Archive of Our Own

How did it ever get so terrible? Honestly, when? He should have seen this coming, should have stopped it months, maybe years ago. But then he wondered, he looked within himself, he saw what it was, he knew it, buried deep inside the tight knot around his chest: he was down bad, and he could not have stopped it if he tried. Not then and definitely not now. He had to live his life willingly, block out the unwanted thoughts, and pretend playing against Boston was no different than any other game, against any other team. Tonight, he had known they were gonna lose as soon as the first faceoff went to Rozanov, and he couldn’t stop himself from just staring like an idiot for longer than he’d wanted to, and got distracted by his closeness, or by noticing that, after a long summer, Rozanov’s hair was longer than it used to be: there was a single curl hanging between his eyebrows. And he’d smirked, and greeted him with the tiniest nod and the painful ignorance of just how much he was crushing, undoing Shane already just by being there. 

“Man, I can’t remember the last time we were humiliated like that”, he heard Hayden by his side in the locker room. Shane wouldn’t go as far as to say they were humiliated, but he definitely felt small and like crawling inside a corner in his hotel room. He knew what being alone did to him, though, after a game against fucking Boston, and maybe that was even worse than loosing. He didn’t want to be alone tonight. But he would have to go through it, seeing that, after their loss, his team had no plans of partying or doing anything together. He was slowly getting ready, dragging the pretence of proximity, enjoying the thought of their rival team being as close as in the same building. God, he felt like going out and waiting nearby just for the chance of seeing him one last time. He was, indeed, the smallest person alive and stupid.

“Hey guys, Marlow texted me just now and asked if we are down for a party? I know they fucked us good and all but, really, they are not so bad.” J.J said out loud to everyone, almost all of Montreal’s players still in the locker room. Shane had almost forgotten J.J and Marlow were sort of friends now, since they had gotten drunk together after one of their games last season.

“The hell, J.J? Down for a party with Boston?” Drapeau almost spit out his words, as he grabbed his things and stormed out. Most of the team followed shortly after. They did not approve of J.J’s friendship. If you asked Shane, he didn’t care, mostly. He knew players from different teams to be friends all the time. He just wondered how they managed to get there. Shane was barely friends with his own teammates, their interactions outside of games, practices, and anything hockey-related seemed a little forced, and he always came out of them feeling observed and inadequate in the worst possible way. He was the least skilled talker he knew, and clearly not jealous of J.J’s ability to get party invitations from the team that had just beaten the shit out of them. 

“Nah, man. Why would I ever want to do that?” Hayden also declined as he looked at Shane, disbelief in his eyes and shaking his head, not without a little humour, at the ridiculous thought of them doing anything with the Boston team. Then it hit Shane like the miracle of a solution that it was: he could see Rozanov again as soon as now, an hour, maybe, hopefully, if he was also invited to this party (which, of course he would be), and if he decided to go. He could see him and burst into the fire that was already boiling him inside, blood bubbled and painful as it went through his veins. All from afar, of course. Just close enough to see him and let him see Shane. For Rozanov to look at him, to have his snarky remarks and offensive amusement. And the invite was right there. 

“It could be fun, maybe.” Shane said shyly and almost with a tremble he tried not to let through. He didn’t turn to see Hayden’s face as he remarked every word:

“What? You wanna party with Boston's team? You? Party? With Boston?”

“Well, you know how the league’s always going about friendly competition…”

“I think they just mean, uh, not stabbing each other with our sticks, maybe.” He still sounded super confused. Shane almost wanted to beg cause, no, he was not going to this party if Hayden refused. Not with only JJ and his tendency to wander around a room to approach every single person in it, and who would leave Shane to not know what to do with himself, or how to walk or stand or respond like a chill, easygoing person. 

“I just don’t feel like sulking in my hotel room and going through my mistakes from earlier and, you know, just being miserable.” He shrugged, already losing hope. Hayden would never agree.

