Archive of Our Own

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. "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 and different and 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? :)  |          

Chapter Text

---

Ilya is practically giddy with excitement, because he is playing Montreal today.

He loves competing against Hollander in a way that feels almost sacred. Being the best is lonely and suffocating, especially when one wrong move will immensely disappoint Father. Yet, he has Hollander to share that burden. The way they push each other to the limits, striving to be better, smarter, faster—an unspoken understanding of having someone as an equal—always ignites him, even on days when exhaustion settles deep within his bones.

But the competition itself is only half of it, because Ilya loves what comes after even more.

He likes to nudge at the edges of Hollander’s uptight composure, slowly pokes at his half-raised guard, and enjoys how easily Hollander gives up control to him. 

It started out as curiosity, of course it did. Hollander is strong in a quiet, immovable way that is so weirdly intriguing. Ilya wants to know how far he can go, how bold he can be before Hollander pushes back. Every time, he braces himself for irritation, for rejection, for the moment Hollander finally draws the line between them. Every time, he wonders if he has gone too far, if he has been too greedy and too careless.

And yet, somehow, Hollander always yields to him. Compliant, engaged, eager, his restraints quickly fading, leaving Ilya pleasantly surprised and impossibly aroused.

That realization leaves him breathless, equal parts triumph and terror. Wanting this—wanting Hollander—is dangerous, because Ilya is wanting more than he’s allowed to have. Just the thought of holding him, kissing him, watching his stupid freckles darken when he blushes—can send Ilya down a treacherous cliff, because Ilya knows himself too well. He is vain, selfish, undisciplined, and once he sets his eyes on something he will never be able to stop. And so, he cannot allow this to become anything more than just rivalry and casual fun, a game that he is way too good at playing. 

But Ilya keeps wanting more and more, because he is vain, selfish, undisciplined. He wants to have Hollander in his arms, sweet, warm, and gorgeous. 

And he will always regret it later, in the quiet moments that come in the aftermath, in the small and lingering ache that follows him once they are apart. 

Still, his regret can come later.

For now, he is excited for the game and for Hollander. He even prepares his clothes in advance, choosing his favourite leather jacket and a new satin shirt. He knows he looks good in them. His clothes will be on the floor soon enough, but he likes to consider himself a connoisseur. For fine cuisine, fine wine, and a fine specimen like himself, presentation matters just as much as taste does.

Everything is ready. All that remains is the waiting, the tension, before Ilya opens the door and invites the patron to step inside. Soon, they will see each other. Their eyes will meet, sparks barely contained, and Ilya will feel that familiar rush—the thrill of being challenged, the temptation of wanting and being wanted, and the perilous delight of knowing he can have Hollander if he just reaches out.

Lily: Ready to lose? |          

Texting him, playing against him, getting to fuck him afterwards—if only Ilya could spend every day like this until he retires from hockey.

Lily: When are we meeting? |          

Preferably right after the match. Ilya doesn’t want to wait any damn second more than necessary to get his hands on Hollander. But then… maybe Ilya should make him wait an extra hour or two, pretending that he is busy with some excuses, just enough to let the anticipation coil in Hollander’s chest, making him huff and puff and perhaps throw insults at Ilya.

He can even tease Hollander a bit more, enjoying the way he bristles like an angry kitten. Ilya can imagine his reaction so clearly, the way his brows knit together, the crease forming between them as if the entire MHL has wronged him personally. His nose will scrunch up lightly, and his lips—soft, full lips that Ilya wants to kiss forever—will curl into a snarl or even a pout. And then Ilya will kiss that pout off, until those lips fall open in pretty pleads and moans and call out his name.

Ilya can make him wait, and then make it all worth it for them both.

His thoughts are cut off by Marleau's snickers.

“Wow, Roz, you really should go look in the mirror. Are you sure you're Russian?”

“Shut your ugly mug Marly,” Ilya tries to glare, but even he is painfully aware of his warming cheeks. “Or I bash it into the board before Montreal can.”

Marleau gives him a wink. Ilya decides to just ignore him and goes back to his phone. 

The little “seen” notification pops up, but no bubbles. He stares at it. Waiting, anticipating, wondering what Hollander might say. 

Yet, a few minutes pass, and still there is nothing.

Okay, so Hollander is replying a bit later than usual, but that's no big deal. Ilya shrugs, maybe he is busy pep-talking his team, or dealing with Pike's stupid antics. Or, he's in the shower and has not had time to properly answer. Ah, Hollander in the shower, now that's a good thought. Maybe after they are done tonight, Ilya will ask him to shower together, then they go for round two. That's even a better thought. 

Ilya finishes putting on his uniform, and checks his phone again.

Hollander still has not replied to his message. It’s starting to get… weird, considering how eager he is to meet Ilya all the time, despite him trying to act otherwise. 

Or, maybe someone is playing coy tonight. The thought makes Ilya lightheaded, grinning and biting his lips. How the tables have turned, because now Hollander is making him wait. 

Luckily, Ilya is always up for a challenge, and he would eagerly take up this one. Their game of cat and mouse can feel a little bit exhausting sometimes, but it's never dull. On the contrary, that uncertainty keeps him sharp. He teases Hollander for being boring, but being with him is anything but boring, and his so-called boring is slowly becoming a stable anchor in Ilya’s chaotic life.

Yes, this is going to be a very good game.

---

Ilya is on fire today. He can feel it in the way he moves like flowing water among the Metros, in every clean hit of the puck against his stick. He already scored two goals, and he eagerly searched for Hollander’s reactions after each one. 

But every time he looks, Hollander isn’t there. In fact, it seems like he’s trying his best to avoid Ilya. Usually, there are constant glances and grins when they pass each other, on the ice or by the bench. Ilya skates past him deliberately, brushing his shoulders, slamming him against the board, letting out sharp whistles or chirps that would usually earn him a smile or a curse. 

Yet, Hollander flinches like he’s been caught off guard, eyes flashing up for half a second before darting away from Ilya. He is also playing horribly—slow, sloppy, missing passes and sliding on the ice with no purpose. It’s so unlike him that it makes Ilya’s chest twist.

