Chapter Text
Shane made it back to his hotel room, somehow.
In the shower, he scrubbed away every trace of sweat and grime and watchful eyes. His bag rang and rang and rang. Each pitter patter of water hitting his back might as well be a lash. He didn't want to know what his parents would say, if they're confused or disappointed, or if they would demand he explain himself. He couldn't. He didn't know, either.
Soulmates were supposed to be something other people had, and he would find later in life and learn to love. How could he explain that he had had his soulmate, and loved him, the whole time, but was only just now finding out?
And Rozanov. Fuck. What did he think about all this? Disappointed, too, maybe. Probably. Being Shane's soulmate was only going to make his life harder.
He cut the water off with a grunt and dried himself. There's nothing to do. They couldn't have been together before, and they couldn't be together now.
But it was magic, for one brief, shining moment. They way they moved together, puck to puck, stick to stick, like they were born to be on the same ice for the rest of their lives. He couldn't help imagining a world where they had been drafted to the same team. The games they'd play and the cups they'd win, together always. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. Spoken in the same breath not because of some dumb rivalry, but because everyone knew there was no one better for each other but them, and there never will be.
His bag rang and rang and rang, then cut quiet, and then the ringing continued on. Over and over as he got dressed. Over and over as he flopped on the bed to stare at the ceiling.
It kept ringing.
And ringing.
And then it stopped.
There was a heavy knock at the door.
“Shane," Rozanov begged from the hallway. “Open the fucking door."
Pure adrenaline shot through him. Rozanov was yelling and banging so loud anyone could hear him. He opened the door before the other residents of this floor could stick their heads out and catch them.
Rozanov was winded and rumpled in his game day suit, like he left the locker room without showering, too.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?" He pulled him inside and shut the door. Then locked it. Then hit his head against the wood, because in his panic he didn't think about how now, Rozanov was here, in the room with him.
Rozanov spun him around and crashed their mouths together in a desperate kiss. Shane moaned, and for a moment let himself have this.
He tore their mouths apart and asked, "Did anyone see you?”
"No. I don't know. Is that really what you're focusing on?”
What does he want from him? He's just following the script they've been writing for years. He pushed off the door and backed him deeper into the room. "What else is there? Nothing's changed.”
Rozanov's face iced over, and once again Shane wished soulmates really could read each other's minds.
"Ah. So you are coward.”
"Excuse me?”
"Perfect Shane Hollander, with his perfect hockey and perfect life. What will everyone think of him now?”
"Fuck you!” It hurt mostly because it was true, he had been spiraling about that, but it wasn't the whole truth. “You're not gay."
“No, not entirely."
“Well I am. Entirely."
And Rozanov laughed, as if any of this was funny. “Oh, wow, what made you think that? Was it before or after you fucked Rose Landry?”
Rozanov crossed his arms, shoulders tensed, and he leaned against the dresser with an air of casualness, but he was uncomfortable. Shane could tell that much, at least.
"Are you serious right now? Why are you even here?”
Rozanov bared his teeth in what could generously be called a smile. "Sorry, let me be serious. I'm here because you are running away again."
Shane stared at him.
The last time they were together had played on repeat in his mind. What he could have done better or different. What he could have said to not show his hand and heart so plainly. Knowing they're soulmates now didn't change the past, or Rozanov's past wishes. How many texts went unanswered over the years, until months and months later when he would fall back into his bed because he couldn't help himself?
"Me? I'm running away? You-I'm trying to do what you want,” he said, a bit watery and pathetic, but he's starting to crack in too many places to hold together.
"What?”
“You don't want me in your life!” All the air in the room couldn't fill his lungs. They burned in his effort to hold back tears.
As fast as it came, the anger drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion and heartbreak in its place. He could never really stay mad at him.
"And it was fine, whatever, because we couldn't be anything, anyways. But don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about. I was just another hookup that you could drop whenever I got too inconvenient. Nothing's changed."
Rozanov looked struck. It was unfair of Shane, maybe, to feel hurt by that, too. After all, he always backed off when Rozanov pushed, instead of pushing back. There was no point when their relationship was impossible, and pushing might lose him the one thing that made him happy besides hockey.
“You… you don't like me." He said it like he was trying to convince them both.
