seconds later, revealing the spacious interior of the room and a satisfied smile that blossomed on Rozanov's face. —Come on in, — the word came out of his mouth like a purr, and Elian, not on purpose, but rather out of habit, rolled his eyes, making Ilya grin harder. As soon as the doors closed and the lock clicked, he came closer, hugging the shorter and more fragile guy with his big and strong arms. His boyfriend, I missed him. —I see,— he snorts, pulling off his jacket and tilting his head to the side, letting wet, painfully familiar lips touch his neck. He missed you, but he won't say it. Elian frowned slightly, pursing his lips, and a second later adds a little dejectedly, — Will everything end quickly today, as usual? — We have the whole night tonight,— Shane comes out of the kitchen, as Morel, who has already taken off his shoes, suggested, and came closer to the brown—haired man, hugging and pulling him closer to him to gently kiss his cheekbone. Gently, because in a different way, Elian began to grumble and bite. — Did someone really decide to set aside time? — the Frenchman snorts, hitting the barb precisely at Rozanov, who has already gone further into the room, laughing softly, — Something or someone died in the forest? —No, I talked him into it, — Hollander whispered in his ear, gently running his nose over his cheekbone, which made Elian, quietly getting out of his prickly shell, melt, snuggle closer, inhale the familiar perfume he had given him for Shane's birthday. Nice. So much so that there is something gently warming in his chest, a feeling so rare that it almost puts him in a stupor, but the Canadian does not allow him to freeze, grabs his palm, leads him into the kitchen. And there's already a fucking feast in the kitchen. Or, in another way, a candlelit dinner. That's something new. Elion glances at the bottle of red wine, his favorite, which makes a faint smile appear on his lips. He was sometimes—and always, in fact—very picky, especially about drinking. It would have been much more relevant if he hadn't been completely drunk after the third glass. Salads, baked chicken, and a side dish were also on the table, from which almost transparent steam still emanated, rising in clouds into the air and dissolving into it like morning mist. Morel sat down on one of the seats, looking around the table with interest and appreciation, before chuckling contentedly, noticing Ilya's gaze on him, who smiled slightly at the sound. Dinner started in a couple of minutes. There were quiet conversations at the table, occasional laughter and barbs, often from a Frenchman. The lights in the candles were blinking softly, moving as if alive, as if they were witnesses to this cozy, intimate scene in their own way. They talked about everything from recent news to distant childhood and stories from training. Alcohol, and especially such well-aged wine, deftly loosened the tongue and Elian did not notice how he began to speak a little more sluggishly, quietly and with laughs. His cheeks were flushed from the wine, making him even more charming as his index finger lazily slid along the rim of the glass. Amber eyes stared into the glare from the lights, as if trying to remember them as something important, necessary, like an artist trying to remember how the light falls and reflects, and what colors it colors the glass itself. He felt the touch on his thigh immediately. More precisely, his body realized first, becoming more sensitive and responsive, as his leg trembled slightly, feeling soft, hot strokes that rose higher and higher on his leg, forcing Elian to raise an interested, to some extent playful look at Ilya. — You're pushing yourself,— he whispers with his lips, making Rozanov chuckle softly. Morel looks at Shane, whose hand, mirroring the Russian's movements, also rested on someone else's thigh, as if they were on the field right now and were fighting for the right to be closer, to take the opponent into their hands, — I need to wash up. Elian stood up abruptly, almost knocking over his glass and the half-empty bottle next to it, which he seemed to be drinking alone. He got up from the table, heading firmly towards the bathroom, where he closed the door and went to the washbasin, turning on the cold water. His fingers burned under it, as if they were hot, but he didn't take his hand away—on the contrary, he took water in his palm and splashed it on his face, as if he could get a little more sober that way. A soft knock on the door brought him to his senses, making him look around. — Lee, are you okay, baby?— Shane, always so sensitive and affectionate in his own way, made the drunk Elian smile, gently, almost tremulously, in a way he would never smile in his face. Just because his own nasty temper wouldn't allow it. — Yes, I'll be right out, — his muffled voice calmed Hollander a little, who smiled faintly. He did not want to get Morel drunk at all, who, as if on purpose, poured himself every time himself. Elian came out very soon, finding himself nose to nose with Shane, who gently hugged him, habitually putting his hands on the small of his back. He leaned closer, kissing her cheek, nose, and lips, so soft they still tasted like wine. — Are you having fun without me? — Rozanov's voice made them pull away for a moment, before they could say anything, Ilya came closer, standing right behind Elian, hugging him from behind and putting his hands on his toned stomach. His lips habitually touched his neck, the nape of his neck, and with one hand he pulled back his shirt, leaving a kiss there as well. Elian giggles softly, running one hand through Ilya's blond