As expected, Ilya is sent to the face off, confusion already settling into something restless and sour in his guts. Hollander is very decidedly looking at the ground and not him.

“Having a good night?” Ilya tries to make it playful, maybe a bit provocative, stirring up Hollander’s imagination about the good night they are about to have together. 

And… yes, there they are. Those beautiful eyes are finally looking at him. Up this close, even through their visors, Ilya can see Hollander’s long and dark lashes, fanning right above the goddamned freckles dusting his cheeks. Ilya wants to pinch them, kiss them, caress them with his fingertips—

Hollander’s eyes are dull. No heat, no edge, none of that bright, furious focus Ilya loves so much. And Ilya doesn’t miss the dark, hollow shadows underneath his eyes. It hits him then, that whatever is wrong with Hollander may have been happening for a while.

“Thar’s nice. I think there’s still time for a hat trick.” Ilya turns up his aggression, hoping to get Hollander’s attention, pushing at his pride and temper. “Should I do now or wait till last second? ‘Cause I don't know. Last second is more fun, but…” 

Their eyes meet again. Hollander looks dazed, but Ilya feels dizzy too. 

Yes, look at me, only have your eyes for me. Nobody else but me.

Ilya steals the puck and skates away quickly, his stomach fluttering. He scores again after a short while, but he barely feels the rush this time.

The match ends, they line up for handshakes, and Hollander is still not looking at him. 

Something is definitely wrong between them, something tight and closed-off, and Ilya doesn’t know where it came from. He just had one of the best games in months, and he couldn’t be bothered to give a shit about his win right now.

Hollander has never been really mad at Ilya when he lost before. It’s all part of the game, they both understand that. Win or lose, the real joy is facing someone who can keep up, someone who gets it. Playing against each other has always been the highlight, the most exhilarating part in every single fucking match. 

If Hollander is simply disappointed by a bad game, this would be easy. Ilya knows how to handle that, how to make him feel better. He will say some offensive jokes until Hollander’s mouth quirks despite himself, then make him come so hard that he barely remembers how to speak. But this is not about the game. Hollander is having an issue with him, and it’s making Ilya really fucking annoyed.

“Not showing up tonight huh?” Ilya throws out the first thing that comes to mind. “See you later.” He draws out the sound, dropping his voice low and suggestive, the way he knows Hollander usually likes it. Come on, look at me, say something.

Hollander continues to keep his eyes on the ground like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Fuck! Ilya is fully seething now. He holds out his fist to his teammates, words spilling from him automatically—“I love you,” “Good job,” “I love you,”—the usual rhythm he’s said a hundred times before. But his eyes never stray from Hollander, who is hunched over, head low, his body swaying slightly with the force of every fist against his, as if he is not reacting to the environment around him at all. 

Hollander is detached in a way that is slowly making Ilya’s stomach sink, the agitation and fury in him fade into something painfully close to worry, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

---

The moment Ilya gets back to the locker room, he immediately goes for his phone. He wants to ask Hollander what is going on, but… where should he even fucking started? There is no version of the question that doesn’t make Ilya sound like he cares too much. 

An awful, embarrassing part of Ilya tries to justify that maybe, maybe Hollander is sick. Maybe he’s stuck with some miserable Canadian flu that won’t let him sleep, making him distant and quiet with everyone. And so, the issue is not about Ilya at all. Not completely, at least.

Fuck—he can’t fucking pretend like this isn’t affecting him. He texts Hollander again, making things light, almost stupidly so, because his nonchalant humor and casual jokes are his safe exits whenever he doesn’t get the responses he wants. 

Lily: You sick? Pike possessing you lately? Is why you play bad? |          

Ilya has never considered himself to be the best with words, especially in a language as stupid as English. He prefers actions a lot more, because those he understands and doesn’t need to fucking explain himself.

Lily: I can make you feel better |          

Fuck, being with Hollander will take this gnawing off his chest and make him feel better too. He wants—needs to see Hollander now. He needs to get out of this stupid fucking uniform, take a shower as fast as possible, put on his nice clothes, and go see Hollander right fucking now.

He rushes to his phone after he is done, and he wants to throw it into the wall because there is still nothing. Hollander hasn’t even seen his messages.

Ilya tries again, knowing that competitive little shit will never turn down a challenge. 

Lily: Wanna bet? |          

Lily: I make you cum 4 times in 1 hour |          

Lily: One for each goal I scored tonight 😈 |          

Or… Ilya is hoping that Hollander will not turn him down. He stares at his phone, biting his lips, hands tapping impatiently at the screen.

Marleau’s whistle almost makes him jump. Almost. “So, where are you taking her out for the date this time?” That jerk is even trying to look at his phone over his shoulders.

“Is not a fucking date.” Ilya says curtly, irritated. 

“Sure, ‘cause we all dress up like that for casual hook-ups.” 

“Fucking drop it, Marly.” Ilya snaps, his voice coming out harsher than necessary. He catches himself, feeling a bit guilty, and quickly adds a quip. “Not everyone likes to be dirty and stinky all the time like you.”

Marleau, thankfully, only shrugs. He is way too used to Ilya’s bad days at this point and knows just when to leave Ilya alone. Ilya silently appreciates him for that.

He turns back to his phone, gripping it so hard that his knuckles are turning white. His legs can't stop bouncing, and his chest feels crowded like something is sitting and bearing down on it. His mind starts filling the quiet with noise. Maybe he pushed too hard. Maybe he didn’t push enough—

His phone buzzes suddenly, almost sharp and violent in his hand. His heart jumps into his throat so fast it hurts. Relief floods him, hot and dizzying, before his eyes even focus on the screen, which has somehow become too bright.

          | Jane: We’re not meeting.                     

Fuck! Fuck this shit! It’s almost absurd how hard Ilya is denying this now, because he knows Hollander is mad at him. He knows, and yet he is still desperately trying to find an excuse and cling onto that because he doesn’t want to face the truth. It’s not about the fucking game, it never was. 

Knowing and admitting are two different beasts, and Ilya’s been wrestling the second one his whole life. He doesn’t want to admit it, because then everything will feel real, and he cannot live with that. 

But Ilya is vain, selfish, undisciplined. And all he ever does is lie, lie, lie, even to himself.

