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“I should sleep,” he said finally.
“Oh. Yeah. I should... I need to get going, anyway.”
“Yes.”
Ah. There was that shame Shane had been expecting. He got cleaned up in the bathroom, then went to the main room to retrieve his clothes. He put on the pants and the shirt and carried the rest of the tuxedo. Rozanov didn’t leave the bedroom.
“So, uh. I’m off,” Shane called out.
“Goodbye, Hollander,” Rozanov replied from the other room.
Shane stands in the elevator, or honestly, leans against the walls because his legs are still jell-o, staring at his phone for what feels like eons. Shane’s fingers are tingly and feel oddly cold, like ice. But it’s summer in Las Vegas, and to him, that makes for a very, very hot place to be.
His phone screen blinks “new message” now, after he’d deleted the typed out texts. But his brain is running laps like he skates, fast and unrelenting. We didn’t even kiss, we didn’t even kiss, we didn’t even kiss–
Russia seems to be a sore subject for Ilya. Their conversation leaves him feeling off-kilter and guilty, because he wants to know and understand Rozanov, but he also does not want to interrogate the man. After going to Sochi for the Olympics, he can see how home changes Rozanov. How it burdens him with something he can’t quite name.
And he isn’t sure how to breach that conversation when there’s a shadow haunting Rozanov he can’t grasp. This time, he did it all wrong, and got pseudo-kicked out. Shane doesn’t like to disappoint. He doesn’t like not knowing what he did wrong.
“We aren’t anything, Hollander.”
His eyes prickle with tears at the thought, because he can still remember how soft it had been his first time when they were in Montreal, how gentle Rozanov had been as he left. It was sleepy and languid in all the ways he yearned for. But tonight, it was clinical. He felt used, and dirty, and he’s in Las Vegas alone with no one to talk to about this.
When he gets off the elevator, he is still looking at their texts. How many of them were from him, trying to check in on Rozanov through Sochi. Congratulating him about the Stanley Cup. And then, the one text from Ilya amidst all that blue, is “Penthouse 1”.
It makes his stomach twist and he almost feels like throwing up at how pathetic he is. Shane finds himself trembling as he makes his way to his own hotel, a completely different one than Rozanov’s. It’s not on the 16th floor, he dually notes, because all he can think about are those damn windows, and Rozanov’s lips, and how good the night had felt until it went so terribly wrong, and he knows it’s his fault because he’s just so desperately needy–
The little scene in the restroom at the NHL awards was mortifying enough. Now he’s crying about a kiss, or lack there of, and he’s thinking of that gorgeous Russian laying in his bed, not even moving to say goodbye to him face to face, after being ghosted for six months. He opens the window in an attempt to get some warmth in because it’s hotter outside than it is in. Shane beelines to the shower and stands in it for an absurdly long time to chase the cold away from his skin, and yet it doesn’t work. His chest feels like it is aching and he can’t seem to even function properly.
There’s certainly something wrong with him, but he can’t seem to figure it out. Sleeping with Rozanov hasn’t left him feeling like this. The only thing that even approaches it is when Rozanov had feigned leaving their first night after the photoshoot. But that time, he had stayed, and kissed him, and even held him for a little bit.
Shane brushes his teeth with sporadic movements and gets dressed in the few clothes he brought, sitting by the window wrapped in a blanket. It’s the only thing he can bring himself to do. The contrast from their night in Montreal vs. Vegas is jarring and he cannot seem to get over it. He knows he can’t bring himself to spend another night with Rozanov, if it leaves him feeling this sick of himself. He can’t play hockey and be good at the one thing he’s good at. Not when he’s already being bad at… whatever Rozanov wanted him to be.
And in the summer air of Nevada, watching the city below him, he’s still desperately wishing Rozanov would find and kiss him.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
The next game they play against each other, Hollander is quiet. He does not even look in Ilya’s direction even once, staunchly avoiding his eyes. Ilya is almost desperate and dangerously obvious in the way he tries to get Hollander’s attention.
Ilya thinks of that night in Las Vegas often, how easily Hollander had submitted, how turned on he was to watch him on his bed. After, though, left him feeling vaguely empty and defensive. He knew if he turned to those earnest eyes and that soft voice, he would never stop kissing Hollander. But the questions were pricking nerves. Russia is home. It is where his family is. It is everything he has ever loved and lost, and he cannot bear thinking about Russia in a different way right now, because he’s already started considering Boston of all places “home”.
And isn’t that just silly? Boston is bitter and so different from Russia. They have strange customs and the wind is so cold, and still they drink iced coffee. TD Garden is so busy all the time. But strangely has become familiar after all these years, comforting in the way that Russia is not, even though that should be where he feels most at home. Even though there is only tension lining his entire body the moment he steps on Russian soil.