“I’m sure Marlow just invited J.J. It’s not like we’re their friends, so, if you want to go just to get kicked out by Rozanov…” he shrugged back. The name stabbed Shane a little. Also, knowing that Hayden was right. He almost said it out loud, I just wanna see him, I can’t wait for weeks to see him again. Please. So, this thing, this thinking about Rozanov more often than not, this anxiously waiting for their games, this typing an “i” on the instagram’s search bar and it immediately suggesting ilyarozanov81’s profile, it was maybe getting out of his hands. He just couldn’t understand how out it had gotten, given the fact that they saw each other only at their games and maybe at a league’s event every once in a while. And then, Rozanov’s attention came only as mean remarks about how slow he was, how uptight was his canadian’s ass, how sweet it tasted to steal a win from him, to see the defeated look on Shane’s face. And that one time, after a game Montreal had been so close to winning the loss had felt even heavier, it came in a sort of curious comment: your freckles are so visible when you are upset, Hollander. Shane had almost fallen on the ice as he reached for their handshake. Cause your face gets all red. How did Rozanov know Shane had freckles was something he had thought about for weeks after. To say the least. He still got a little self conscious about them, and tried to notice if Rozanov’s eyes wandered around his face when they saw each other. A girl had told him once that they were lovely, so kissing her had been less horrid than kissing other girls. Not that he had done much of the matter. He saw his teammates getting it on with girls all the time, so he tried to follow, to let himself be flirted with and to receive the compliments and lips pressed against his own, thighs holding him still and hands pulling at his hair, and warm, slicked walls wrapped around him as he orgasmed. He liked it, but did not understand the urgency to get it. He liked it as one would try to enjoy something that’s granted and free, but not longed for, not aching inside the gut. The first time, he had mostly wanted to stop people from commenting on the Montreal voyageurs’s captain being a virgin, so he had made sure everyone on his team saw him leave with this girl whose name he couldn’t recall later.

“Marlow says it’s fine, you can come”, J.J said casually, then looked down at his phone and snorted: “Seems that even Rozanov’s cool with it.”

“What did he say?” Shane asked a little too eagerly.

“He’s just being an asshole”

When JJ noticed Shane was still waiting for an answer, he sighed:

“He said it’d be nice to gloat over beating you a little more.”

So they were outside someone’s house in Boston of all places, after a sore loss and Shane’s pathetic and not so committed attempt to deal with his mess. They were not in there yet and Hayden looked like he wanted to call the cab back. He had agreed only to indulge Shane on one of the very rare occasions he actually wanted to do something fun. A little regretful himself, Shane felt his jaw shake a little. It was cold. The cold never helped the nerves. They didn’t have to knock: the door was constantly being open and closed again as people came and left, drunken bodies and laughter and a dude so uncoordinated he had grabbed Shane’s arm for support. J.J had gone inside a while ago and seemed to have forgotten about them. So they were definitely considering leaving. He asked:

“Who’s house is this anyway?” 

“Mmm, J.J said it’s Rozanov’s, I think.”

Of course the captain himself was throwing the party. Suddenly, Shane’s eagerness to go inside was bigger than the pull in his stomach, almost nauseating with the knowledge that he needed to leave. But really, now knowing this was his house, the walls that contained him and saw him dreaming and that were so, so rawly full of him, he did not stand a chance. They went inside, Hayden following him closely. Shane’s eyes went wild. How could Rozanov know that many people? There was not a single corner in the house that was not occupied by someone dancing or drinking or grinding against another. So, basically, a taste of his personal hell. He felt his body shrinking. He really shouldn’t have come. Someone handed them beers, and for crying out loud, where the fuck is JJ?, Hayden kept yelling beside him. Shane gulped as much as he could from his beer, which was not even the kind that he liked. It was almost finished when they saw him, emerging from the crowd as what felt to Shane like a descent from heaven. 

“My boyssss, where have you been? I thought you ditched me.” He seemed way too pleased with himself, with a woman wrapped around him and his eyes a little cloudy.