Lily: Still mad about game? |          

Lily: Don't worry, you are still second best player 😘|          

The buzz is instant this time.

          | Jane: I'm not doing this anymore.                     

          | Jane: You said it yourself.           

          | Jane: We are not anything, stop texting me.

The words land, and Ilya’s stomach drops so hard it feels like he’s falling through himself. For a second, his thoughts scatter completely, like birds startled out of a tree. 

Lily: What |          

That's the only English word Ilya has on his mind right now.

          | Jane: Fuck off, Rozanov.

What.

Noises and echoes are bouncing around in his skull, stupid and hollow. What is Hollander saying? What is he seeing?

Marleau’s voice snaps him back to reality. “Roz, you ok? What's with the long face? Your girl is mad at you?”

Ilya sprints out of the room without answering. 

Outside, the night air slams into him, sharp and cold, cutting through the heat trapped under his skin and helping him breathe again. 

Fuck, he didn’t expect this. He has expected tension, anger, accusations, maybe a fight. He will gladly take that, he will take Hollander’s yelling and swearing, take whatever slipping from that carefully controlled mind. But he didn’t expect… this, for Hollander to just end things between them. 

His hands are trembling when he types back.

Lily: What’s wrong? |          

Or… maybe he did expect this?

Ilya has always expected that this would end, one way or another. From the very beginning, when their hands brushed together and neither of them pulled away. He had expected this, when he decided to turn his body towards Hollander and stared into those beautiful eyes as he jerked himself off, when he counted every ding of the elevator until he reached the 14th floor, and when he kissed Hollander for the first time.

That’s why he clings to Hollander like every time might be the last, why his hands always held too tight and his lips lingered too long, greedy and reverent at the same time. That’s why his phone is full of pictures from that stupid Vegas show, because they are proof that Hollander was once warm and solid under his palms, and not an apparition that he imagines during lonely nights amongst the bitter Moscow air. 

So, Ilya must have expected this… Right? 

This—whatever this thing was between them, it was supposed to be casual and easy. They meet, they fuck, it’s simple. It’s better for things to end sooner than later, before this unquenchable hunger consumes him whole and the pain of wanting something he cannot have eats him from the inside out. And it’s better that Hollander is the one ending it, so Ilya doesn't need to own up to his actions.

“Fuck!” Ilya shouts into the empty night, kicking the nearest wall like a petulant child. 

Rage surges up inside him again and floods his limbs. This doesn’t feel right. Yes, he always knows things will end one day, but not—not like this. 

He has always been considerate when it comes to sex. He prides himself on that, building up his reputation one encounter at a time. He brings pleasure to his… partners, and all goodbyes are mutual, amicable, even fun. He never wants any of his hook-ups to end in hostility, and especially not with Hollander—whom Ilya respects, enjoys speaking to, enjoys playing against. He truly enjoys being with Hollander, and he will cherish all the time they have, until they inevitably have to part ways.

And when it ends, as it always did, Ilya wants it to end gently. Preferably after they fuck each other’s brains out for the final time. But even so, Ilya wants him and Hollander to end with a shared understanding that they meant something to each other, even if they cannot be more. Maybe they will even become friends, and laugh about it one day in the future.

And—and if Hollander truly wants to end things with him now, Ilya needs to know that Hollander really means it, even if Ilya doesn’t know how to make himself let go.

Hollander has not been right this evening, so Ilya clings to that thought—stubborn, hopeful, maybe delusional—that whatever Hollander texted him isn’t the truth. Maybe he truly is sick, tired, overwhelmed. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, he will rethink his decisions. Maybe, maybe, he didn’t mean what he just said.

 Lily: You ok? |          

They don't usually do this… talking about feelings. Mostly, Ilya doesn’t do this talking about feelings. They can talk about everything else except feelings, and they say more with their bodies than words ever could. Ilya has learnt a long time ago to keep his walls sealed tight, because it’s easier that way. He never wants to give away too much of his heart, and so it’s always easier to shut down Hollander’s questions. Ilya doesn’t answer, and he most certainly doesn’t ask.

Yet, at this moment, the only thing on his mind is that he needs to know. 

Lily: Talk to me |          

He waits and waits, for his messages to sit unread. 

Each minute stretches, thick and suffocating. He checks his signal, like everything else might be at fault but him. He locks the screen, unlocks it again. Still, there is nothing.

Fuck, he really cannot take this anymore. They don't do this, but whatever, Ilya couldn't care less about stepping over invisible boundaries that he set for himself. He hits the call button.

Every long beep lands in his guts like a punch. When even his calls go unanswered, cold and raw fear starts to creep inside him. 

What if Hollander truly… hates him?

The idea hits Ilya harder than anything else so far, brutal and invasive. It freezes him in place, because Ilya realizes—too late, too honestly—that he is terrified of that, terrified of being someone Hollander wants to escape from. He always tells himself that Hollander is just someone he enjoys, maybe someone he wants, but not someone he needs. 

Ilya feels like his chest is gaping open. Regret floods in, thick and relentless. It’s always there, lurking at the edges of his mind whenever they are together. Every time, Ilya tries to ignore it—without much success, and tries to drown it out with easy smiles and fervent touches and carefully maintained distance. Regret is a cruel ghost that follows him everywhere, but now it’s not whispering anymore—it’s gripping him, claws digging deep and turning him from the inside out.

[2 missed calls] |          

Lily: Tell me what’s wrong |          

Lily: Are you ok??? |          

He tries to call again, his hands shaking, thoughts roaring and crashing in his head.

Ilya must have done something wrong. Of course he did, he always does. Father is right, he is vain, selfish, undisciplined, and he always messes things up. He rewinds memories of the last time they were together, his stomach twisting with an indescribable sense of dread. 

Fuck, did he—did he hurt Hollander in Vegas?

But Hollander had seemed… fine? Physically, at least. And he had asked Ilya for the vodka after, his smile easy and his skin glowing in blissed-out satisfaction.

Ilya had let his intrusion win in Vegas. He has no sort of resemblance of control on anything in his fucking miserable life. He throws himself into hockey because that's the only thing he's good at, because that's what Father wants him to. Hollander is the only one to ever make Ilya feel grounded, safe, in control. He makes Ilya drunk, makes his head spin, makes him addicted to that feeling. And so, he had wanted to push at Hollander for more, because he felt that he was entitled to that right.