Kissing Hollander feels like coming home, too, he realizes at some point. That is comfort. Being in Russia, however much he wants to deny it, is not.
So, when Boston plays against Montreal after the NHL awards, and he watches Hollander play like a robot, it leaves him feeling unbalanced. It clearly makes Hollander’s teammates a little uncomfortable too, because they are watching Hollander’s clinical playing style with curiosity and concern. It is not like him, to show no emotion. He isn’t the most vocal player, not by a long shot, but he’s usually chatty enough with his team, and typically smiling at the beginning. Especially when the Metros get to play at home.
This Hollander is different, and Ilya can’t seem to figure out why.
After a summer at home, it certainly should not be the thing that troubles him most, but he can’t seem to shake the worry.
Boston loses. Barely. It pisses him off to no end, but part of him breathes a sigh of relief because surely, surely, Hollander will smile when they line up to bump fists. But he does not, just lets out a terse, “Good game.”
Ilya looks at him, and says, “Us losing will not happen again.”
And Hollander doesn’t even respond.
They go to the locker room and the next chance he gets to be on his phone, he shoots a text to Hollander.
Ilya: Where are we meeting?
He waits, slowly getting undressed from his uniform. Even when he gets out of the shower, he still has not gotten a response.
Ilya: I do not like waiting.
He does wait, though. His pulse jumps when he sees the bubbles appear, then disappear, then appear.
Jane: I am going home.
Ilya: Without saying hello?
Ilya fiddles with his necklace nervously, holding it against his lips.
Jane: Yes.
Ilya: You are texting weird. Is there something wrong?
Again, the bubbles appear, then disappear, then appear. Over and over, until:
Jane: Not feeling the best. Sorry.
Ilya: Then what is your room number? Let me see you. Make you feel better.
Jane: Good night, Lily.
Ilya feels lost at the last text. He had genuinely meant it in a way to check on him, but he understands why Hollander would not have believed that. He packs up all his things and catches sight of Hayden Pike as they leave the stadium.
“Your captain is playing weird. Like robot,” Ilya says. Hayden bristles at this, narrowing his eyes.
“And he still beat you. We still beat you.”
“Barely.”
“‘Barely’ is still winning. He’s doing well.” Pike shrugs his bag onto his shoulder sternly, pursing his lips at him.
“I wanted to check on him.”
PIke scoffs, rolling his eyes. “He doesn’t need any chirping. And besides, you lost.”
“He does not seem strange to you?” Ilya presses. Pike’s face flickers, and Ilya knows he feels caught. “I want to know he is okay. We are rivals, yes, and it is not so fun if rival is not doing okay.”
PIke narrows his eyes again, but sighs. “He won’t be celebrating with us, he’s probably holed up in his hotel room, and if not, I’m not sure. But he’s room 1231.” Pike pauses, and says, “If he says something to you, of all people, could you find a way to update me or anyone on the team? We’ve been trying to figure him out and it hasn’t been working. He’s playing well but he plays like it’s just… work. I used to think he loved hockey more than anything in the world. Or, almost. Something seems to have beat it for that number one spot.”
Ilya is quiet listening to this. He feels dread as he plans to make a pit stop at Hollander’s hotel room. Could something have gone wrong in his life that he doesn’t know about? Or is it just this? Them?
“Thank you for the room number. Next game, we will beat you.”
Shane is taking his second shower. The water burns as it sprays down his back, but it still does not chase that strange cold feeling he hasn’t been able to shake. Seeing Rozanov, even though he’d tried his best to avoid him, was inevitable. They were playing against each other, after all. And the Metros still won, and he’s doing well, so why is he feeling so empty inside?
He turns off the water and immediately gets into layers, rubbing his hands together. Shane goes to his bed and lays down under piles of covers, staring at the ceiling, stock still. Limbs absolutely rigid and straight.
Someone knocks on the door. It’s a little hesitant, but there. It turns firmer when he doesn’t move to get up right away.
“Hollander. Open the door.”
Shane furrows his brows, confused to hear that deep Russian accent. He hadn’t even told Rozanov what his room number was.
Like a moth to a flame, he gets up and opens the door because he truly can’t bring himself to stay strong enough to not answer. Even if this won’t be the last time he sees Rozanov’s face, hopefully it will be the last time he’s left feeling like this.
“You play like robot,” is the first thing that Rozanov says. “And you do not look well.”
Shane just scoffs, because what else is he supposed to do? “Yeah. Okay. Did you come all this way to say that?”
“It’s not all this way. I said I was checking on you.” Shane huffs again.