“J.J, fuck you, actually. You left us out there and disappeared.” Shane couldn’t hide that he was annoyed. But then, they were almost by the door, cornered against a wall and looking like they were half ready to step outside and flee. Little chance of J.J to spot them there. 

“Common, the league’s over here”, J.J gestured for them to follow. The league? The league as in Boston’s captain? So he went, walking around sweat and a song playing too loud, and bodies brushing past him, his mind screaming a single word, and his blood jumping under his skin maybe just as hard. There was a spot in what seemed like the living room that was less crowded. They couldn’t have seen it from their corner at the entrance. J.J introduced them, as if they didn’t know who they were, my team’s heeeere, and Shane recognized many faces from the ice. He waved, Hayden nodded, and he would’ve focused more on the awkwardness of it all if he weren’t dying a little bit. Rozanov was sitting on a wide chair, leaning backwards, head resting against the back. He did not seem annoyed by Shane’s presence at all. He was laughing at something when their eyes met, and he acknowledged them by waving a carefree hand, his eyes lingering only for a second. Shane had seen him again so maybe it was time to go for real. But he sat on the sofa across from Rozanov, dragging Hayden beside him, and tried not to stare and not to appear as out of place as he felt. 

“Good game tonight, Hollander, Pike.” Marlow was suddenly there, offering them another beer. His smile was too friendly for the comment to be intended as cruel, but Shane knew better. Montreal had played like shit. 

“Yeah, sure, man.” He replied with sarcasm, and did not take the second beer. He really could not handle alcohol well. He heard Hayden mumbling under his bread, possibly cursing, as he emptied his bottle and went for the second one. Shane felt sorry to drag him to this shitshow, and told himself they would leave when Hayden finished this round. He felt more determined to leave then, when he saw a girl with the longest hair he’d ever seen (how the fuck was her hair so long, did she want to strangle someone?) sitting on the arm of Rozanov’s chair, her skirt lifting as she looked down and fucking leaned towards him as she talked. Well, it was Shane’s personal hell after all. They were getting closer, as a louder song started playing, and for the second time that night Shane felt so small he could tell he was disappearing a little. He should be talking to people. Hell, he should be looking for someone he could flirt with. But nothing would’ve been less appealing, honestly. He knew he was staring so he told himself it was safe because the lights were so dim, and the talking voices around him filled in the void he was becoming, and there was no way Rozanov would notice, not with the waterfall of black hair falling over his face, almost swallowing him. Except he did. Rozanov’s eyes peered at him from behind the strands. Shane did not bother to look away: he was starving too much and felt like reaching inside his throat to rip its tightening knot. Now on fucking top of it all he wanted to cry. He truly was something else. 

He stood before he knew what he was doing, Rozanov watching him still, and excused himself to Hayden to go anywhere else, as far as he could without actually leaving the house. He found the kitchen, surprisingly empty. He felt better right away, his back against the wall and the noise being just an echo, a thump he could sync his breathing to. There were all kinds of liquor bottles on the counter, a tower of red cups and ashtrays, all glowing a little under the warm light and smoke. He couldn’t help but to notice everything. There was a single chair beside the table, and the stove looked clean but a little dusty from disuse, and the fridge had a magnet depicting team Boston’s bear mascot. Shane knew there wouldn’t be much food inside it even before he opened it: coke and beer cans, lactose free milk, orange juice, and what seemed like chinese leftovers. This particular brand of beer he actually didn’t mind, so he grabbed one just to hold something, trying not to think too much about the fact that this was Rozanov’s kitchen, and that he also liked chinese food. 

“You are so pathetic”, he mumbled to himself, forehead against the fridge’s door. 

“Who are you talking to, Hollander?” He heard the voice loud and clear, and so distinctive. He almost let the can drop. 

“Uh, sorry I’m in your kitchen, I just wanted…” His heart was going so fast now he was afraid it was showing on his face.