Hollander was clearly hesitant and nervous, he could have said no, he could have walked away, but he chose to do what Ilya asked. He asked Hollander to indulge him, and Hollander did it, for him.

But Ilya is vain, selfish, undisciplined, and he takes and takes and takes. He was mean, and he was rough, the fire coursing through his veins stripped him of all finesse. He remembers slamming into Hollander with so much force that his own thighs had ached, his hands bruising Hollander’s waist, pulling and twisting on soft dark hair, grinding and pushing him down, down—

Ilya had felt thrilled then. Now, he only feels horror.

He did all of those terrible things, and then he shut off Hollander’s attempts at connecting with him, and told him to go away. He remembers how Hollander dropped the vodka cup unusually loud—because Ilya knows how peculiar he is about sounds and lights and texture—how he rushed to get out of the bed like he had been burned, stuttering and tripping over his feet. He remembers how he had said goodbye to Hollander and didn't hear the door closed until a few minutes after, as if Hollander was… waiting for him.

Ilya had paid attention to everything, and yet he stayed still in his bed, because he was a selfish coward and was way into his head to even acknowledge that something was wrong with Hollander, and he was the cause of it.

Fuck, how could he have been so blind? Shane Hollander, who is supposed to be his greatest and most bitter archrival, has trusted him. Shane always trusts him, trusts him to be careful, to not take advantage of the softness that Shane offers him so easily. Shane never questions him, does whatever Ilya tells him to, gives Ilya everything he can give. And yet, Ilya has betrayed that trust, crossing a line that he could have foreseen and avoided.

Shane said that they are not meeting, and normally, Ilya will respect that. Consent, boundaries, space. Those are the rules he lives by, rules that keep him from becoming the people he hates—the people that he knows too well. But right now, he cannot bring himself to care. The panic has burned through reasons entirely. If he allows this to end without seeing Shane, without hearing his voice, without fixing this mess that he created—he will lose his mind, and he will regret it until the end of his days.

He gets a cab to Shane's apartment, hitting call non-stop on his phone and cursing under his breath. 

---

[5 missed calls] |          

The cab is too small, the smell of fabric cleaner and old leather too much for his senses to bear. Ilya rolls down the window, grateful for the biting cold air, leaning into it like it might save him. He looks at his phone to see that Shane still hasn’t seen any of his messages. He presses his forehead against the glass, breathing hard to still the faint spinning that is making his vision blur at the edges.

His own voice stabs at him, bitter and cruel.

Go away Hollander.

It laughs and sneers, mocking him relentlessly. It picks at him, turning him small, petty and vicious in his own mind.

We are not anything.

He had tried to convince himself that he was protecting them both. Russia is harsh and unkind, and he could not risk putting himself nor Shane in danger. He knows that Shane—the naive, happy, golden-hockey-boy who grows up in a place where love is not a liability—would not understand. And he will not need to understand, ever, because Ilya will not tell him. He cannot admit to Shane how broken he is, how much fear lives under his skin, lest it drags him to become the most terrible version of himself.

And so, he does the only thing he ever knows how. He acts like an asshole, because it’s always easier to retreat into anger and coldness. He sharpens his edges until no one can get close enough to hurt him—or see how badly he wants more, because he is vain, selfish, undisciplined—and he knows if he looks too long at Shane he will not be able to control himself. 

The cab sways slightly, and the dizziness spikes again. Ilya grips the seat, his knuckles white. They are not anything, and they will never be anything, because they simply cannot be. The only thing they can ever be, is to meet, fuck, and part ways at some time in the future, as it is meant to be.

Yet, the truth presses hard at him, merciless and undeniable. He is terrified of admitting to himself that he wants to be something more to Shane, and he wants them to be something more. But they cannot do that, Ilya cannot do that—

The “seen” notification suddenly appears, and Ilya almost drops his phone. He types frantically, heart slamming against his ribs.

Lily: I know you read my messages |          

Lily: Pick up |          

Another “seen”, but nothing else.

Rage creeps back in, flaring up his spine. Ilya grits his teeth together. Fuck, why is this ride so fucking long? He's angry at this fucking stupid city, all these fucking stupid traffic, angry at himself for being a fucking stupid asshole.

Lily: Hollander are you ok????? |          

The question looks ridiculous the second he sends it. Of course Shane is not ok, he knows Shane is not, because he was the one who treated Shane horribly. Shane has always welcomed him, and his tenderness terrifies Ilya. And because Ilya is a selfish coward, all he ever knows to do is run and hide. 

He ran away when Shane held him and kissed his forehead, the softness in his eyes too much for Ilya to bear. At that moment, he truly thought that Shane could kill him, flaying open his rotten heart and slicing through his tar black soul with that look. He ran away when Shane came to him in the piercing cold of Sochi, his smile gentle, eyes bright like the morning sun and voice like music to Ilya’s ears. And he ran away in Vegas, where he knew that Shane needed him most—but not before smugly savoring the way Shane crumbled in front of him, forehead pressing against Ilya’s neck like Ilya was the only thing that could stop him from falling apart.

He calls again and again. The ringing feels distant now.

[4 missed calls] |          

“Please,” He whispers, the anger dissolving just as quickly as it came, leaving behind a strange and heavy numbness. “Just let me talk to you...”

 Lily: Talk to me |          

  Lily: Please |          

[1 missed call] |          

His chest still hurts, though the pain has become duller. Ilya stares out the cab window, watching streetlights smear into soft lines of color. His thoughts slow and slip, and nothing really makes sense to him anymore—

“We're here sir.” 

The driver’s monotone voice cuts through the fog in his head.

Ilya blinks. Fuck, this is—too soon, too fast. He is not ready to face Shane at all, not ready to find out whether Shane will even open the door to see him. 

He needs a cigarette, but he has run out and got on this cab with literally nothing but his phone. He looks at the driver, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh, you have cigarettes?”

The driver raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes? You can’t smoke in my car though.”

He breathes out in relief. “No, of course not. Can I have one?” 