“Well, you’ve checked. Take a look. Now, go home.” It’s reminiscent of that rooftop, when Shane had wanted to take a look at the view and Rozanov had shouted at him to just check it out in lieu of saying ‘leave me alone’.
“Did I do something wrong?” Rozanov asks, and it sounds vulnerable, more vulnerable than he’s heard when they’ve been together. Sure, he’s an asshole, but he’s also a tender hook-up, and can Shane really call him a hook up if he’s still so hung up on Vegas? What if he’d just asked to be kissed, would things have changed? Would Rozanov have obliged?
“No. You’re… you’re fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me. It’s just… me.”
“Is something wrong at home?”
“No,” Shane says, and this time there’s more feeling behind it. It’s deflated, but there is emotion rather than the stoicness Rozanov had been receiving. “Again, it’s just me.”
“Things have been weird since Vegas.” Rozanov seems to note Shane’s flinch at the words, like he’s shutting back down. Rozanov squints at him a little. “Are you sure I did nothing wrong?”
“Yes, Rozanov. Jesus.”
“Did you not have fun in Vegas?”
“It was what it was.” Shane opens the door a little more, indicating for Rozanov to come in, because they truly can’t be having this conversation out in the hall if Rozanov is going to insist on standing here and continue it no matter how many times Shane tries to dismiss him. Rozanov steps in cautiously, like a wary animal, and eyes him as he watches Shane close the door carefully behind them.
“So no, you did not have fun.”
“It was good,” Shane insists. “What we did was good. It was hot. That’s it, alright? I came. You came. I know when to stop and what to do to give you what you want.”
“Did you not get what you want?”
“Fuck, Rozanov. You’re an asshole.”
“You are not being clear.”
“I said it was good! The sex was good!” Shane hisses, trying not to burst out into tears of frustration. Because that cold is tugging back at him again, threatening to pull him back under the shame of being so needy and desperate.
“Then what wasn’t?”
Shane scrubs a hand over his face and pulls his hoodie tighter around himself for comfort. Rozanov genuinely looks worried and confused, because he keeps pressing and wanting to figure him out. It’s excruciating. It makes him feel like for a moment, Rozanov cares.
“After. It’s just, after, I was trying to ask you questions, and I know I did something wrong, and I really did want it to be good for you, and fuck. You ghosted me for six months and I still want it to be good for you even now, but you just kicked me out after you said we weren’t anything even though I had the most amazing night of my life in Montreal with you, and when I asked you what you wanted from me, that night as I was leaving I figured out it was always just a warm body to fuck. Not even a kiss. And there’s no need for talking after or before. I get it now. The texting is too much, and I’m wanting too much. So there. That’s what it was.”
“Hollander.”
Shane realizes he is crying now and he kicks himself for that, too. He huffs again, trying to regulate his emotions, staunchly avoiding Rozanov’s eyes because he couldn’t bear teasing, he couldn’t bear rejection, and he truly can’t bear much right now.
“Hollander.” Rozanov’s fingers are light on his chin as he raises his face up to meet his. “I am sorry, Hollander.” Shane sniffles, and he’s still shivering a little. “Vegas was mean. I am sorry. I am not good… communicator.” Rozanov’s mouth rounds over the words distinctly. “Topics like that are hard for me. I will talk about other things, but Russia is hard for me. It makes me not happy.”
“I know,” Shane breathes. “I figured that out, after I left.”
“But is home,” Rozanov insists. “It is still home, and it is hard. These things I do not like to talk about.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says. “I’m sorry for bringing it up like that.” Rozanov nods resolutely, still holding Shane’s face.
“I am sorry I made you leave like that. It was not good of me.”
“I understand it.” And he does, he’s appreciative of how clear Rozanov is now. It makes some of the chill seep out of his skin and into the air, no longer plaguing him.
“You are not too much. The texting was considerate. I am just.. sometimes it is dark. I will not ghost you like that, next time.” Shane’s lips quirk up a little bit.
“‘Considerate’”, he says softly. “You’ve been reading so much. Your English just keeps getting better.”
“Mmm. I am following your boring father’s footsteps.”
This draws a laugh out of Shane. “Next time, I will not let you leave like that. I will at very least kiss you goodbye.” Shane’s face drops onto Ilya’s shoulder, and he squeezes his eyes shut, reveling in the warmth of him. “It was intense, last time. Sometimes people can get like that if we go very hard. I did not think. I am sorry again.”
“I’m sorry about bringing up Russia and your family so carelessly. I will always be here if you want to talk about it.”
“Thank you, Hollander. Now, you are shivering. Like kitten. Let us warm you up, hm? We will lay in bed, no fucking, no nothing, and I will just hold you until you have to go.”
“Okay,” Shane says softly. He lets Ilya lead him to the bed, and for the first time in months, he feels warm again.