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The bathroom was thankfully empty when Scott snuck off for a moment at the MHL awards. He just needed to take a breath. Hockey was his everything but the stuffy events, where every man had a woman dangling from their arm and the talk mainly surrounded summer plans, he didn’t enjoy. The season was over, the awards were all consolidation prizes for once again not winning the cup. That had gone to the Boston Raiders- and their very own stupid fucking asshole Ilya Rozanov. Everyone knew that there were only two names in the running for MVP and Scott wasn’t one of them. He had just presented another one of the stupid awards and now was backstage. So he would take a break in the bathroom while those two made a fool of themselves on stage.
The stall was grimy for a place that was supposed to be made for fancy events. There was graffiti on the door he stared at as he locked himself into the tight space, hoping for another shred of privacy. None of it was intriguing, just the run of the mill ‘X was here’ and ‘Viva Las Vegas’ because that's where he was wasting his time on stupid award events. Vegas, Sin City. Scott knew a lot about things happening in Vegas staying Vegas. Sleeping with men wasn’t commonly something he let himself do but Vegas was Vegas and they didn’t care who he was in some of the seeder gay bars, they just cared he knew what he was doing, usually on his knees in a stall not dissimilar to this one.
He had his eyes closed and was taking deep breaths when he heard the door creak open followed by frantic footsteps pacing the room. Scott thinks the person is doing the same check he did, seeing if anyone was there before having their own mini crisis. Their check is worse than his and somehow they miss Scott entirely. He should come out and wash his hands, walk away, give them the same privacy he had gotten but for some reason he stops himself as his hand rests on the lock of the stall. The door creaks again and a second set of footsteps joins the other.
It's quiet before a chuckle sounds out through the room and it's familiar in an unsettling way.
“Well…” Russian accent, he just can’t escape this guy. Fucking Rozanov. There’s another person here and Scott isn’t who Rozanov is talking to so this is probably not a great situation he has put himself into.
“Well what? What the fuck do you want Rozanov?” The other voice is a man obviously, there’s only so many people it could be and Scott really wishes he wasn’t here right now. There’s no way he’s leaving this stall now. Because if that is Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov having a secret conversation in the bathroom it's likely going to turn into a fight. A fight he might have to stop from getting out of hand.
Scott has watched the games, seen the hatred in their eyes, the rivalry is truly the main thing fueling the MHL’s top advertisements. Some people just watch to see who will drop the gloves first, it's never happened before but with the way they play eventually it will come to a head and they will need to physically get the animosity out. Or that's what Scott thinks should happen, Hollander is pretty meek when it comes to fighting. Rozanov on the other hand was a fan favorite for a reason, the fact his point total was so high when his penalty total was even higher was a testament to the level of player he was. If he stopped getting into so many fights his point total would be off the chart, thank god for bad tempers… though he doesn’t really start the fights often, he just likes to run his mouth and other players don’t take very kindly to it. Scott listens closer to the men on the other side of the stall door not daring to make a sound.
“You haven’t answered a text from me in, like, 6 months.” That is a very strange thing to hear Shane Hollander say. Sure players on separate teams talk to each other, hell Scott sends Hollander texts every once in a blue moon to talk about hockey and one time smoothies. But ROZANOV and HOLLANDER texting???????? They are rivals, the very definition of unfriendly towards each other. And yet, Hollander sounds sad and upset about a fact he's so blatantly spitting out like an insult. Scott can’t decide if he wants to know why they were texting to begin with.
The silence from Rozanov stretches and Hollander starts up again with anger Scott hasn’t heard from him tingeing the edges of his voice.
“You won’t even acknowledge I exist unless there’s a fucking camera pointed at us, and then its for some fucking clown show. So yeah, what the fuck do you actually want from me?” Scott wants to know too, he focuses on his breathing keeping it as silent as possible. And cranes his neck to look through the opening between the stall door and hinges. He can just barely see Hollander in his tux staring at Rozanov who is outside of his view. The silence continues.
“Well?” Hollander demands.
Scott hears the deep inhale and exhale of air Rozanov releases, taking his sweet time responding. Before he finally says, “I want you to suck my dick.”
It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, the tension is tearing at Scott and he can feel his own breathing stutter. Because that could have been an insult, a taunt, something to chirp at Hollander to get a rise out of him but… something about it felt too honest. If they were like him… Fuck! He shouldn’t be here. This shouldn’t be happening. He needs to get out.
Before he can try to leave nonchalantly and pretend he thought that was a joke he watches as Hollander recalibrates from the shock the words had put him into as well.
