Chapter Text
---
The room is thick with the smell of sex and Rozanov's cigarette. Shane blinks the smoke away from his eyes, and struggles to swallow down the vodka. Jesus Christ, it is so strong, and maybe a little bit disgusting too. It burns in his mouth, all the way down his throat, settling hot and heavy and uncomfortable in his stomach.
This doesn't actually feel like a reward at all. Maybe he shouldn't have asked for it.
The sex was good, it always is, with Rozanov. But Shane cannot shake the feeling that something feels off between them. He tries to ask Rozanov about his plans for the summer, hoping to clear the air and lighten up the mood. He wants Rozanov to make a stupid joke, to say something that is meant to annoy him but he won't actually get annoyed about, but all he gets are crisp answers that feel passive-aggressive.
"Do you... Do you even like it there?" Shane tries again. Talk to me, tell me what you like.
"What difference does it make?" There it is, he is being passive-aggressive again.
"A pretty big one, I think."
Rozanov blinks a few times. He is facing in Shane's direction, but he is not really looking at Shane, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then he turns away, dragging his cigarette to his lips again.
It feels wrong, wrong wrong—
"I need to sleep."
"Oh," Shane says, lamely. He scrambles to get off the bed, wincing when he slams the unfinished vodka down onto the drawer a bit harder than he intended to, the sharp clank making him shudder. His nakedness suddenly becomes too much. He feels too raw, too exposed, which is stupid considering what they just did. "Yeah, me too. I should, uh..."
The hard tiles feel cold beneath his feet. He rushes to put on his clothes, his hands trembling so badly that he misses the buttons on his shirt a few times. After he is done dressing, he lingers by the door, expecting, hoping—
He isn't sure what exactly he is hoping for.
But the Russian didn't seem that tense a moment ago, did he? He had laughed, carefree and blooming, when Shane asked for the vodka. Shane was relieved to see him laugh, to finally show him some unguarded emotions—something real—rather than that carefully constructed façade of cool nonchalance that he always puts on for Shane and the world to see. He wanted to have more, for Rozanov to open up to him, and that's why he tried to ask, but somehow he ended up ruining the moment, all because he was greedy and stupid and running his mouth—
“So, uh, I’m off.” Shane says tentatively, fidgeting with his coat.
Come see me, smile at me, kiss me before I go—
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
Rozanov's tone is cold. Uninterested. Dismissive.
Shane's stomach sinks. He waits for one, two seconds. Nothing. His arms flop down and he whips his head away. He walks slowly, still hoping for something—but then he is finally out of the room, the sound of the door clicking closed too loud in his ringing ears.
He drags his heavy feet to the elevators, already feeling his throat constricting. He fiddles with his phone and sighs deeply. He really doesn't want their... meeting to end up like that. Rozanov is clearly annoyed with him, or maybe he is just tired and Shane is thinking too much. But he has to do something. Let Rozanov knows that he is, he is—
The sound of his breathing is too loud, yet the enclosed elevator still feels suffocating.
Jane: See you next season :) |
No, that sounds too casual. But, they are casual... Whatever this is, it's supposed to be casual.
They are not anything, like Rozanov told him in Sochi.
He deletes the message. The back of his eyes is burning, and he blinks rapidly to clear away the feeling. He lets his head fall to the elevator wall, unable to stop his trembling hands from typing out the thoughts roaring in his head.
Rozanov didn't come to see him out before he left. Hell, he didn't even stand up from the bed, didn't even seem like he wanted to look at Shane after they was done having sex. In fact, he thinks the other man didn't even look at him during sex, having pushed his face down into the mattress the entire time. And they did not, they did not—
Jane: We didn't even kiss |
He deletes it slowly, his hands feel too cold and numb to coordinate, and the screen is blurry. He heaves, and swallows down what feels like a bundle of thorns in his throat.
"Fuck."
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck—
His entire body is burning up, but for some reasons he still feels so cold. His stomach twists, and he feels like he’s falling through the floor, even though he’s standing still. He thumps his forehead repeatedly against the hard, cold metal wall of the elevator, hoping the pain will ground him back. His breaths come out too frantic, too shallow. Too many thoughts are swirling in his head, colliding, overlapping, too fast and too chaotic for him to grab onto any of them.
We didn't even kiss.
Why didn't we kiss?
A small part of him tries to protest, but we did kiss earlier, in the bathroom. That should be enough, right? Rozanov had kissed him so hard that the force of it left him lightheaded, and he had tried to keep his eyes closed, hoping to savor the moment a little bit more, until Rozanov patted his cheek to bring him back to reality. So, technically, they did kiss, right?
The thought should have made him feel better. In stead, it makes him feel worse.
A strange lightness creeps in, like he’s drifting upward from his body, watching himself from somewhere just behind his eyes. The elevator feels unreal, everything feels unreal. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, as time stretches and warps, seconds bleeding into minutes, the cold bleeding into every part of his being, his thoughts bleeding into static noise in his head—
"Hey, hey! Are you okay? Do you need help?"