It was Shane's turn to laugh, because liking him was kind of the whole problem. He collapsed onto the bed. They're already soulmates. What's the point of keeping everything tight to his chest anymore? It was killing him. "Yeah, I do. Maybe a little too much.”
Rozanov pushed off the dresser and closed the distance between them. The bed dipped where he sat, but Shane kept his eyes on the ugly carpet between his feet.
After a minute of agonizing silence that pressed on his chest, Rozanov sucked in a shaky breath, and said, "I do want you in my life.”
Shane closed his eyes against the swell of emotions rising in him. It was what he had wanted to hear for so long, but not under these circumstances, where fate or the universe or something forced their hand. "Because I'm your-your soulmate.”
"No.”
"I'm pretty sure we are.”
"Hollander.” He rubbed his eyes in exasperation. "I'm not good at this. Of course we are, yes. I meant… my father is police, my brother is police. I wanted you in my life, but you could not be there."
“Because of your family?"
“Because of Russia!"
"What would happen to you?”
Rozanov shook his head. "I don't want to know. Nothing good.”
What about now, when the whole world had watched them drift? Terror sat sour in his stomach. Would they accuse him of promoting gay propaganda, or whatever the law was, and arrest him? Kill him? They wouldn't do that, right? He's Ilya Rozanov, the treasure of Russia. Maybe that made it worse. People looked up to him.
"Will you go home again this summer?”
"I have to, if I can. My father is sick.”
"Sick like crazy, or like illness?”
"Both." His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Dementia. I have to take care of him. My brother is useless."
"What about your mom?”
"Dead.”
"Oh, I'm sorry.”
"Was long time ago.” He shrugged, like it didn't matter or hurt anymore, but his eyes were shiny. Pain ricochetted between them, until Shane couldn't tell whose it was originally. He hoped it lessened the weight of grief somehow.
"Whatever you decide to do, I want you in my life, too,” Shane said.
Turning away, Rozanov couldn't quite hide the single tear that trailed down his face. That tear undid him.
“Hey." He tried to catch his eyes. “Hey, hey, Rozanov." He climbed into his lap and kissed the tears away.
He gasped into Shane's mouth. "You called me Ilya, before.”
"Ilya.” He rolled the name over his tongue, heavy with love. “Ilya."
“Shane," Ilya said, as if he could hear it.
And now Shane could feel the click. The thing that connected them mind, body, and soul, so that he could plead, “Tell me,” and Ilya knew exactly what he meant.
“You were never just some fuck. Every time I was with you, I tried so hard not to show that I—please, Shane, it can't just be me.”
"It's not." They held each other tight, until there was no space left between them, almost until they melded into one. “Not just you. I'm sorry I ran away last time. It was nice. It felt like we're were something"
Ilya burrowed his face in Shane's shoulder. “I'm sorry I made you run."
They kissed. It always went back to that, to the way they drew each other in like nothing else. They kissed and kissed and kissed, breaths exchanged, hearts pumping like fire, and the world fell silent. It was just them, one soul in two bodies.
It was like the first time all over again. Two nervous, over eager men trying to please each other as best they could. Ilya's hands shook as he prepped Shane. When he was finally inside, they moved at the same time, rhythm kept by the squeeze of his thighs and the punched out moans he could never hold in.
Shane couldn't believe they hadn't figured it out before, when the sex was always like this, a perfect dance. Each change in position was anticipated and matched. They matched. The joy he had felt on the ice rose up again, echoed back tenfold from Ilya, until laughs mixed with moans, and moans mixed with cries, and they came together with one last crushing kiss.
Ilya peppered his face with kisses, mumbled Russian punctuating each smack.
They pressed their foreheads together, and he just looked at him, sweaty curls haloing his beautiful face.
“Ya tebya lyubylu," Ilya whispered.
“What does that mean?"
They sucked in a deep, shaking breath. It was strange, how he could tell when an action was Ilya's, even though they both did it. Comforting, too, that there was a piece of him inside Shane always.
“I love you,” they said, Ilya with nerves, Shane with relief.
They both blinked in shock. Ilya swallowed audibly. “You don't-I mean, the drifting—”
"I love you,” Shane insisted. "Fuck, I love you so much.”
Ilya buried his face back in his
neck, at a loss for words, it seemed, English or Russian.
That's fine. Shane would hold him all night without another word spoken. They didn't need them now.