“Looking for ginger ale? I don’t have that, sorry.” He truly did look sorry, and how the hell did he know ginger ale was his drink of choice, Shane had no idea. “I would get some if I knew you were coming.”

“That’s fine. I like this also.” Which was not completely a lie, and he was not completely losing his mind just yet. But he hadn’t noticed before that Rozanov was wearing a loose blue t-shirt, and that his hair was definitely longer and, in consequence, curlier, and that he had a ghostly appearance under the muted music. He might as well be one, straight out of Shane’s conjurings. They had talked to each other before obviously, many times, Shane always ready to defend himself or to reply to a snarky remark with a snarkier one. It was just recently that he was so… on edge about it, about him. He couldn’t blame it on anyone but Rozanov. 

It had been around the start of the previous season, right before their second or third game against each other, and Shane had arrived earlier to make some laps around the rink cause, for a reason he couldn’t understand at the moment, he was particularly nervous about this game. He’d thought it would not be an easy win, as it never was against Boston, against Rozanov. His skin was prickling so much under his clothes he longed to feel the icy breeze as he skated to a practically empty stadium. So there he’d been, going fast at first and then so slowly he could do it with his eyes closed, his breathing cold and shaky. Then he had heard the amused voice of Ilya Rozanov behind him: sorry I interrupt your alone practice, Hollander, just casually skating past him as if they did this before every game, as if he hadn’t completely undone Shane’s progress on calming down. He thought of leaving, but there was something mesmerizing in the way Rozanov was skating just then, without any rush, no helmet or stick, not even his gear on, just his broad figure popping against the whiteness of everything around him and Shane’s unsteadiness. His chest had gotten warmer, despite only having a thin sweater on. He was going towards him before he even thought of it. 

“That’s fine. I just like skating like this sometimes, not worrying about competition.” He had tried to sound casual as he reached Rozanov and went a little past him, just to show he was the fastest out of the two. So much for not wanting to compete. Rozanov didn’t say anything, just nodded, serious as he was when he was not being an asshole. Then, after long enough Shane was thinking of going towards the other side of the rink, he heard it: 

“You are a good skater.” Rozanov said without looking at him.

“Well, we play on the ice after all.” He replied almost quietly, thankful it was cold enough to stop him from blushing. “So are you.”

“No. I mean, you skate nicely. Like you are floating and it’s not, mmm, obvious that you are skating.” He stumbled a little through his english. Shane allowed himself to think it was lovely, though maybe the compliment had something to do with it. He smiled and could not stop himself:

“You know, it’s funny. I was just thinking that it’s nice watching you.” He definitely blushed then, and hurried to add: “Watching you skate.”

“It’s bad you’re too slow though.” There it was. Shane relaxed a little. This he knew, not exchanging niceties. They sort of raced then, Rozanov reaching the end of the rink first, smirking and see? Too slow, Hollander. And it shouldn’t have but it made Shane want to smile so fully that he had to bite into his cheek not to. When the game was over, after Montreal’s small but exciting victory, they had come across each other outside the locker rooms, and Rozanov’s murderous face had actually turned into the tiniest smile as he saw him and heard: seems like I’m fast enough to beat you. 

So it was entirely his fault, for approaching him that day and being friendly, for pointing out stupid facts about Shane’s freckles and for having a cozy kitchen and arms that stuck so stunningly from his t-shirt. Shane swallowed the cold, cold beer just to do something. He hoped he could handle himself, but he never drank and he had eaten many hours ago. 

“How did you know I like ginger ale?”

“Well, it’s what you order at every event, so I guessed.” Rozanov shrugged and looked away. “Also it’s a very boring drink so it goes well with you.” 

“How can a drink be boring?” 

“You should know.”

And Shane didn’t want to laugh but he did. He didn’t want to feel like swaying over the sealing and becoming as light as the smoke sneaking through the kitchen door, but he did. He wished there was somewhere he’d rather be, a place he could be content and not this aching disaster. Somewhere his hands wouldn’t twitch from not touching, from not reaching out. He couldn’t think of a place at the moment. 