A woman's voice cuts through the ringing, startling him out of his daze. He doesn't notice that the elevator has stopped. He blinks, suddenly aware of his body and his surrounding again—too aware of his wet eyes, his shaking hands, the way his chest is still struggling to pull in air. Embarrassment crashes over him, sharp and immediate.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Sorry. I—thank you. Excuse me.” He quickly slips past her and out into the hallway, his heart pounding. He cannot allow himself to be seen like this, someone can take pictures or videos of him and sell them to tabloids, put them on the Internet. The brands will drop him, his family will be so disappointed, his career will be over, his life would be over.
The corridor stretches out in front of him like an endless maze, identical doors on either side. He can’t remember which room is his, he can't even read the numbers on the wall. Tears spill before he can stop them, blinding and hot, falling faster than he can wipe them away.
Please don’t let me run into anyone. He prays desperately. He is not even that religious, but in that moment, he truly hopes that his prayers will be answered. Please, please, please—
He runs through the hallway, panic rising up his throat like it’s found a foothold. When he finally finds his room, he fumbles with the key card, hands trembling so badly he drops it. It takes him a few tries before the door finally clicks open.
The moment it shuts behind him, whatever’s holding him together gives out. He leans back against the door and folds in onto himself, his whole body wrecking with sobs. The room feels too small, the air too thick—just like in Rozanov's penthouse—
Rozanov has always been considerate and careful with him. He always asks Shane if things are okay, if he is hurting, if he is feeling good. The first time they hooked up, Rozanov had kissed him before Shane got on his knees. They kissed when Scott Hunter was in the room next-door. And they kissed slowly and sweetly, on his apartment stairway, after Rozanov had taken his world apart and put him back together again. Hell, even in that bathroom, where he felt as if the Russian was trampling on his bared soul, Rozanov had kissed him.
So why was it different this time? He must have done something wrong. He rakes his fingers through his hair, pulling hard at it. He knows he definitely said something wrong, but what exactly? What else was wrong? Was his little show not enough? Was he too timid? Did his—his body not feel good for Rozanov?
Was he not good enough? What did he do wrong?
Their times together between seasons are so short, and Shane aches with how much he wants—needs the other man. He clings to every single interaction, every touch, every word, every glance, everything Rozanov is willing to give him. He knows they cannot be anything, like Rozanov told him in Sochi. They cannot be anything other than this arrangement. Still, there is a hollow numbness in his chest every time he thinks about those golden curls and ocean eyes, and it doesn't go away, doesn't subside unless he is with Rozanov, and he hates himself for wishing he could have more.
Fuck, why is he so needy? It's selfish, and pathetic, and it's just him because clearly Rozanov doesn't want him back. The signs are all there, blaring loud and red like a danger alarm, and he has no one to blame but himself for ignoring them.
In Sochi, Shane had tried to persuaded himself, repeatedly, that Rozanov was just burdened by Russia's loss, that Rozanov probably didn't mean what he said. He had sounded overwhelmed, like he was lashing out at Shane because he didn’t know where else to put the brittle pressure his country was pushing onto him. But then days turned into weeks, weeks slid into months, as Shane constantly checked the calendar and felt embarrassed by how long he’d been waiting, hanging, longing like an idiot.
Six months! Six fucking months! He hated how restless he was, how his phone sat heavier in his pockets and burnt hotter in his palms, how every notification that wasn’t from Lily made his heart sink. More than often enough, the anger turned inwards. He thought about how absurd it was to care this much, how humiliating it felt to wait for someone who couldn’t spend a few minutes, maybe one minute, fucking hell—a few seconds—to return the simple courtesy of sending a text. Six months of him shouting into the void, and Rozanov didn't even bother to spare him a few precious seconds.
And the worst part wasn’t even the rejection—if Shane can even call it that—it was the not seeing, not knowing if Rozanov was okay, if he was still angry, if he was feeling better after winning the Cup. There was no way for Shane to reach out to Rozanov without crossing a bright red line, leaving him stuck in the empty space where Lily used to be.
That's why this stupid awards ceremony, no matter how fucking clowny it was, filled him to the brim with anticipation because he could finally get to see Rozanov again. Yet, he was also terrified of seeing Rozanov again, running dozen possible versions of their reunions in his head. None of them prepared him for reality. That fucking asshole acted like nothing happened, like the months of silence hadn’t existed, his eyes flickering to Shane with nothing but easy, casual recognition. Shane had gritted his teeth, grinded out the words on the teleprompter, feeling immeasurable relief when everything was finally over so he could run into the bathroom to be alone, to hide from the public, to hide from Rozanov, to hide the emotions that threaten to break out of his control.
When he saw that Rozanov had followed him inside, he had hoped that the other man would say something, do something—anything—to acknowledge this gnawing abyss between them. He didn't even hope for a fucking apology, he just wanted at least an explanation. When Rozanov gave him nothing, the dam inside Shane just broke, his entire body shaking with rage. He yelled about the six months of silence that had hollowed him out, about how his entire existence didn't even matter to Rozanov, demanding Rozanov to tell him just what the fuck he could possibly want from Shane.
Say "I want you". Say you want me.