---

The nicotine burns down his throat, sharp and grounding. His lungs ache, but in a familiar and welcoming way. The open air also helps to clear his head, not fully, but enough. His heart is still jumping like crazy, and his hands are still shaking, but at least he can think now. 

Ilya thinks of what he will say when he sees Shane again, practicing it over and over in his head. If Shane is angry at him, he will take it, shut up until Shane is done, and apologize. If Shane is sad—fuck, he'd rather Shane be very angry—he will also take it, shut up and apologize. And then, no matter what happens, he will ask for forgiveness.

Then comes the part that he can barely wrap his mind around.

If Shane wants him to leave forever, if he says this is truly over—

Ilya drags hard on the cigarette again. He is scared to even think about it, he is definitely not ready. He is greedy and selfish, and he stills wants too much right now. And so, he desperately wishes that Shane will forgive him, and then give him a second chance. 

He braces himself with another deep inhale of the cigarette, before sending out the text.

                    Lily: I'm outside your apartment |          

 Lily: Open the door |          

Ilya paces uselessly, eyes never leaving his phone, cursing when he sees that his cigarette is about to run out. When he swallows the last smoke, it tastes thin and burnt, and then it’s just gone. The high of nicotine evaporates as easily as it comes, leaving him a scraped and hollowed husk.

He slumps down onto the front porch, his back hitting the door harder than he means to. The wood is solid, unmoving, and thankfully offers him some resemblance of support. He checks his phone again, not even hoping for anything this time, as he is starting to get used to Shane’s continued silence.

He scrolls up their conversation, to the six months worth of messages that Shane sent him. There were congratulations when he won the Cup, anger at him for being an unresponsive asshole, questions for his well-being, excitement about Sochi… 

None of which he replied to. He didn’t answer Shane, because facing Shane meant facing his ugly self. The only message that he sent after those six long months was “Penthouse 1”, which feels like a cruel joke to him now.

Ah, how the tables truly have turned. Now Ilya is the one trying to reach out, desperately, only to receive nothing back. His eyes sting again, pressure blooming behind them. Is this what it felt like for Shane, when Ilya was a coward and chose to ignore him for six months? Checking his phone, hoping, telling himself it didn’t matter when it clearly did? 

Fuck, maybe Shane is not even here. He probably has dozens of different properties in Montreal. The thought flickers, yet it doesn’t really change anything. Ilya doesn’t care if Shane is here or not here. Wherever Shane is, he will go. 

Lily: I wait until you open |          

                    Lily: Whole night if I have to |          

He really doesn’t care if he has to stay and beg all night, as long as he can see Shane. 

Lily: Let me in |          

Lily: Please |          

[3 missed calls] |          

Fuck, he should have asked the driver for another cigarette. Maybe the entire fucking pack. He knows Shane hates it when he smokes, but he needs it so badly right now.

 Lily: Hollander please |          

  Lily: Open the door |          

He calls again, even though he knows that Shane won’t pick up.

[1 missed call] |          

Lily: Whatever it is let me fix it |          

Maybe he will actually sit here all night and miss his team’s flight tomorrow. Ilya will need some believable excuses then. He can get food poisoning, or an accident, or he gets too drunk at a bar and is detained by the police for starting a fight. He has more than enough money to pay fines, and he doesn’t care if he gets benched for the next game, or even for the entire season. Father will be so angry, his voice already crossing Ilya’s mind—sharp and predictable—but even Father feels irrelevant to him now. 

Nothing else matters compared to this ache in his chest, the need to see Shane in the eyes, let Shane know that he was cruel, he was afraid, and he is truly sorry—so much in a way that words alone cannot describe.

  Lily: Let me see you |          

                      Lily: Please |          

Ilya’s so deep in his head that he almost misses the footsteps. 

For a split second he thinks he’s hallucinating—his brain filling in hope where there shouldn’t be any. But when the sounds become clearer, closer, he bolts upright like he has been electrified. He stares at the door, his ears straining to catch every sound like it might disappear.

He is so nervous—terrified, even. His hands are clammy and they cannot stop shaking, so he shoves them deep into his pockets, nails grinding hard into his palm to calm himself down. His heart is beating so hard, rattling his ribs and threatening to burst out of his chest. He can feel his pulses crashing between his ears and straining against his temples. He doesn’t want to fuck this up again, he just wants to make it right.

When the handle turns, Ilya cannot even breathe.

---

Shane looks… horrible. His skin is too pale—almost ashen, his eyes are red and swollen, and even in the dim light, Ilya can make out the tears that haven’t fully dried on his face. And yet, he is still the most gorgeous person Ilya has ever seen, and Ilya wants nothing more than to kiss him and never let go.

Something flickers across Shane’s eyes, then he moves to close the door, away from Ilya—

His panic sharpens into something almost feral, and Ilya rushes forward. He cannot let this be over, he cannot lose Shane, not again. He scrambles to grab onto Shane’s wrist, pulling him close against his chest and keeping him tight, because he doesn’t know if he can ever stand seeing Shane turn his back on him ever again.

"Let me go—"

When he sees Shane’s tears spill over long lashes and down those freckles, his heart stops entirely. 

Ilya has never been good at dealing with tears. He remembers crying when he fell and scraped his knees when he was a kid, only for Father to scowl at him and Alexei to laugh at him. Mama was the only one who ever held him close, rocking him against her chest and kissing his cheeks until the pain went away. Only in her arms could he cry, and so Ilya has not cried once since he was twelve.

Mama had cried so many times, but only in his arms could she smile again, even through her tears. 

As Ilya throws himself into cigarettes, liquor and sex—because he is lazy and undisciplined—he has seen tears on some women who were with him. They wanted to see him more, and hoped to be something more. Ilya never stayed more than necessary. He never wanted to, nor did he need to. He just said he was sorry, and he truly was, he never wanted anyone, especially beautiful, beautiful women, to shed a tear for him. Then he said he could not give what they wanted, and left without ever seeing them again.