hair, giggling softly as Shane presses against his cheekbone, kissing him too and leaving smudged, imperceptible marks on his skin. As they approached the bed, Morel did not notice, he just fell on the soft feather beds with Hollander, right on top of him, while Ilya pressed him on top, running his hands under his shirt, playfully running his fingertips over his stomach, causing the muscles to contract, and the stomach itself noticeably twitched, then over his flat chest, playing with sensitive with her nipples and pulling out a soft moan from Morel's lips, which was more like a ragged sigh. Trapped between hot bodies, he felt as if sweet bliss, rather confused with excitement, covered him like a tsunami city — completely, without the possibility of staying dry. Shane reaches for his trousers with his fingers, which have already creased due to unusually sharp, relaxed movements, rather than a calm step or sitting on a chair with one leg crossed over the other with a perfectly straight back. The fastener and belt yield to skillful fingers, with a quiet, barely audible click that is lost in the rustle of clothes, hot sighs and quiet purrs of Ilya chatting about something. One of the habits that sometimes irritates Elian right to the point of trembling and wanting to either punch him in the jaw or put a dick in his mouth so that he would be silent for at least a minute. But, alas and ah, he had his back to him and could not do either of them. Hollander runs his lips over the quivering adam's apple, stretches short butterfly kisses down to the sharp collarbones, lingering on them a little longer to leave a mark - a hickey or, possibly, a bite. Rozanov runs his fingers over his shirt, rising higher and higher, unbuttoning each button one at a time, either mocking or... Either by mocking him, Elian thought, and he sighed noisily when the Canadian pressed his lips to his chest. — Fuck... — The brown—haired man sighed noisily, arching his back, snuggling closer. Eyelashes fluttered, fingers squeezed someone else's shoulder and the sheet a little harder, almost to the point of pain and fabric cracking. Shane smiled softly, pulled back, barely noticing how his tongue and someone else's nipple were connected by a thin thread of saliva, kissed him one last time and gave in lower, continuing to caress his chest with one hand, and tightly squeezing his waist with the other. Ilya took off his clothes, pulling off his shirt, forcing Morel to stand up a little, lower his arms to pull off the light fabric, which in the next instant was already thrown somewhere to the side, followed by trousers with underwear. I'm sure Shane will carefully pick them up in the morning, dust them off, and then fold them to the rest of the pile of clothes, as he liked to do. Sweet Shane, charming and so decent... Elian buried his fingers in the Canadian's dark hair, pulling him closer so that he could kiss him afterwards—hesitantly, blurrily, needfully, as if he needed it like air. Warmth spread through my chest like wine down my throat ten minutes ago, soaked into my bloodstream, and began to run through my body, warming me as well as a warm winter coat in the summer heat. Are your cheeks flushed, either from the heat, or from alcohol, or maybe even from embarrassment? Elian didn't know, and he didn't really want to, wanting to feel only other people's hot hands, lips, and bodies in general. The kiss deepened almost immediately, their tongues entwined like snakes, playing, teasing and arousing only more. Hollander bit his lip until it bled, which made the metallic taste of his own skin feel on his tongue. His fingers wandered over someone else's shirt, wanting to take it off, rip it off, or rip it off altogether if necessary, and Elian, just like Shane, was sure that Morel would give a damn about the price of the shirt, or if it had been bought just that evening. I don't care, as long as it doesn't happen. Ilya hummed softly for a long time, running his fingers over someone else's back, along the sides, drawing only patterns known to him. He felt his cock standing like a stake, pulling on his trousers, which were almost painfully tight, and therefore he pressed closer to the light buttocks, teasing them both — but more of himself, which caused him to begin unbuttoning his jeans, unable to contain himself or his own, almost animal excitement, which It hit him sharply and coldly, like a sudden downpour. Ilya leans closer, leads a path of kisses, unusually gentle, almost tremulous, down from the neck, along the spine to the pelvis. Morel bends over pliantly, sucking in air noisily as someone else's fingers, which have passed between his thighs, are much colder than the heat in his body, gently, as if checking, slide over his penis, from the head to the base. They teasingly lead over the testicles, rolling them between their fingers before sliding over the skin to the anal opening itself. Morel moans, bites her lips, lowering her head and burying her forehead into Shane's shoulder, when Ilya's fingers gently press and the two enter with a soft "squish". He won't tell you that he was preparing, that he was stretching his own hole at home, locking himself in the bathroom and muffling his moans with his own palm. He won't tell me, because he's ashamed to admit how much he sometimes wants to, because he feels Rozanov's fingers tremble with delight in his gut when he understands. And he whispers, softly, in his ear, what a "good boy" he is and "how impatient." And these words, dirty and at the same time scorchingly exciting, make him tremble, bend his toes, lift his hips a little higher so that his