And yet Rozanov just stood there, perfectly still and composed. Not a single golden curl out of place, not a glint of emotions in his ocean eyes. He was beautiful, untouchable, unaffected. Like none of this mattered to him, while Shane felt like he just fucking spilled his guts out on the floor, all for Rozanov to see. It felt cruel to him then, and it feels cruel to him now.
Then Rozanov told Shane to suck his dick, his bland expression unchanging. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world and Shane was the stupid one for even asking. Of course, of course it was just about sex. Because that's all he ever was, all he can ever be to Rozanov.
He hates Rozanov so much for that, but he also hates himself just as much, because he knows far too well that he also wants it—needs it desperately—an accomplice in his own undoing. He had been so lonely, and he had never known the touch of another as passionate and intoxicating as Rozanov's, despite having a girlfriend once. He was starved for that warmth, all his resolve crumbling at the simple contact of Rozanov's hand on his face. Pathetic pleads fell too easily from his lips, because Rozanov had told him to ask for it, and no matter how hard Shane wanted to, he could not resist. When the Russian made a deal with him, promising him what he wanted, he had scrambled to hold onto that promise like a man dying from famine. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it wasn’t nothing, and it was certainly enough to leave him crying and begging in that filthy bathroom.
He was so far gone that he did everything else Rozanov wanted him to. He put on a fucking show, even though his entire being was burning with shame—and then eagerness, because after months of silence, Rozanov had finally let him in, had asked Shane to do something for his special day. And Shane did want to do it, although he wished that he didn't have to beg for scraps of Rozanov's attention. Still, he wanted to be good, he wanted to make things right.
Tonight was an opportunity for him to fix whatever was wrong between the two of them, but Shane just went on to fuck that up too.
Sochi, the past six months, this fucking night. Everything replayed in his mind, again and again and again, like a broken record.
Rozanov's icy glare, Rozanov's chilling words.
We are not anything.
They claw at his brain, gripping and squeezing, threatening to spill over his body. His legs give out, and he crashes onto the bed, clutching at the blanket like a lifeline.
He doesn't know how long he stays like that, crying into his pillow and feeling disgusted by how it's turning wet, cold and uncomfortable. He is still in his suit, he has not showered, he smells like sex and vodka and cigarette, traces of Rozanov's dried come lingering between his thighs and his own on his stomach. He must get up and shower, he must change, he has to pack, he has a flight tomorrow, he—
He feels dirty. Used. Discarded. Just another conquest to add to Rozanov's already impressive list, probably something that the Raiders joke about in their locker rooms.
Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting—
In the end, Shane just curls tighter into himself, as if he can just collapse inwards and disappear.
---
He wakes slowly and disoriented. His head is ringing, his face still feels tight, and his body refuses to move. It takes him a while before he can open his heavy eyes, his lids clinging together, sore and swollen. Yesterday comes back in fragments. The awards show, the sex, Rozanov—
We didn't even kiss.
Shane looks down and sees his yesterday’s clothes, creased and rumpled from sleep. Something sinks in his chest and his face scrunches up. Right, he has to shower, pack, come see his parents, get on a flight home. He reaches for his phone, seeing several missed alarms and even more missed calls from his mom.
Before Shane can stop himself, he opens up his messages, and realization lands with a dull sense of dread when there is nothing new from Lily. He stares at the screen, "Penthouse 1" staring back at him, cold and mocking. Six months of unbearable silence, and this is all Rozanov gave him afterwards.
He shook his head to bring himself out of the stupor. So stupid. What is he even expecting?
Eventually, he forces himself into the shower, closing his eyes every time he passes by the mirror. He really doesn't want to see how he looks right now. He turns the heat up until the water burns his skin red, scrubbing over and over, as if he can wash away the evidence from last night, wash away the shame and the ache in his chest. He feels like they don't go away at all, but he continues to scrub anyway.
The rest of the morning passes by like stale air. He changes, packs, and puts on sunglasses. No one needs to know his eyes still hurt, especially his parents. He makes his way downstairs, where they are already waiting.
Mom runs to him, worry and relief plain on her face. "Shane, there you are! I was so worried, it's not like you to sleep in, and I can't reach you—" She pauses, studying him for a moment. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” he says too quickly. His voice sounds rough and foreign to his own ears. “I'm sorry Mom. I'm just tired. Let's go.”
His parents exchange a look. “What’s going on?” She asks gently. “You seem... off.”
Shane sighs. He really doesn't want to have this conversation, or any conversation right now. Telling the truth is out of the question, and lying is just exhausting. And he can't—he doesn't want to lie to his parents. He settles for half-truths instead, easy and within reach. "It has been an exhausting week, the awards show itself was... a lot. I'm really tired. I will rest on the plane, can we go now?"
"We're just worried about you. Is it because Rozanov won MVP?" His Dad tries. "If you want to talk about—"
"Can we not do this right now?!" He snaps before he realizes what is going on, wincing almost immediately when he sees the surprise and hurt flashing across his parents' faces. “I’m sorry,” Shane tries to soften his voice, guilt building up in his chest and hitting him harder than anything else that morning. “I didn’t mean—I’m just… I’m really tired today. I don’t want to talk. Please.”
Dad clears his throat. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Let's go then.”