“So what made Mr never goes out come tonight, huh?” Rozanov asked as he poured himself what seemed to be vodka on one of the red cups. Shane knew he had a reputation of being reserved and uptight.

“I do go out. Sometimes.”

“Yes but why tonight? I bet you did not know this was my house.”

Shane would have gotten there earlier if he’d known it was his house.

“I did know before we got inside. You have a nice house. Good lightning.” It was a bad idea to get into saying compliments now, cause he had so, so many and could only imagine how saying them must feel like. You look like the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen under this light, actually, he wanted to scream, so he gulped some more. 

“Shane Hollander in my kitchen is not something I expected tonight.” Rozanov said, and did not sound displeased about it. And if he could know how much of an unexpected thing this was for Shane as well: just talking to him now felt like too much and immensely more than what he would’ve settled for. Then he remembered.

“Well, we can leave. I don’t wanna keep you from your girlfriend.” He did though, he really did. He wanted to bury inside Rozanov’s chest, cause he was leaning against the counter with his hands resting onto the marble, and he looked relaxed and was wearing jeans, and they fit him so nicely, as did the blue of his t-shirt, and his hair had grown out, for crying out loud. His back started to feel hot against the fridge door. 

“Girlfiend? You mean the girl I was talking with? I don’t really know her.”

“Your hair’s longer.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He really needed to shut the fuck up and stop drinking. Rozanov touched his own hair, in understanding, pulled on a curl and twisted before letting it go. Shane wanted to touch it so badly. He imagined it for a moment, sucking on Rozanov’s mouth as he caressed through his hair and pulled him closer and breathed him in. He wanted to die. Rozanov had, indeed, listened:

“I might cut it for the rest of the season.” He shrugged. This was torture, really, just again getting into Shane’s most insufferable moments. Cause he couldn’t really tell him not to do it, could he? He couldn’t tell him how hot he looked with his hair like that, just gut punchingly adorable. 

“You shouldn’t.”

Rozanov looked straight at him for a few seconds, then ran his hands through it as if considering. Please stop doing that, or use my hand instead. Was he being too obvious? Was he letting himself show too much just as people told him he did sometimes? But then he saw Rozanov smile faintly and cross his legs like he was relaxing into the conversation. So they were definitely staying there, cause Shane wasn’t going anywhere now. His legs suddenly felt weak behind his knees. 

“When you’re leaving Boston?” 

“Hum, tomorrow morning.” 

“You like it here?”

“Well, I don’t really know it much. When we’re here we just stay long enough for the games and leave. Do you like it?”

“More than Russia, yes.”

It was weird to Shane, that someone would prefer anywhere over their home country, but before he could ask why, the kitchen door flew open, and Marlow was there demanding Rozanov to get out and be at his own fucking party, Roz. Luckily he seemed drunk enough not to wonder about the two of them in there together. Not that they were doing anything. Shane had never really liked Marlow, but he felt now that he hated him a bit. 

“We’re playing something, common.” He dragged Rozanov outside, and Shane followed, cause what else was there to do? He was planning on not letting Rozanov out of his sight for the rest of the night. If he was letting himself indulge, he was doing it to the full extent of his possibilities. He saw Hayden was busy enough talking to a cute brunette on the couch, so maybe he was not bothered about Shane leaving him alone. There were people scattered around the living room, forming an imperfect circle and seemingly expecting something. The music was turned down, and he could hear more clearly the overlapping conversations going on around him, laughter, and the night coming from outside in its loud whisper. He felt chilly out there, after being secured inside the kitchen, surely because the windows and the front door were opened and not because he felt warmer being close to Rozanov. But he liked to think it was that. 