fingers would go deeper, softer, touching his prostate exactly. Hollander understands everything after a couple of seconds, reaching down with one hand to touch the pink, stretchable hole, which, Morel feels, burns, burns not only him, but also his guys. The hockey player gently presses and inserts one finger, feeling how tightly the soft, silky walls squeeze it, as the muscles almost make it freeze. And Elian pushes back a little, impatiently, greedily, wanting to take in more, deeper. When Ilya's fingers, and then Shane's, come out, the Frenchman feels disappointed, longing for the emptiness inside, which in the next moment is filled with a member. Morel chokes, exhales noisily, so much so that it sounds more like a moan. It was too fast and unexpected, even if it was desirable. Elian sobs softly, letting the air out of his lungs, when Ilya, kneeling behind him on the mattress of the bed, presses his chest against his back, leaving kisses on his neck, exits, leaving only his head trapped in a ring of muscles, and then re-enters, tearing a moan from someone else's throat. It feels good, it feels so bright that a gentle languor covers him like a blanket, while someone else's fingers squeeze his hips until future bruises. I don't give a shit. They'll do. They will disappear, even if not immediately. Morel wants more, more, more. He's like a drug addict, searching for the dose he finds in Shane as he pushes him back onto his back, already sitting down, his fingers tugging at his belt buckle. A couple of movements and the trousers are pulled down to the ankles, and then they fly away, also somewhere in a pile. Morel wraps her palm around someone else's penis, leads her thin fingers from the base to the head, teases, gently pressing the pad of her finger on the urethra before lowering her palm down again and already grabbing the head with her lips. His tongue slides greedily, teasingly, as if studying, as if he doesn't know what he looks like, even though he's taken it in his mouth and ass a bunch of times before. He knows where to run his tongue and fingers to make a moan come from his lips, where the bulging vein on the penis itself is located, along which he will definitely run his tongue. —Oh my God, Lee... — Hollander exhales raggedly, looking precisely into the amber, cunning eyes that looked at him expectantly, teasingly, bringing him to a peak. Elian jerks forward a little, swallows deeper, causing the head to almost push against the walls of his throat, from which a moan escapes, sending vibrations through Shane's body. Ilya pushes deeper, faster, hugging his hand somewhere around his stomach, with the other still slightly pushing his buttock, so that at least out of the corner of his eye he could see his cock disappearing into someone else's greedy, narrow and terribly hot ass. Elian lets his cock out of his mouth, pulls the guy by the hand to kiss him, to feel the warmth and love that is described in novels, and which Shane gives him so ardently. He moves closer himself, which makes Rozanov quietly snort with displeasure, reaching closer, entering and almost driving into the yielding body, while Morel, clasping his and Hollander's cocks, begins to slowly, teasingly move his hand. Ilya notices this, chuckles a little, covering the Frenchman's hand with his own, who is already trembling slightly. He's about to come. Elian tilts her head, squeezing two cocks, not to the point of pain, but gently, gently, presses her temple against Shane's cheek and exhales, noisily, raggedly and almost in a whisper: — Enter me... Together with Rosie,— the words reach the Canadian's ear immediately, but realization comes only five seconds later, and then he grabs his hips, moves closer to pull Elian closer, rises to his knees, which makes him the same height as Ilya. Elian arches her back, pressing her shoulder blades against the chest of the blond-haired man, throwing one arm back to bury herself in Rozanov's hair. He feels him exhale into his neck, scorching it with his breath, leaving an invisible heat and making him shudder involuntarily. The hockey player immediately understands what Morel is up to, just smiles softly, kisses his shoulder, and reaches down with one hand to insert two fingers into the pliant hole that is already filled with Rozanov's penis. Shane snuggles closer, chest to chest, gently guides along someone else's lower back, thighs, and soft waist, pressing his cock to Elian, — Come on... Hollander gently presses, enters the hole and freezes when he feels tight, when he feels someone else's heat next to him. Morel whines like a puppy, throws her head back, laying it exactly on Ilya's shoulder, when Shane touches her neck with her lips, presses herself so closely, as if she wants to merge with the Frenchman. He presses, entering even deeper, already by half. But he doesn't stop and enters almost to the end with one movement, causing Elian to cry out softly. He is breathing noisily, balancing his breathing, or at least trying to do so. The brown-haired man seems to see stars, hearts, whatever the fuck you want in front of him. The feeling of fullness covered him so clearly and vividly that all the air was knocked out of his lungs, forcing him to swallow greedily. The guys wait until their breathing and heart calm down, when their fingers stop squeezing the sheets until they creak, and the soft hole gets used to it a little, relaxes. And she really relaxes when they start moving, gently, in different ways, which makes it hard for Elian to understand, to realize that his consciousness has been turned off to hell. —Oh, my God... — it's unclear who exhales