Mom hesitates, then reaches out and squeezes his arm.
He follows them, ready to leave this fucking city behind him, maybe never to return again. The weight of everything he didn’t say, couldn't say, continues to rot in his chest.
We didn't even kiss.
---
Shane is slowly losing his mind. Sleep is shallow and restless, and every time he closes his eyes, he is back in that penthouse in Vegas. The new season starts, and he tries to do everything right, like he is supposed to—never missing practices, going to the gym, running and skating laps—but his thoughts and actions are not in sync. He is slow, his passes don’t land where he intends them to, and sometimes he doesn't realize he has stopped moving until his teammates or his coach call him out. He brings up his flimsy excuses of being sick, it's just a cold, he is taking meds, he promises to get well soon and do better.
It happens again, again and again.
---
He thinks the world must hate him, because they are playing their first game against Boston today. Normally, this would light a fire in him. Playing against Rozanov, maybe beating the cocky grin off his face, and then having mind-blowing sex that always leave Shane warm and sated and looking forward to more. This time, it just makes his chest ache, like something is squeezing at his heart and will not let go.
“Hollander, what the fuck was that?!” His coach barks at him during practice when he misses an empty net goal. “You weren’t even looking!”
“I'm sorry,” Shane says quickly. “It won't happen again.”
The coach’s eyes linger on him for a few minutes too long. “Get your head in the game, or you are getting benched.”
"Yes, coach." He nods, his cheeks burning hot when he feels the gazes of his teammates on him. I really am trying.
The locker room sizzles with energy every time they are preparing to face Boston. But the looks don't stop, some concerned, some... judgmental. Shane doesn't know which one is worse.
"Capitaine!" J.J. claps Shane hard on his back, startling him out of his daze. "This is it, man! Tonight, we fuck Boston, and we fuck Rozanov! After we take down those cock-sucking sons of bitches, you will feel ten times better.”
“Yeah,” he says, forcing a laugh. “Guess so.”
Hayden chimes in, rolling his eyes. "Oh look, J.J. is finally using the word 'fuck' correctly for once."
J.J. grins and throws one arm around Shane, his other hand punching him lightly in the chest. "I fucking mean what I fucking said."
Shane smiles back, but it feels wrong on his face, like he’s wearing someone else’s expression.
As his teammates start gearing up, Shane is still lingering by his locker. He is acutely aware of Hayden watching him, his face unreadable. Later, when some of the guys have cleared, Hayden finally speaks, keeping his voice low and close so only Shane can hear.
“You don’t look sick.”
Shane keeps his eyes on his bag. “Wow, you are a doctor now?”
“I’m serious,” Hayden says. “I know you, man. You’re spacing out. You never miss those shots.”
There’s a beat of silence. Shane feels the words rise up, hot and heavy in his throat. He keeps his mouth shut, afraid of letting his emotions take over.
“You wanna tell me what’s actually going on?" Hayden squeezes his shoulder. Warm and reassuring. Not accusing. Just… there. "You're my best friend. You know you can tell me anything, right?"
Shane doesn't trust himself to look at Hayden right now. He squeezes Hayden's hand back. "Later, alright? Let's focus on the game. I—I also need to focus."
Hayden sighs, gives him a final squeeze, and goes back to his locker. “Alright. But don’t lock me out, yeah? I'm here if you need me.”
Shane nods, even though that’s exactly what he’s doing.
The game is about to start soon, and just as he has dreaded, his phone buzzes. Shane knows exactly what it is, exactly who it is. He doesn't want to look, terrified of what will happen if he does. He is terrified of being seen, of falling apart in front of everyone, of letting everyone know—
His hand moves on autopilot, against his better judgement, against every nerve in his body screaming at him to stop.
| Lily: Ready to lose?
| Lily: When are we meeting?
Reading the text physically hurts. Of course Rozanov only cares about him when he needs a warm body to fuck. Suddenly Shane is not in the locker room anymore. He’s back there—back then—every ugly feeling crashing over him all at once. The back of his eyes starts to burn. He shoves the phone deep into his bag, zipping it harder and louder than necessary. Anger flares up in him, sharp and overwhelming.
Just the simple thought of seeing Rozanov again stirs up the storm that has settled deep within his chest, makes it spread down to his stomach, creep up his neck, and numb his hands. He doesn't realize he is breathing too fast until he feels Hayden by his side.
"Hey man, you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," he blinks. "It's nothing. Let's go."
Hayden opens his mouth, but then hesitates. He nods and lets the matter drop. God bless him, Shane makes a mental note to buy his kids everything they ask for their birthdays this year.
They line up to head out onto the field. The stadium feels too bright, the ice feels too cold, the roars of the crowd feel too loud. Shane takes a deep breath. Then another.
You love hockey, you can do this. Just get through the game. It's only a few hours—
We didn't even kiss.
---
Of course Rozanov is sent to the face-off.
"Having a good night?"
Shane tries to keep his face passive and keep his eyes on the ground. They are meant to be bitter rivals on the ice anyway. They are not supposed to be friendly. Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing up at the Russian.
He immediately realizes his mistake, feeling dizzy and lost in that intense ocean blue. He quickly drops his gaze.