Someone said they were playing never have I ever, whatever that meant. He felt the stare of a girl across the room, who looked away when he noticed and whispered to her friend. Then they both were looking at him. Perhaps it was weird for Montreal’s captain to be at a Boston’s party. He just hoped they didn’t approach him, or were staring for some other reason. Shane sat beside Hayden on the couch, deciding he was playing a game he didn’t know the rules to, and only received from his friend a dirty look that couldn’t really disguise his smile. So he had found a date for the night. Good for him. Shane was handed a cup with liquor; he didn’t know what it was but it smelled terrible and strong and plain, with nothing to lower it down. How the game went got to him shortly after: he was to drink from this thing if he had ever done what was mentioned. He felt uneasy already. And people were just so creative with the kind of situations they came up with, weren’t them?

Never have I ever flirted with a friend’s girlfriend or boyfriend, never have I ever stolen from my parents, never have I ever had sex with a teacher, cheated, slept with more than a thirty people (Shane felt a rock dropping deep inside his stomach as he saw Rozanov drank to that one), been imprisoned, tried any drug other than pot (Rozanov also drank then), drunk driven (and to that one), gave someone head in a public space (and to that one, god, Shane wanted to crawl inside the couch), done it inside a car, had a threesome, done it through the back door (and to those three). Shane must have been appearing like the fucking virgin Mary over there, not having drank even once. Just convenient, really, since he didn’t want to drink anyway. But at that point he was gonna have to lie or people would think he was living inside a monastery. He didn’t expect the next round to be one he could actually drink to: 

“Never have I ever fantasized about someone I’m not supposed to.” Now that he actually knew about. He remembered just moments ago, in the kitchen, when he had pictured himself dragging fingers through Rozanov’s hair and breathing the air straight out of his mouth. He shifted a little on the couch as he took the cup to his lips, letting the liquid rest against his tongue but nothing more. The hell he was gonna drink that shit. When he looked again at Rozanov, he was looking back at him, only his eyes visible under the cup he was drinking from. The confession did not surprise him, he just wondered who Rozanov had fantasized about, ever, and if he was able to peer through Shane’s mind and see himself there, undone under his lips and his praising hands. Shane actually had to bring the cup to his face again, to whatever the next round’s confession had been, just to hide his burning face behind something. What was it with these people who had nothing to question about but sex? It’d never been his favorite topic to discuss, especially since he had come to accept the fact that he liked guys. He could also like girls if he put his mind to it, though. Except that he knew it was not the same, that sometimes when he got a little desperate and settled to take home any of the girls who wanted him (who were all just perfect, really, and sweet, and tried hard not to look as disappointed as they probably felt when it was all over), he thought to himself that he’d be okay with just having it once, to know if it could be any good, if it’d fill even a fraction of the void growing inside his chest. There had been that boy once, when he was sixteen in a hockey summer camp, who had shared a cabin with him and kissed him on the lips briefly on their last night. Shane had been so freaked out he hadn’t thought he was even allowed to enjoy it, to maybe kiss him back. He went a little insane sometimes, and got the impulse of driving to another city or, hell, another country, where he would be unnoticeable and find someone, anyone, who could show him, just once. Of course, he knew who his first option would be. He was so screwed, so damned by the force of nature itself, cause he hadn’t asked for any of this. 

“Never have I ever wanted to make out with someone in this room.” It was the kilometric hair girl who said that one. She stared at Rozanov and took her cup to her mouth in such an obvious insinuation, it almost made Shane roll his eyes. He actually took a mouthful for that one, trying not to gag, cause nothing even mattered anymore. When he glanced at Rozanov for the tiniest second, he was also drinking. What Shane would have given up to be desired by him, he was embarrassed to even think about. He would have to empty that stupid cup in one go for the amount of times he had wanted to make out with Rozanov, just only that day. He saw Hayden also drinking by his side, obviously eyeing the girl he had been talking to. At least one of them would get lucky, it seemed, but it made the chances of Hayden wanting to leave early very slim. Whatever, he could meet Shane at the hotel. As soon as this ridiculous game ended, he would leave. He’d really prefer not having to watch Rozanov and this girl getting it on. Why did she have to be so undeniably pretty, on top of it? 