Seeing Shane like this, Ilya’s mind just leaves him. He doesn't know what to say or what to do. He feels like a little boy again, scared and alone, arms holding tight onto the only person he loves through her tears because he doesn't know what else he can do—

Shane is shaking all over, his hands clutching and pulling unconsciously at Ilya’s shirt, his breaths coming too fast, too shallow, like he can’t get in enough air no matter how hard he tries. Ilya is fully panicking, pain flaring hot and sharp in his head, but Shane needs him now, and he cannot allow himself to lose even more control than he already has. 

He forces his body to move, holding Shane even tighter against him, one arm firm around Shane’s back like an anchor. He squeezes his eyes shut and buries his nose into soft hair, not daring to look at Shane any further, because he knows that he will break apart too if he does. He tries to make his breathing slow, emphasizes every inhale and exhale, hoping that Shane will feel it, that his body can teach Shane how to calm down even when his mind cannot.

Words fall from Ilya's lips without him thinking, and he knows what they mean, he must, but he doesn't really know why he's saying them. 

“Всё хорошо... мой маленький, всё хорошо.” "It's alright… My little one, it's alright."

He rubs small, steady circles into Shane’s hair and waist, the way he remembers how the gesture used to calm him down. Abruptly, he notices how he is big and tall enough to wrap his arms entirely around Shane, enough to be a safe place—if Shane wants him to. The thought grounds him, snapping his focus into place, clearing the statics in his head just enough to function.

“я с тобой, я с тобой, я с тобой…” "I'm with you, I'm with you, I'm with you..."

Then another thought rises up, sudden and tainted. The child in him is shrieking again, how his small hands and feeble arms could not even hold her properly—

He swallows hard and crushes it down before it can take root further.

Focus, he needs to focus on Shane right now. At this moment, only Shane matters to him, and nothing else in the world can make Ilya forget that. 

Ilya doesn’t know how much time has passed, his frayed mind still struggling to comprehend what is happening around him. He loses himself in Shane, in the feelings of his solid warmth against Ilya’s body. As the world slowly comes back to him, he notices that Shane’s breathing has become more stable, his choking sobs easing into quiet, soft sniffles.

He braces himself for Shane to say something first. He is absolutely terrified of hearing what Shane might say, but he is even more terrified of Shane saying nothing at all.

The silence stretches on, clamping down on his chest like a vice, threatening to cloud his eyes and cuts off his breath. Ilya feels lightheaded, and if he doesn’t break this fucking silence right now, he will fall over and black out.

“Hollander…” Ilya manages—with great difficulty, his throat burning—because that's the only word currently on his mind. 

He swallows hard, struggling to dig more of these stupid English words out of his fragmented brain. “Will you please tell me what's wrong?"

Of course he knows what's wrong. He knows exactly what he did wrong, knows them all too well. But he is a vain, selfish, undisciplined coward, and he cannot bring himself to admit it out loud first. He would rather Shane scream at his face, so he can hide behind Shane’s anger, so he doesn't have to say it himself.

Tell me everything. Tell me how terrible I was to you, so I can never do it again.

Immense relief crashes over him the moment Shane speaks up, like soothing rain and gentle breezes falling on scorched earth. English is still so difficult right now, and for a second Ilya thinks he won’t even be able to comprehend Shane’s words—but he does. Beneath his shame and guilt, there is something dangerously close to joy, because Shane is still a presence in his life, a proof that he has not lost Shane completely.

"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 know, I was an asshole to you. I was using you for my own selfish needs, I didn’t take care of you, I didn’t care about what you were thinking.

“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—"

I know, I know it all. You were so good for me. You are always so good for me.

"You just—you sent me away. We didn't even kiss..."

Wait, Shane cared about… a kiss with him? He did all those horrible things to Shane, and Shane still wanted to kiss him afterwards? 

"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—"

No—Fuck, Ilya cannot fucking take this. Shane did nothing wrong, he was the one who was wrong. He can take all of Shane’s insults, can take all of Shane’s anger, but he cannot and will not listen to Shane blaming himself for Ilya’s mistakes. He rushes to close Shane’s mouth with his own, swallowing up whatever ugly words Shane may say next. 

He tries to pour everything he cannot say into that kiss, all his fear, guilt, longing, regret. Always regret, the ghost of it haunting him in every waking and sleeping moment.

I don't deserve you, I really don't. But I am greedy and selfish and I want you anyway. I care for you, so much, so much somuchsomuch—

Ilya’s lungs are burning from lack of air, and his eyes are burning too. He reluctantly parts from Shane, who is still refusing to look at him. "Hollander, look at me. Look at me, please." He needs Shane’s eyes, needs Shane to see him, needs Shane to know that he means every single thing he is about to say. 

When Shane finally does—his eyes unfocused, still glassy with tears— Ilya’s words come tumbling out, messy, breathless, overlapping. "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."

He kisses Shane’s eyes, kisses his beautiful, freckled cheeks—hoping that if he kisses Shane hard enough the tears would disappear, and Ilya will be able to fool himself into believing that the evidence of his stupidity and selfishness will disappear.

"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?"

This is what he should have done from the start, to care for Shane the way he deserves. He really doesn’t want to hurt Shane, never again. And—because he is a coward, he can fool himself into thinking that he will kiss Shane because Shane wants him too, and not because he is too weak to control his unruly impulses and putrid desires.

"Yeah, you really are an asshole." He thinks he hears Shane chuckle, but he finds no humor in it. 

"I'm sorry. I was stupid. Will you forgive me?" 

He holds Shane’s gaze, silently begging. Ilya will never be able to forgive himself if Shane does not. He had so many opportunities to make things right, to do better, and he had fucked up every single one. And if—if Shane doesn’t forgive him, he will accept that. It will fucking kill him, but he will have to accept that.

Shane is quiet for a while, and Ilya is so scared, every muscle in his body drawn tight. Shane can tell him to fuck off again, that he hates Ilya’s guts, that they should really stop this and never see each other anymore—

"Can you not ignore me again? Please... Don’t ignore me." 

Shane keeps his eyes down when he says it, his voice almost fragile. Such an awful request, the way Shane wasn’t even sure he should say it to Ilya. Six fucking months… A few hours of Shane not replying, and he already wants to go insane. It made everything he did feel heavier, uglier, impossible to defend. He has prepared to be hated, and instead Shane is trusting him again and asking for nothing more but his presence. Ilya can’t fucking believe it.