Focus, Shane. Focus.
"That's nice. I think there's still time for a hat trick." Rozanov drawls, his voice dripping with easy confidence and his face as nonchalant as ever. "Should I do now or wait till last second? 'Cause I don't know. Last second is more fun, but..."
Before Shane knows it, he finds himself staring at Rozanov again.
He loses the puck.
The rest of the game passes in a daze. Whistles blow, his coach shouts, his teammates also shout. None of it reaches him. When the final whistle drops, the scoreboard confirms what he already knows. Montreal loses 5-1, it was a brutal massacre. He hears the fans boo. He expects to feel shame, anger, disappointment, something. Instead, he feels nothing.
When they line up to shake hands, Shane looks down at the ground and not at Rozanov. He doesn't trust himself to not fall apart if he does look. "Not showing up today huh?" The Russian chirps. "See you later." No, I don't want to see you. Or at least, that's what he wants himself to believe. After everything, he hates that he still wants to see Rozanov and his stupid smirk and his stupid curls and his stupid mole—
He looks down the entire time when his teammates get off the field, holding his fist out like a robot. Afterwards, he heads straight for the showers, keeping his eyes down and shoulders hunched. He strips off his uniform, trying to be as fast as he can. His hands move automatically. Wash. Rinse. Done. Just get out. Just go home.
He tries not to notice eyes on him when he steps back into the locker room. “Capitaine! Cheer up!” J.J. shoves him lightly on the shoulder. “Tough one tonight. But don't worry, we’ll bounce back in no time!"
“Yeah,” Shane replies quickly. “Thanks.”
Hayden looks concerned, but Shane doesn’t wait for more. He grabs his bag and leaves before Hayden can speak, before anyone else can stop him.
Outside, the air is cooler. The parking lot lights hum softly overhead. His phone vibrates in his hand repeatedly. He should not. He knows he should not, he really should not. Still, he unlocks the phone.
Mom, Dad, Hayden, Jackie. Lily.
His chest tightens painfully. The push and pull with Rozanov was fun, until it was not anymore, until he feels like it's killing him just thinking about it. The notifications from Lily feel unfair now. He opens anyway.
| Lily: You sick? Pike possessing you lately? Is why you play bad?
| Lily: I can make you feel better
| Lily: Wanna bet?
| Lily: I make you cum 4 times in 1 hour
| Lily: One for each goal I scored tonight 😈
This has to stop.
The thought hits him. Sudden, sharp, and absolute. Shane can’t keep doing this—can’t keep reopening this festering wound every time and dragging his mind through the mud with it. They are not anything. They were never anything. Rozanov told him so, exactly word by word, and every word feels like it is tearing loose the flesh inside him. It hurts. It really hurts. But holding on is hopeless, and it will just hurt him even more, so maybe it's better to face the agony now and move on.
His hands are trembling and the screen is blurry through his tears, but he manages to get the message across.
Jane: We're not meeting. |
| Lily: Still mad about game?
| Lily: Don't worry, you are still second best player 😘
Jane: I'm not doing this anymore. |
Jane: You said it yourself. |
Jane: We are not anything, stop texting me. |
| Lily: What
Jane: Fuck off, Rozanov. |
The three dots appear, but Shane shoves his phone deep into his bag. He doesn't want to see another message from Rozanov. Or maybe he does. His head is empty. The drive home is a blur of streetlights and tears, only clearing up slightly when he stops at red lights to wipe his face with the heel of his hands.
---
By the time he reaches his apartment, he feels wrung out. The silence inside is a relief. No expectations. No questions. He drops his bag by the door and sinks onto the couch, staring at nothing.
That's when the silence becomes so loud. Alone with his thoughts, he is suddenly too aware of the constant buzzing from his phone. He tells himself to not pick up. Maybe he should just turn it off and go to sleep. He picks up his phone. Why are you picking it up? He puts it down. Picks it up again.
| Lily: What's wrong?
| Lily: You ok?
| Lily: Talk to me
| [2 missed calls from Lily]
| Lily: Tell me what's wrong
| Lily: Are you ok???
| [5 missed calls from Lily]
He doesn't know how much time has passed by like this. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe a few hours. Reading from Lily. Not replying to Lily. Getting angry at himself, getting angry at Rozanov for treating him like a plaything—aching for Rozanov to notice him, to hold him close, to kiss him.
| Lily: I know you read my messages
| Lily: Pick up
| Lily: Hollander are you ok?????
| [4 missed calls from Lily]
Why do you even care? That's right, you don't care about me.
| Lily: Talk to me
| Lily: Please
| [1 missed call from Lily]
He wants Rozanov to leave him alone.
He wants Rozanov to never leave.
| Lily: I'm outside your apartment
The contradiction twists inside him. He can’t tell which desire is louder. Actually, he knows too well which is louder, but he cannot let himself believe that—
Wait, what?