“Oh, fuck you. You are unbelievable. You suck my dick.” There’s anger there, maybe Scott can pretend this is really just a fight, a part of their rivalry. Maybe he can get out and forget this ever happened. Maybe he can shove this to the back of his mind and ignore it. Go back to the bliss of ignorance (as much as he could afford while being closeted himself that is.) All this is is some weird macho homophobic nonsense that he's used to plaguing the locker rooms. Not that he thought Hollander would be homophobic, he was one of the good ones, Rozanov… he never heard him chirp anything homophobic which was a surprise based on how much he loved to get under peoples skin, telling a hockey player he sounds like a fag is a very easy way to get them angry. Rozanov is from Russia, even if he’s not outwardly homophobic there has to be some ingrained beliefs from his formative years in a bigoted country. So this cannot be what Scott’s brain is immediately jumping to. It just can’t. For his sanity, these two cannot end up being the only other queer players he knows.
There’s footsteps and Scott can see through the small crack as Rozanov stands in front of Hollander and then grabs his chin in a way that is not preparation for a punch. If anything it is to force Hollander’s eyes up to his, it's the way Scott secretly longs for a man to hold his face. To hold him as they kiss. This is not real. Someone must have spiked his drink. He can feel his face heating up. Probably from whatever he got spiked with.
“Maybe ask nicely.” There is no way that ILYA ROZANOV just told Shane Hollander to ask him nicely to SUCK HIS DICK. Scott has to be in some sort of alternate universe where everything has been flipped upside down.
“Please.” Fucking hell Hollander, sound a little more needy why don’t you. This is making Scott feel like a pervert, a dirty old man spying on the rookies. But he knows how much he would freak out if someone accidentally found out about him like this, it would destroy him, obviously he was safe for them. He would never out anyone, that would be hypocritical, but they don’t know that. With how stressed Hollander had been when he walked in, Scott knows it wouldn’t go well. So he was stuck here, even if they started having sex. Oh dear god please don’t start having sex.
“If you want me to get on my knees on this filthy bathroom floor and suck your dick, you will have to ask nicer than that.” Fuckkkkkkkkkkkk. Scott leaned against the wall silently and closed his eyes, the cool stone giving him something else to focus on instead of the men in their intimate embrace on the other side of the room. His head is pounding and he regrets the champagne he had earlier, or maybe he regrets not having more champagne… or something stronger.
“Please get on your knees on this filthy bathroom floor and suck my dick. Please.” If Rozanov can resist that he is a stronger man then Scott (not that he would ever in a million years admit it, that man's ego is bigger than the sun). Shane Hollander is hot, Scott is older than him and he feels strange even admitting this to himself but if Hollander was begging him to suck his dick like that… Well, he wouldn’t be able to fake disinterest.
”No.” The word covers Scott in ice and now he can’t tell if this was all just Rozanov fucking with poor sweet, obviously enamored, Shane Hollander. If it was, Scott will have to knock some of his stupid asshole teeth out next season. He opens his eyes and looks back through the gap. He sees the way Hollander has his face buried in Rozanov's shoulder and the comforting hand that Rozanov has on his back, he sees the way it twitches as if it wants to be laced in the hair at the base of Hollander's neck. It's too familiar to be a joke or taunt. There is want emanating from both of them.
“What?” It's muffled by the fancy fabric of Rozanov's tux.
”No.” It's said with a sense of finality and Scott thinks maybe he’s watching the breakup of the only other queer players he’s ever found out about. His heart aches at the sight of Hollander’s eyes filling with tears. Rozanov is still holding him though so this would be a strange technique for ending a relationship, especially one where they haven’t spoken for 6 months? Scott isn’t sure what to make of what Hollander said earlier in the context of what he’s now positive is some sort of sexual (maybe romantic with the way they are looking at eachother) relationship.
“We will go back to our seats, watch the rest of this boring show, and then go to boring party after. And then, when you have been waiting all night, you’ll come back to my hotel room, and I will maybe…maybe do more than just suck your dick.” Rozanov strokes away the un spilled tears. This was definitely not a break up. More like an invitation, proposition.
“When did your English get so good?” It's said with awe. Scott didn’t often think about how much work it must be to learn a whole new language when entering the league but now he realizes that he’s never heard Rozanov say more than a few sentences. And those had always been short chirps or simple interview answers. Now he can’t help feeling a sense of connection to these two. The complications this relationship would cause for them… they were astronomical compared to him just having to come out as gay (not to down play how much shit he’d have to put up with, hell he wouldn’t be in a real relationship until well after he retired…or that what he had thought, if these two could do it… Scott probably could too). At least he wasn’t in a situationship with his rival, his rival who is on a temporary work visa and only has citizenship in an extremely homophobic country. Fuck, now he’s feeling empathetic towards Ilya Rozanov.