"Don't act like you don't see me, like—like I'm nothing to you."

No, you are not nothing. Ilya’s eyes are blurring, dizziness surging up his temples. He truly is a terrible person. You are everything, Shane. His traitorous mind is screaming at him. He will definitely regret this later, after he leaves Shane and goes back to Russia, to his lonely and cold and too big house, to Father’s contempt and Alexei’s sneers.

“Sorry about that too,” Because that’s all he can manage, because he cannot bring himself to say the rest of his greedy, selfish thoughts. "I will never ignore you again, even when you send me the most boring texts, yes?" And to distract himself, he kisses Shane again, not too desperate and rushed this time, but enough to remind both of them that Ilya is here, and he means everything he did and did not say.

Shane startles for half a second, then relaxes into him. When they finally pull apart, Shane’s voice washes over him, like warmth after a long, shaking cold. "Alright, I forgive you." 

Ilya hasn’t realized how rigidly he’d been holding himself until that moment, how every breath had been too shallow and careful. When Shane falls into Ilya, tucking himself close, Ilya wraps both arms around him without hesitation, as if letting go might undo everything again. He presses his face into Shane’s hair, his heart is still racing, and the noise in his head doesn’t vanish all at once, but it has softened and dulled into something survivable.

Ilya is grateful for the blessed silence, because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything right now, knowing that any sound he makes will come out broken, tangled together in the mess spreading across his chest. He allows Shane’s forgiveness to sink in slowly and carefully, and at this moment, he allows himself to believe that everything between them is real.

Ilya’s thoughts are still drifting, loose and tender, when he feels a familiar twitch by his thighs. He looks down on instinct, like he might catch Shane in the act, and a laugh slips out before he can stop it. 

Wow…

Shane stiffens immediately. “Shut up!” He hisses, freckles dark against his pink cheeks, bristling like an angry, offended kitten. A very cute one.

That does it. Ilya laughs harder, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and relieved inside him. God, he has missed this, missed Shane like this—annoyed, embarrassed, present. Not the hollow quiet from earlier, not the way Shane refused to look at him, and definitely not the tears. He laughs because he is so fucking happy, because something normal has finally clawed its way back between them, because maybe—maybe they’re allowed to exist together again.

"I hate you so much." Shane is glaring at him with no heat behind it, and Ilya’s heart is soaring. He knows this version of Shane’s anger, safe and playful, and he’s so grateful to see it again.

"No you don't.” Ah, Ilya just cannot resist showing off. “I'm just too irresistible, yes?"

“How the fuck do you even know that word?” Shane is fuming, tightening his jaws and exhaling hard through his nose. Ilya is loving this a little bit too much.

“I'm very smart.” Ilya frequently searches for new words he can use to describe Shane, but Shane doesn't need to know that. At least not yet. Not right now—because right now, Ilya can focus on making Shane feel good. To make it up for him, to take Shane apart with his hands, his mouth—

He suddenly stills himself. 

"But do you—" 

Ilya doesn’t want to think of Shane in terms of just sex. He has never thought of Shane in that way. Yes, this is… casual, they meet, and they fuck, but that feels so uncertain today, after he just barely managed to bring Shane back from the abyss that he pushed Shane into. 

He reins himself in, trying to keep his voice soft. "Do you... want? I mean, you don't have to—"

"Yes," Shane says immediately, looking at him in a way that makes Ilya’s heart want to crawl out of his chest. "I want you." 

Yes! Fuck, yes, they can do this. Ilya can do this, he can make things right, normal. Sex has always been how he can best communicate with Shane, and now Shane has done the hard work of signaling it for him. He rushes in to kiss Shane, hard and hungry, holding onto this small miracle of normalcy like it might disappear if he lets go. He grabs at Shane’s cock, thanking this needy and honest buddy repeatedly in his head.

He abruptly realizes that they are still on the stairs. Damn, he really wants to make up to Shane properly, slow and sweet, just as Shane deserves. "Wait, we should probably—We should move upstairs—”

"No, no, no, Rozanov—" Fuck, Shane is pulling so hard at his hair, and Ilya thinks he might have a new favourite thing in the world. "I need you, now, please."

Goddamnit, how the fuck can Ilya say no to that? 

A tang of regret suddenly fleets back into his heart. It tuts at him, berates him for wallowing in undisciplined indulgence. But the way Shane looks at him, pupils blown wide, dark with lust and something else that Ilya does not dare to name—those eyes always tell him the truth, that it’s not just him, and Shane also needs him just as desperately.

Fuck, Shane will really kill him one day.

Ilya is too happy to kneel down, savoring the familiar weight and taste of Shane in his mouth. When he feels that Shane is close—the way his entire body is drawn up tight, his thighs trembling with the force of holding himself up—Ilya moves to kiss him, one hand grabbing his neck and tilting his face up. Ilya strokes him faster, twisting his wrist just right, the way he knows Shane likes it. 

He holds Shane close through his orgasm, his eyes never leaving Shane’s face, and commits everything to his memories.

---

Ilya is enjoying this comfortable silence, with Shane warm and solid next to him. Every now and then, he leans in and presses a light kiss into Shane’s hair. This is how he wishes all their nights could end, holding each other close instead of always rushing to leave and hide. 

"Now my stairway is all dirty." Shane complains suddenly, making Ilya smile before he can stop himself. Only Shane Hollander can say something like this, the same way he always folds his clothes so neatly, and Ilya finds it so unbearably endearing.

"And whose fault is that, huh?" Ilya jokes back. He wishes that he can bottle up this moment, letting them stay like this forever—

"Back then, when I tried to talk to you..." 

Fuck…

The shift is immediate. His smile falters, just for a fraction of a second, but it feels loud inside him. The moment is broken again, and Ilya schools his expression, trying hard to pull himself together. He dreads the way Shane sometimes asks too much, but he cannot allow himself to chase Shane away like he did in Vegas.

"You didn't seem like you wanted to talk. Almost like, you were mad at me."

He presses his lips tight and counts in his head, slow and steady, bracing himself for the inevitable questions that Shane will ask.

"Was it something I said?"

Ilya will give Shane just enough, hoping that Shane will understand without him having to explain more. He calculates every word carefully before they leave him, trimming down the truth until it feels safe.