He springs up from the couch, looking at his phone again.
| Lily: Open the door
| Lily: I wait until you open
| Lily: Whole night if I have to
No way. Holy shit, why is Rozanov here? Maybe if he ignores his phone and doesn't answer, Rozanov will think that he is not home and leave. Rozanov has to leave, he can't possibly stay outside the entire night. Shane knows the Raiders have an early flight tomorrow morning. He has to leave.
| Lily: Let me in
| Lily: Please
| [3 missed calls from Lily]
He slams his phone down the couch. Absolutely not. Fuck Rozanov, fuck him! How dare he show up like this—unannounced, after everything, after treating Shane the way he did. He will not fall for this ploy again. He will stay exactly where he is, let his silence do the work. Who cares if Rozanov wants to stay outside the entire night, that asshole is probably bluffing anyway.
Then another thought slips in, quieter but heavier.
But he's already outside.
He glances toward the window. It’s chilly and windy tonight. He feels betrayed by his own thoughts. Fuck, Rozanov is from fucking Russia. Montreal's weather is nothing to him, it's not even fucking winter.
Why do I still care?
| Lily: Hollander please
| Lily: Open the door
| [1 missed call from Lily]
| Lily: Whatever it is let me fix it
| Lily: Let me see you
| Lily: Please
He hates Rozanov for leaving him hurt. He picks up the phone. Puts it down. He hates himself for still wanting Rozanov even more. He picks up the phone again. If he does not see Rozanov, he will regret it. If he does see Rozanov, he will regret it.
It will hurt either way.
An awful part deep within him—the part that’s been winning lately—thrums with something like anticipation. It crawls at his skull, wanting to be let out. It wants to see Rozanov, hear his voice, so that Shane know he is real and not just a memory that has been tormenting him day and night.
Another part screams at him. Clear. Rational. This is bad. This is so bad.
He agrees with it, and then he ignores it.
Every step down the stairs feels heavier than the last. His legs move on their own. Dread coils in his stomach and tightens up his chest again, but it’s laced with something else—something almost electric.
I can't believe I’m really doing this.
His hands are trembling when he opens the door.
Rozanov is there.
For a split second, Shane's brain goes blank.
The world narrows to just him. His curls bobbing gently in the wind, hands tucking into his pockets, ocean eyes shining like crystals even in the low light. He looks the same. Different. Familiar in a way that hurts immediately.
Panic hits Shane like a tidal wave.
Instincts take over. He steps back, trying to slam the door closed, to retreat back into his safe space, to lock the door and build up walls and create distance the way it should be—but Rozanov is faster, already catching his wrist and spinning him into an embrace. It's grounding and terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
"Let me go—" Shane doesn't realize he is crying until he hears how the words can barely pass through his choked throat. He tries to hit at Rozanov's chest, to push him away, but Rozanov just pulls him in closer—impossibly close, until his hands are trapped tightly against rock hard chest.
Rozanov is so warm, so so warm. He smells of cigarette and his signature cologne that Shane has come to love, the way it lingers faintly on his own skin after every time they are together. One of Rozanov's hand is rubbing soothing circles into his waist, the other caressing through his hair. He is whispering softly in Shane's ears. It must have been Russian since Shane cannot understand a single word, but it doesn't stop him from wanting to hear them anyway.
Shit, what is he doing?
Shane should hit him again, really push him away, yell at him to get lost, to stop messing up his life and making him feel—
Unwanted. Wanted. Angry. Warm. Sad. Safe.
He doesn't know what Rozanov makes him feel like anymore.
Being this close to the other man has drained away all his strength. He wants to be angry, he really does. But there is only exhaustion left behind. Bone-deep, mind-numbing exhaustion. He doesn’t have the energy to fight. He finds himself nestle even closer to Rozanov, hating himself for wanting and needing that comfort. He hates himself for being weak, just like in that damn bathroom in Vegas, where he could not help but melt immediately at the sight and voice and touch of Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya.
Ilya, Ilya—
The stairway is completely silent, save for Shane's quiet heaves. It takes him a while to calm down, for his tears to finally stop and for his breathing to become somewhat normal. Abruptly, he is too aware of the sounds and feels of Ilya's heart beating wildly under his palms.
A few more moments pass, before Ilya speaks up. His voice wavers, almost as if he is scared, or maybe—maybe, it's just Shane's imagination.
"Hollander..."
Thump, thump, thump.
"Will you please tell me what's wrong?"
Shane was angry and hurt before, he thought that he would want to scream at Ilya for being a cold and distant asshole. Now though, he is just so tired. He tries to ground himself so that his voice comes out stable, but even he cannot ignore the way it is quivering.
"Everything about this is wrong! You snapped at me in Sochi, you ignored me for six months, and then we met again for that stupid awards show, you—you told me to touch myself. I was so embarrassed, I was scared, but I tried so hard, I wanted to be good for you. It was good, I felt good, but then after everything was over, you didn't even bother to look at me. I just wanted to talk to you, and then you—"
Shit, he can feel his eyes tearing up again.
"You just—you sent me away. We didn't even kiss..." Shane closes his eyes, his voice is getting higher and it is getting harder for him to breathe. "You made me feel like shit, Rozanov. You said we are not anything, you made me feel like I am not anything! I don't know what I did wrong—"
—because I was not good enough for you, because I'm just another body for you to fuck and it's so easy for you to pick up whoever you want and you don't want me anymore—
Before he can finish whatever ugly, rotten thought that was eating up his mind and caving in his chest, Ilya seals their lips together. He gasps into the kiss, and his breath is being punched out of him, but he feels like a drowning man being pulled up from the cold water, into the surface, into air and sunlight for the first time. Ilya kisses him slow and deep and perfect, and Shane's hands are clutching at Ilya's jacket, pulling him closer.