“I- uh- I read the New Yorker now.” A joke, probably, he can’t imagine this man ever intentionally reading something that boring.
“Really?” Hollander sounds enchanted by Rozanov.
”No, the New Yorker is boring.” That’s what Scott had thought.
”My dad loves it.” Scott knew Hollander had nice parents, he tried to avoid parents of other players as it tended to make him sad about his own not being with him anymore but he had met the Hollanders briefly when Hollander won the rookie of the year award. They had told him he was one of Hollander inspirations, at the time it hadn’t really struck him in any meaningful way but now he couldn’t help thinking about if he had been out… maybe Shane would feel comfortable following him. They could make hockey a better place. But that couldn’t happen, not yet.
”Ah, so being boring is genetic.” So gentle for being a chirp. Fuck Scott wished he had someone to tease in the loving way Rozanov aimed at Hollander. He hoped for their sake this wasn’t love, it would be so difficult. If it was love he hoped the world would be kind.
”Wow…Genetic.” Hollander didn’t care about the chirp, he cared about Rozanov's vocabulary. He’s adorable. Scott lets his hands move to tug at his sleeves in a way that will distract him from the craving gnaw climbing up his throat. Not for Hollander, and definitely not for Rozanov, just for the care they seem to have for each other. He wants that so bad it makes his eyes water with tears he wont let fall.
”Then lets make a deal. If you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you, whatever you want.” Lucky guy. Scott gets to go back to his hotel room and try to forget this ever happened. Maybe get off in the stupidly large hotel shower and wish it could be a woman he thinks about while doing so.
“And if you win?” Hollander sounds unsure, but the desire edges his voice.
Scott fails at stopping watching soon enough to not see the tender kiss Rozanov pulls Hollander into. He fails to not envy the deep press of bodies against each other. The impossibly passionate and pained way they both melt into it, Rozanov clearly leading.
Scott also sees things that he doesn’t envy, the way they both hold themselves as if this might be the last time, even with the plan to meet tonight. The heartbreaking way the kiss ends when they obviously don’t want it to.
Rozanov pats Hollander's face, and if Scott didn’t know the feeling of longing well he would think Rozanov felt nothing with the way his eyes were hardened. He could see the want behind it. It was almost the same as when he had to sneak away after a hook up during his international vacations to places no one knew him. He wanted to stay to hold a man tenderly, never let go. The only difference with the look Rozanov had, was that he had the familiarity of truly knowing the man he had to leave, and Scott could only imagine how much that must hurt.
”Good luck tonight.” Rozanov's fingers trail down Hollander's jaw and he fixes the collar of his tux. Then he backs away and gently shoves Hollander towards the door. “Go first, watch boring show, I will leave in few minutes.” Hollander looks like he wants to say something, his lips parting slightly before he changes his mind and leaves through the door, fancy leather shoes creating hollow footsteps as he walks away from the bathroom till he’s too far to hear anymore. Scott waits with bated breath for Rozanov to do the same, he doesn’t, instead he takes a deep breath and then his eyes trail to a stop looking directly at the stall Scott is attempting to disappear into.
“You can come out now, I will tell you why you will keep your mouth shut.” Sounds like Scott was not as invisible as he had hoped. All he can hope for now is that he isn’t about to be killed by an angry Russian who he had been eavesdropping on accidentally, subsequently finding out his biggest secret. He probably deserved to be killed actually. If he had been anyone else this could be the end of both their careers and in Rozanov's case a large safety concern, hell, did Russia put people in jail for being gay? KILL them for being gay?????
Rozanov watched with a glare as Scott undoes the lock and opens the door, it felt a little like being watched by an angry bear, one waiting for an opening to strike. He puts his hands up in surrender, He needs to explain himself, tell him he won't tell anyone, maybe give his own secret as collateral. If Rozanov knew he shared their worries would this go better?
”Scott Hunter, dinosaur and pervert.” His name is dipped in poison, spat from Rozanov's mouth. Harsher than he had even heard it on the ice. He could see the walls that Hollander melted being built back up and reinforced before his eyes. He deserved this, he should have awkwardly left the second they both entered the room. He’s glad Hollander isn’t here for this, Rozanov seems like enough to deal with without his boy panicking next to him. With the way he’s being sized up Scott is pretty sure Rozanov would actually kill him if Hollander found out he knows. Rozanov finally seems to have enough of glaring and grabs him roughly by the front of his button up.