"Russia is... not good topic for me.” Still, the weight of it threatens to show, his frustration curls into something sharper, and Ilya has to turn away. He hides his snarl and frown and anger, because he doesn't want Shane to see his bared selfishness, lest Shane thinks that Ilya is annoyed because of him. “I didn't mean to—fuck—I don't like to talk about Russia."

Because talking about Russia makes me terrible, and I don’t want to be terrible to you. 

A small, traitorous voice stirs inside him.

You are already terrible to him.

Shane's voice is so small that Ilya almost misses it. “I’m sorry. I didn't know.”

Guilt hits Ilya again. Fuck, he’s messing this up. He knows that he is being unfair to Shane—unkind, even. His mind scrambles, searching desperately for something more he can offer, some sliver of honesty that won’t cost him everything. 

"No... Was my fault." He leans in and kisses Shane, hoping to take some of the guilt off his chest. "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—" 

I can’t. Don't make me. Don't ask that of me.

Ilya stops himself before he can blurt out the words. He goes in for another kiss, quick and almost desperate, as if he can steal a little bravery from the contact. Then he spits out the ugly lie. “I will.”

The voice laughs now, cruel and hollow.

See? You are being terrible to him now. 

The irony doesn’t escape him. He is lying to Shane, yet he craves the reassurance of knowing everything Shane thinks and feels. “And you will do same thing, yes? You tell me when I make you upset?” He is a greedy and selfish asshole, and so he will take the truth away from Shane only to give back lies.

Shane seems content with his answers, because he is nuzzling into Ilya. “Alright, I will.”

Ilya releases a deep breath he has been holding, grateful for the silence once more. He lets his head fall back into Shane’s hair, willing away the heaviness of everything he refuses to say.

As the fog in his head starts to clear, he is abruptly too aware of the fact that his team will leave soon. "Uhm, I need to go. Early flight in the morning."

"Right. Okay..." Shane pouts, and the sight is doing things to him. A devious idea jumps into Ilya’s head. He leans forwards, cupping Shane through his pants and squeezing him tight. "Next time you play in Boston, I will make you cum four times, to make up for my mistake, yes?” Fuck, just the thought of next time is already making Ilya dizzy.

Though, for their next time, and every time after, Ilya wants to make sure that he will never repeat his stupidity. “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." 

Shane laughs at him. Ilya thinks he wants to hear Shane laugh forever. “Is it even anatomically possible for the human body to cum four times in an hour?”

Anatomically? Ah, so that word sounds the same in English. Ilya pinches Shane’s nose, drinking in more of Shane’s laughter. “You still mad at me? You use big English word to mess with me, huh? Joke on you Hollander, I already know this one. Though, maybe I should make you mad more. You are like angry kitten. Is very cute."

"I'm not a kitten." Shane huffs with exaggerated offense. It’s unbearably cute.

"You are cute kitten when you are sad too. But I don't like it. I don't want to make you sad." It’s partly an apology, partly a promise, and mostly a reminder to himself to not be careless with Shane again.

“I told you, I’m not a kitten.” Shane’s freckles are getting even darker against his blush. "Next time in Boston—I don't know. We can try, I guess." 

Oh my God, this is so unfair. Ilya is convinced this is how he will die. He doesn’t really expect Shane to agree so quickly, and now his head is spinning with all the things he can ask Shane to do with him.

I wanted to be good for you. Shane has said before, and Ilya thinks he really does not deserve that devotion, but he knows better now. He knows that Shane is eager to do what he is told, how badly he wants to be enough, how much he wants his efforts to be seen, acknowledged and returned. Ilya understands what is expected of him in exchange.

"I know you can. You are always so good for me." Ilya says, pressing the words into a kiss. He feels it immediately, the way Shane melts into him. His eyes soften further, his smile turning almost blissful, unguarded in a way that makes Ilya’s chest ache. Ilya must be grinning like an idiot too, and he kisses Shane again to distract himself from how much it means.

Right, he has an early flight. He really needs to leave now, or else he will never be able to.

He breaks away from Shane, clearing his throat in a feeble attempt to still his voice. “I really should go.” 

“Yeah… Goodbye, Rozanov.”

And yet, Shane is still holding onto his jacket tightly, as if he doesn’t want Ilya to go.

Would Shane want him to stay?

Ilya’s thoughts are swirling in his head. Something lurches in him, sharp and sweet and nauseating at the same time. Shane is like this because of him, and it makes him relieved and frightened and inexplicably angry all at once. But Shane is also making him like this. Lost, confused, and something else that he refuses to name—something too dangerous to even examine further.

He shouldn't want more, and he doesn’t deserve to have more. But maybe just for today, he can allow himself to have this…

Ilya makes up his mind before he can overthink it. He kisses Shane again, licking into his mouth, sucking on his lips, trying to remember the shapes and taste of him, the way he always opens up immediately for Ilya.

It takes all of his willpower to pull away, emptiness spreading across his chest, his fingertips numb from the loss of Shane’s warmth.

He really doesn't want to go.

"Goodbye, Hollander. See you next time.”

He rushes straight to the door, his steps a little too fast, not daring to look back. The moment he is outside, he breaks into a mindless jog without any direction, until he is a safe distance away.

Fuck, he really needs another cigarette. 

---

Ilya gets back to his hotel way late past curfew. It seems like Marleau also had a productive night, as he is fresh out of the shower when Ilya comes in.

Marleau raises a brow at him. “How did it go? Did you solve it out with her?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, cursing at how that thick-headed idiot can be so fucking perceptive sometimes. “Nothing happened, stop asking.”

Marleau gives him a knowing smirk. “Sure. You ran out so fast you forgot to bring your bag. I had to carry all your shit back here for you.”

Ilya cannot come up with anything witty at that moment, and he cannot… deny what Marleau said. So he just keeps his mouth shut, pretending to be busy changing out of his clothes and organizing his luggage.

“Wow, this one is real special, huh? Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding, yeah?”

“Fuck off, Marly.”

---

Lily: See you soon ;) |          

The reply is almost instant, and Ilya's cheeks are aching from how wide he is smiling.

          | Jane: Ready to lose? :)