It feels like an eternity before they finally pull away, having to take a moment to breathe.
Ilya rests his forehead against Shane. "Hollander, look at me." He tries to turn away, but both of Ilya's warm hands are cupping his face, anchoring him in place and tilting his chin up. Ilya's thumb wipes under his eye, tracing over his freckles. "Look at me, please." And Shane really is hopeless, because he just cannot stop himself from doing whatever Ilya wants him to do. He opens his eyes, though he can barely see Ilya through his blurry vision.
"You did nothing wrong, you were so good, you were perfect. You are always so good for me. Was me, I was an asshole. I should not have left you like that, I should have taken care of you. I was... distracted. I did not notice you were hurting. I'm sorry." Ilya kisses him on his eyelid, kisses away his drying tears, then kisses him on his mouth again. Shane notices that his accent is getting heavier. "I'm sorry I did not kiss you. I regret it too, that we did not kiss. I will never do that to you again. I will kiss you every time we meet, anywhere you want, anytime you want, yes? Forgive me, yes?"
Despite himself, Shane feels a small smile tug at his lips. "Yeah, you really are an asshole."
"I'm sorry. I was stupid. Will you forgive me?"
Ilya is looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his confirmation. He can still feel Ilya's heartbeats, fast, steady thumps under his hands.
A part of Shane wants to freeze the moment right there, to take the understanding they have reached and hold it safely, deep within him. Yet, another part of him is so afraid, of how easily Ilya can slip away from him and disappear again. They are not—fuck, he doesn't want to think that they are not anything, but clearly they are not... together, and he knows far too well about Ilya's reputation, how popular Ilya is.
He feels ridiculous and surreal at how hard he is thinking about this. He literally just poured his heart out to Ilya a few minutes ago, and now just the simple thought of asking is making his throat tighten up. He is not even planning to ask for anything big, just basic courtesy, yet he is terrified that his questions will make Ilya retreat into somewhere distant and leave him hurt and confused.
He squeezes his fists tighter into Ilya's shirt, pressing down hard into his chest, chasing after Ilya's heartbeats to confirm that maybe, maybe Ilya is feeling this too, because Shane desperately wants to believe that he is not the only one alone with a cacophony of emotions that he cannot put into words. He inhales. Exhales. Tries again. In. Out.
Finally, quietly, he says it.
"Can you not ignore me again? Please... Don’t ignore me."
The sentence feels small once it was out there, almost humiliating. But now that it is already out, his thoughts start to rearrange more clearly. He don't think he can go through that again, seeing Ilya act like nothing about Shane matters to him, and he wants to make certain of it.
"Don't act like you don't see me, like—like I'm nothing to you." Because you are not nothing to me, and we are not nothing to me. He wishes he can say that out loud too, but it feels too fragile to say it now, for him and Ilya both.
"Sorry about that too," Ilya looks open in a way that Shane hasn't seen before, guilty. He looks gorgeous. "I will never ignore you again, even when you send me the most boring texts, yes?" He pulls Shane in for another slow kiss, and Shane feels like the rigid strings around his body—which have been pulling him tout like a puppet—are finally cut away. The pressure eases, and Shane relaxes entirely into the kiss, into the encompassing presence of Ilya.
"Alright," Shane nods, his voice small, but he is smiling. "I forgive you."
He snuggles into Ilya's neck, breathing in his warmth and his scent. Ilya's hands goes back to stroking through his hair, running up and down his side. And it feels good, to just let everything out, to not have to hide and swallow up his emotions, until the bottle becomes too much and explodes into thousands of pieces that pierce his heart. It feels good to speak to Ilya, to hold him, to kiss him, to just be with him.
They stay quiet like that for a while, the only sounds being their breathing and Ilya's occasional kisses in his hair. Shane realizes he does not mind staying like this for a bit more, maybe for a long time, maybe forever.
Shane also realizes, with a dawning dread, how embarrassingly pent up he has been for the past week. He hasn't noticed that one of Ilya's thighs is between his own, keeping him upright. He is actually grateful for it, because he doesn't really trust his legs to carry him right now.
His traitorous cock twitches in his pants, and he goes very, very still. Please don't look down, please don't look down, please—
Of course Ilya looks down. His movements halt for a moment, before a wheeze escapes him and his shoulders are trembling.
"Shut up!" Oh my God, this is so embarrassing. Shane's face is burning, and he wishes that the concrete beneath his apartment would open up a crater and swallow him whole.
Ilya laughs even harder, throwing his head back. He even has the audacity to cover his mouth, pretending to muffle the sounds.
"I hate you so much." Shane tries to glare at Ilya. He hopes his glare looks annoyed enough.
"No you don't. I'm just too irresistible, yes?" Ilya's eyes are twinkling. His lips curl into a lazy smirk, which is both annoying and endearing at the same time.