It's nothing like how he had cradled Hollander. His hand fists his shirt and the collar is blushing Scott slightly as he is pressed against the cold stone wall he had been leaning on not too long ago. This is the Russian Bear, the rage of the icy north, of Mother Russia. But it's not just rage shining in his eyes, there is the fear that Scott knows has been mirrored in his own eyes many, many times. A bone deep fear that sinks into his very soul, warping into anger at a system that doesn’t allow him to love. A system that doesn’t allow him to feel anything other than anger, because sadness is shunned, fear is shunned, vulnerability is shunned. He needs to fix this right now.
“You did not see anything, you will go back out there and shut the fuck up because if it gets out I will know exactly who to blame.” Rozanov is staring into his eyes and Scott feels woefully unprepared for talking down a terrified man he hardly knows. His voice is stuck in his chest. He puts his hands up in the same surrender as before and sees the darting eyes look over him as if he's trying to decide if he should continue threatening or back down. He must find what he's looking for because he lets Scott down but keeps his body between him and the exit.
“Бля, мне нужна сигарета. Это не может быть правдой. Бля, я такой идиот, зачем я это сделал. Отец меня убьет.” He runs a hand through his hair anxiously, tugging at his curls into a frizzy mess and spits out the words like they hurt him. Scott sees a broken child standing in front of him. He needs to fix this, he needs his voice to start working again.
“I won’t tell anyone. I would never out you or Hollander like that.” Rozanov looks back at him with eyes wide with shock like he had forgotten Scott was there. It's the look that tells Scott he’s going to need to reassure him better. To sooth the panic that seems to be filling him to the brim.
“Как я могу быть уверена, что ты говоришь правду? Этот спорт не для таких, как я, Россия не для меня... Это может нас погубить. Но я люблю его. Хотела бы я не любить. Я была такой глупой.” Scott obviously can’t figure out what he’s saying but the terror laces through every word as well as a yearning Scott can identify as being for the man who just left, blissfully unaware of Scott observing everything. Rozanov seems to realize he’s speaking in Russian and switches back to extremely accented English, much different from the soft way he was speaking earlier, panic must make it harder to talk in a second language.
”How can- can I know you will not tell?” His face is crumpled and even at 6 '3 he seems small, Scott can’t handle this anymore. Fuck he needs to tell him.
”I won’t tell anyone because you won’t tell anyone about me…” Scott takes a deep breath, his fear coming back to tear into his soft flesh around his heart. “I’m gay too, Rozanov… shit I think that's the first time I’ve said it out loud.” He lets out a deep chuckle at the ridiculousness of this situation. Coming out to Ilya fucking Rozanov at a MHL award ceremony in a dirty bathroom. Rozanov looks at him like he's gone insane for laughing at this until suddenly he is laughing too. They laugh until breathing hurts, doubled over in the uncomfortable suits they have to wear.
“I am not gay.” Rozanov suddenly says through laughter. Scott looked at him incredulously, was he really going to deny what he had seen? After they had just seemingly bounded by laughing at their own misfortune together?
Rozanov is the one to hold up his hands in surrender this time, “I am bisexual.” And yeah, that makes much more sense, with the amount of women he was with Scott actually would have considered asking for advice on staying so well closeted if Rozanov actually only liked men. Scott wanted to ask about Hollander but that felt inappropriate. “I will not tell about Sh-Hollander, is his to share.” He said, apparently reading his mind.
“Alright, that's reasonable. But Rozanov? Are you going to tell him about this? He should know I know.” Scott can’t imagine someone knowing and not being told immediately, Rozanov knows Hollander better, even if he doesn't call him by his first name. Stupid hockey players (he should know, he is one).
”He panics… worse than me, not good idea. But I will think about it.” That’s good enough for Scott, at least for now. Maybe when he is comfortable Shane will reach out to him, for now he will wait. For now he is happy knowing he isn’t alone, even if half the company in their sad little club of 3 is a Russian menace, a bisexual Russian menace.
“Good, if you tell him- um- tell him about me too. He should know he isn’t alone.” The Russians eyes flash with thankfulness and a little glint that Scott can’t place.
“I will, though he is never alone with me there. He is mine, no stealing.” There’s the smirk, the trademark smirk that Rozanov's face looks strange without. Scott hadn’t been planning on it, stealing Hollander, he's not sure he could if he tried with the way Hollander had looked at Rozanov. It was love and they were fucked but Scott was right there with them. At least they would have him on their side if it ever got out, god forbid. “I will go now, must get through rest of evening, have MVP to win.” He winks like the asshole he is and then slips out as easily as he entered, like he didn’t have a panic attack a few minutes before.
Scott holds himself there for a few moments more before he feels in check with reality. He wasn’t alone. If they could have something, love, then he could too. He could find a man who would be his everything if it is the last thing he does. He checks himself in the mirror before leaving the godforsaken bathroom behind.
He kinda craves a smoothie.