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Shane thinks Rozanov is... vain.
First, there are the clothes. The Russian man swears by every piece of clothing he buys; he thinks expensive equals good. It does not matter how many times Shane tells him a shirt looks ugly, and Rozanov’s only defense is the brand name and price. In fact, Shane thinks the shirt is uglier after knowing it costs $2,399.
Second, Ilya Rozanov grooms obsessively. His hair is never unkempt.
“Isn’t this like— the third thing you’re putting into your hair?!” Shane had asked, watching him work another liquid through his curls.
“Well, beauty is pain!” He had responded from his seat at his vanity. Shane sighs at the completely misplaced idiom.
Speaking of vanities— Rozanov has a tray of perfumes and colognes, each designated for different occasions and seasons. Shane firmly believes that one perfume is sufficient. He’s been using the same cologne since his teenage years, just replacing the bottle once it runs out.
Speaking of vanities, again— he has one! An actual vanity. A large mirror. A pull-out chair.
And then there are the teeth. Ilya Rozanov takes meticulous care of them. This, at least, is not unusual. Hockey players and dentists see each other quite often— board checks, trips, and stray pucks to the face make chipped or missing teeth an occupational hazard. Shane himself is no stranger.
Still, Shane has never seen any stray images of his missing or otherwise damaged teeth, even though he knows of them. He knows the smallest details of Ilya’s schedule— even the quarterly dentist appointments— and figures Coca-Cola is more to blame than any occupational hazard.
And now, Shane does not get why Ilya Rozanov is refusing to talk to him as he is let into the HookUpTM Condo in Montreal.
.ೃ°🏒༄˖*࿔:･
It was a tough game, neck and neck, with Boston losing 2-1 at an away rink. At least it was not home ice.
“Better run to your Montreal girl.” Marleau pats Ilya on the back. “At least your night will be better.”
Ilya does not reply. He sucks on his teeth— and that’s when he feels it.
A sharp edge snags on his tongue. He runs his tongue across his teeth. And it’s unmistakable. His front tooth is chipped. Badly chipped.
Ilya vaguely remembers being slammed into the boards at last period, but at the time he did not think it warranted a broken tooth. Now he stands corrected. He pulls out his phone, switches to the front camera, and tugs his lips apart.
Before he can close his mouth, Marleau notices it.
“Fuck! You were checked that badly?!” Marleau laughs.
“Fuck off!” Ilya hisses back— with it spit flies out of his mouth. But he is too busy to care about that, angling the camera differently to gauge how badly his tooth is chipped. No angle makes it look better. Half of his tooth is gone. Somewhere, it might be on the ice, or in the showers. He does not care where the other half has gone.
He does not know of Montreal dentists— He does not know of any dentists that would be open at 11pm— he won’t ask Shane for it either—
Ilya inhales sharply.
Shane is going to see it.
He never lets Shane see him in any compromising state. A chipped tooth might not be one. But he still does not want Shane seeing him with one. And Ilya knows it is ridiculous; this anxiety that looms as a pit in his stomach. But he cannot help feeling that way. Ilya does not want to show Shane a lesser part of him.
Before having stepped onto the bus Ilya has his appointment booked, at Boston tomorrow. He avoids conversations. Not actively, but his brain is on a different plane. The team avoids him too; they just lost a game, as a captain he would feel like shit.
He does not cancel on Shane, it has been a good while since he has seen him, he won’t let a broken tooth—
Fuck, Shane is going to see it.
And Ilya sighs into his palm as the taxi drives closer to the HookUpTM Condo.
.ೃ°🏒༄˖*࿔:･:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:
Shane would typically receive a text from Lily, an ‘otw’. Then another message ‘10 mins’. Finally, a ‘here’ when he’s at the door. It’s an unintended system that Shane has gotten used to after a couple of years of these trysts— he shakes his head at the word. ‘Meetings’ is a better word.
So his surprise is not unfounded when Rozanov knocks at the door, bypassing all three messages.
“Hey!” He says with a hint of surprise. Stepping away to let the Russian man into his place.
There’s a notable moment of hesitation before Rozanov comes in. Shane does not comment on it as the door closes behind the man. Except, Rozanov does not exchange his part of the greetings. Nor does he ravish him with kisses at the door.
So, Shane is confused. And it shows by the seconds they let pass when no one says anything. Looking into the other man’s face, his eyes are full of something. Something that Shane cannot put his finger on. Conversations are neither of their strongest fortes. This is unfamiliar territory.
So, Shane does what he knows best, he kisses the man. He does not comment on the way he keeps his mouth closed. He leans in regardless, and Shane takes that for what it is.
.ೃ°🏒༄˖*࿔:･
Ilya knows he's a goner. Even a closed mouth kiss leaves him breathing hard. And then Shane gets to his knees in front of him. And everything is forgotten.
“Блять,” he moans. Feeling anything and everything that Shane does to him. “Hollander—”
Ilya does not think past it.
The panic slips away, not because it’s gone, but because something else fills the space entirely. Heat. Breath. A weight he recognizes.
Shane.
Shane.
Shane.
Eventually, the sounds of their breaths even out. He does not remember when they got into the bedroom. But there he is, on the bed, his hand feels heavy, but wills it to run through Shane’s hair.
He leans down to share a kiss with Shane.
“Good game.” He huffs at him, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Good hockey or,” Shane starts with a tilt to his lips, and nods towards their still nude bodies “this?”
And Ilya gives a laugh.
“Wait.” Shane cuts in. And Ilya freezes momentarily at his tone. He looks at Shane’s face, it is not fear he sees, nor is it worry. His eyebrows are raised, and lips are slightly parted. What Ilya sees on his face is some sort of... giddiness.
Ilya is confused.
“I did not think Hayden checked you that har— Is that why you wouldn’t—”
Ah.
Ilya smacks a hand to his own mouth.
To add (or take away) his mortification, Shane lets out a chuckle.
“God, you’re so vain,” Shane murmurs.
Ilya does not take away his hand.
He waits for the moment to turn. A taunt. A chirp. A look. But nothing comes.
Shane is still smiling. As though this is not Ilya’s worst nightmare. Like it is nothing worth bracing for.
The panic stutters. Not gone. Readjusting.
Ilya hates that he was seen. That has not changed.
Shane gets up without comment, and Ilya shivers from the loss of contact.
Ilya barely has time to register it before his clothes hit him square in the chest.
Shane kisses him properly this time. Brief. Easy. And heads for the ensuite.
And maybe… maybe Ilya can afford to let his shoulders drop. Just slightly.
.ೃ°🏒༄˖*࿔:･:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:
— and if Ilya were to allow himself to be more relaxed the next time he sees Shane in Boston, he should think twice.
Shane will stand up too quickly, collect his clothes, and say,
“I can’t do this.”