"How the fuck do you even know that word?"
"I'm very smart," Ilya shrugs. "But do you—" He averts his gaze for a moment, then looks back at Shane again, concern clear on his face. He almost looks shy. "Do you... want? I mean, you don't have to—"
Shane has never been a good liar, not to Ilya, and especially not to himself.
"Yes," he breathes out. "I want you." Relief washes over him when he finally says that out loud, like an enormous weight has been lifted off his chest, like a balm has soothed the ache in his entire being.
Ilya's mouth crashes into his, hot and wet and leave him panting. He pushes at Ilya's jacket, fumbles with Ilya's belt, trying to pull it off, off, why is he wearing so many clothing—Ilya pushes his pants down, and finally, finally, closes his big hand around Shane's cock. He feels like he can explode right there, as he arches into the touch, his lips fall open in a loud moan. The heat is perfect, the friction is perfect, everything is perfect.
Then Ilya suddenly stops, and Shane feels like his heart is stopping too.
"Wait, we should probably—" Ilya is moving away from him. "We should move upstairs—"
"No, no, no, Rozanov—" Shane whines, his fists grasping at Ilya's hair to pull him back. "I need you, now, please."
Ilya drops to his knees, his mouth engulfing Shane, and Shane allows his mind to blank out everything except for the one man before him.
---
"Now my stairway is all dirty."
"And whose fault is that, huh?" Ilya flicks at his ear. They are sitting by the stairs, Shane's head leaning against Ilya's shoulder, with Ilya's arm around his waist, one hand rubbing circles into his own.
Shane huffs out a small laugh. He has definitely felt a lot better, but something still tugs at heart and refuses to let go, like a stubborn splinter that has lodged in too deep and kept stinging.
"Back then, when I tried to talk to you..." He speaks slowly, keeping his voice small and tight. "You didn't seem like you wanted to talk. Almost like, you were mad at me."
He swallows hard, running the question over and over in his mind, bracing himself for Ilya's reaction. "Was it something I said?"
Ilya tuts, then turns his head away.
"Russia is... not good topic for me. I didn't mean to—fuck—" He lets out a deep sigh. "I don't like to talk about Russia."
Shane stills for a moment, feeling guilt rising up in his chest. He tries to swallow it down again. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"No... Was my fault." He sags in relief when Ilya looks back at him, then kissing him on his forehead, his nose, his cheekbone, lips lingering and mumbling into his skin. "I was not good talker. I didn't tell you."
"Okay, can you—can you tell me next time? When I say something you don't like..."
"I—" A split second of silence. Shane thinks he sees uncertainty fleet across Ilya's face, but Ilya kisses him again before he can react. "I will. And you will do same thing, yes? You tell me when I make you upset?"
"Alright," Shane tucks his face into Ilya's neck. He is growing rather fond of this. He hopes that Ilya will continue to let him do it the next times they meet. "I will."
They stay like that for a few minutes more, before Ilya starts to move away. "Uhm, I need to go," He looks almost wistful. "Early flight in the morning."
"Right. Okay..." Shane tries not to let the disappointment creep into his voice, or show on his face. He doesn't think he is succeeding.
Ilya grins, his sharp teeth showing, before his voice drops into a low growl and his hand gives Shane's cock a firm squeeze. Shane is almost thankful that he is too tired, otherwise he probably will get hard again. "Next time you play in Boston, I will make you cum four times, to make up for my mistake, yes? I also kiss you a million times. Then I shower you, dress you back in your boring clothes, and I kiss you a million times more before you go."
A small laugh escapes Shane. "Is it even anatomically possible for the human body to cum four times in an hour?"
"You still mad at me? You use big English word to mess with me, huh? Joke on you Hollander, I already know this one." Ilya pinches Shane's nose, making him laugh again. "Though, maybe I should make you mad more. You are like angry kitten. Is very cute."
"I'm not a kitten." Shane huffs.
"You are cute kitten when you are sad too. But I don't like it. I don't want to make you sad."
"I told you, I'm not a kitten." Shane feels a blush blooming on his cheeks. He fidgets with the hem of Ilya's jacket. "Next time in Boston—I don't know. We can try, I guess."
Ilya kisses his nose. "I know you can. You are always so good for me."
Yes, I want to be good for you.
Shane smiles, and Ilya smiles back, before pulling him in for another kiss. They break after a few seconds too short.
"I really should go," Ilya clears his throat.
He really doesn't want Ilya to go.
"Yeah... Goodbye, Rozanov."
Oh, but Ilya is looking at him so softly, so gently. Shane feels like he is falling into a galaxy full of stars, blue and endless. Ilya moves in again, kissing him slowly, once, twice, fingers intertwining with his own.
"Goodbye, Hollander. See you next time."
He sits at the stairs and smiles to himself, long after Ilya has left.
---
For the first time in weeks, Shane sleeps soundly. He dreams of ocean eyes, golden curls, and cologne with a faint hint of cigarette.
---
| Lily: See you soon ;)
The locker room is chaotic as usual, but Shane feels the familiar buzz immediately. He grins and types back.
Jane: Ready to lose? :) |