it, it seems like all three of them at the same time, one because of the feeling of fullness, the other because of the tightness inside their sweet, sometimes grumpy boyfriend. Elian moans, arches like a cat in spring, when the only thing she wants is to mate, whines and sobs softly from the range of emotions that cover him from head to toe. Shane runs his hand gently over my shoulder, soothing me and giving me the attention I need right now. Ilya growls softly, presses his forehead to the back of his neck, pushes deeper, faster, which the other two feel. The climax comes quickly, even almost unexpectedly. Elian cums first, holding his hand on his own cock when he feels a tremor inside himself, and then as his insides are flooded with sperm. Fatigue covers the body with a veil, like a dope. Shane puts his arms around Elian's neck and hugs him, pulling Ilya along with him. They all lie on their sides, Morel still feels the members of her guys inside her, which makes her fingers close on other people's muscles a little stronger. Consciousness slowly drifts away, leaving him, and before falling asleep, he hears Ilya's warm words, whose lips gently kiss his knuckles. — Sleep well, little Li,— he smiled softly, forcing him to nod weakly and lean back on the pillow.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

A bright streak from a ray of sunlight that slid between the curtains right on her fair face made Elian wince. A mutter of displeasure escaped his lips as he tried to bury his nose deeper into the blanket, and then turn away from the light hitting his eyes. The Frenchman rolled over onto his other side, clutching the edge of the blanket in his palms harder and pressing it to his face. Someone else's hand, hot and wide, slid over his stomach, pulling him closer, with his back to his chest. Morel exhales, grumbles something involuntarily, covering Ilya's hand with his own, slightly squeezing Rozanov's palm with his fingers, who only laughs softly, sleepily, running his nose through the hair on the back of Elian's head. — What time is it?.. — Morel croaks in a whisper, with a dry throat, and tries to moisten his throat at least with saliva, which is not very successful. He feels the guy behind him turn slightly, reaching with the hand that used to lie on the brown-haired man's stomach to the bedside table in order to get his cell phone. Elian turns his head slightly in his direction, feeling the muscles of the guy's arm tighten under his head. He didn't even realize that he wasn't sleeping on a pillow, but on someone else's arm. —Eleven hours and forty minutes, — Ilya exhales and hides the phone under his pillow, turning around again and covering Morel's body with his hand. He stretches his face towards the guy to leave a short kiss on his forehead, and then on his lips, deeper, almost greedy. Elian is purring softly, hardly displeased — maybe just a little, since his ass hurts quite noticeably, and he himself is sick from drinking alcohol yesterday. They both pull away after a couple of seconds and Morel turns away, pulls the blanket up to his nose, putting his hand on top of Ilya's palm again. He squeezes it with his fingers, then pulls it higher, to his chest, where his peacefully pounding heart can be heard. The eye itself glides over the luxurious interior of the room. From the paintings on the wall, the rare but complementary flower pots with some plants - Elian, to be honest, did not understand, he is not a florist — from the bedside tables and the dark TV screen. The inspection is further blocked by Shane, who appears and lies down next to him under the blanket, facing Morel. — How are you? — He asks in his usual worried, soft, slightly hoarse voice — that's how his voice always was in the morning and Elian would lie if he said he didn't like it— Does something hurt? — That's it... — Lee exhales tiredly, and Hollander purses his lips, moves closer, almost to the point, dips lower to be at chest level with the brown—haired man. Only the top of his head sticks out from under the blanket, when Elian pushes its edge aside, looks at Shane, which looks guilty, as if Morel is about to chase him with sneakers, like a naughty puppy. His fingers reach for his dark hair, burrowing into it, and then run from the back of his head to his temples and down to my cheeks — That's normal, you know... — Can I get you some painkillers? —he asks softly, and Morel smiles weakly against his will, running his thumb along the tip of his lip, up his cheek, and almost to his eyelid. And Hollander clings, clinging to someone else's hand, covering it with his palm, while his other hand leads from the waist down to the brown-haired man's thigh. He looks exactly at Elian's face, reading his emotions to understand where it hurts, where it feels good, where he purses his lips or blinks his eyelashes in displeasure, and where a convulsive sigh escapes his lips. He runs his fingers higher, to the buttocks, slightly pulling the fabric of the boxers worn by Elian, who was still falling asleep. — Shane, I can't take the second round, — Morel draws in a loud breath, and Hollander steps back, obediently withdraws his hand back to his waist, to which Elian throws his leg over him, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him closer. The brunette smiles softly, burying his nose in the chest of the brown—haired man, hugging his waist tighter with his fingers... — It can be done later, — Ilya whispers into the top of his head, hugging him under his chest, and Morel closes his eyes, falling into a doze, hearing Shane and Rozanov begin to relax, and soon they are softly snoring.