“Never have I ever beat the fuck out of Montreal’s voyageurs.” Rozanov was looking straight at him when he said that, and all the members on Boston’s team cheered and raised their cups. He looked amused though, and was smiling at him like Shane was part of the celebration and not being laughed at, so he had to be a good sport, didn’t he? 

“Well, never have I ever beat the shit out the Boston’s bears." He replied. The cheering amongst Hayden, J.J and himself was much smaller than the other team’s, but it didn’t make what he said any less true. Alcohol was maybe getting to his head a little bit, for the smile came too easily on his face and he felt like giggling as he saw Rozanov dismiss him with a hand gesture, but also grin, looking at him with shrunken eyes. Could they go back to the kitchen, please? 

“Okay, okay, enough with the hockey theme, guys.” The same girl from earlier inserted herself in the middle and raised her hands to quiet them down. “I have a good one: never have I ever done something with a person my same gender. Sex, kissing, whatever.” The room went silent. She drank. Shane’s smile dropped. He contemplated for a moment not to do it, but admitting to that was not confessing to being gay, or even into men, was it? His experience hardly counted, but still, he had done it, sort of. So he took the cup to his lips, maybe a little bit out of his mind, and felt lightheaded and observed. He sensed, most of all, Rozanov’s glare in front of him, and noticed that his hand was mid air holding his drink, like he had stopped in the middle of a movement. He didn’t try to conceal the fact that he was staring at Shane, even as another round went and people moved on from that one question. He tried to ignore it. If Rozanov had a problem with that, well, he was a hypocrite, having confessed on all of the things he had on previous rounds.

The game finished shortly after that. People gathered tables to play beer pong and moved on as if Shane hadn’t poured his heart out moments ago. He kept glancing at Hayden and J.J, trying to sense awkwardness or a change in their attitudes towards him. J.J seemed too drunk to have even noticed what’d happened, and Hayden was still busy with his new girl-friend, but managed to flash Shane an excited thumbs up for a moment when she looked away. So, everything seemed fine. He was starting to feel a little dizzy now, so he was definitely not drinking anymore. He got closer to the window and felt lighter under the night’s breath, his closed eyes and a tiredness that seemed to be catching up to him, after a long day. It was past midnight by then, surely. It was pointless to stick around still, perhaps. He told himself he was waiting on Hayden but knew not so deep down that it was something else, as he scanned through the room. He didn’t see Rozanov, but a guy was standing beside him suddenly, smoking a cigarette and eyeing him with soft, hooded eyes. Shane almost turned to check if it was really him this man was looking at. 

“Hi. You’re Shane, right? Shane Hollander.” The stranger asked him, blowing all of his cigarette smoke on his face. He tried not to seem disgusted. 

“Um, yeah. Hi, man.” Shane had to take a step back: the guy was too tall and standing too close, which made it difficult to speak to his actual face and not his neck. No, he dreaded the situation, not feeling like making small talk, or any talk for that matter. 

“I’m Ben. I just… Well, I’m a big fan.” He smiled down at him. Shane had to relax, try to enjoy himself for a change. He smiled back.

“That’s nice, thank you.”

“Sorry about the game tonight.”

“Oh, it’s fine. We’ll just get them next time, for sure.” Shane noticed that Ben had taken a step closer to him, maybe because the music was loud again and he couldn’t hear him.

“I’m sure you will.” He winked. Oh. Oh? Shane might have been oblivious to many things but he knew winking could be meant as flirtatious, though maybe not always. He stared for a few seconds. This man was not ugly, by any means, and he had curly hair, which was more than Shane would ask for. Well, what the hell, he couldn’t complain. He tried not to appear as unsettled as he felt. Maybe this was his chance to get what he was craving, if he fooled himself and hushed the stabbing reality. “You are quite handsome in person, you know that?” Ben continued. He really wasn’t trying to hide it. 

Before he could respond, Ilya Rozanov had approached them, smiling unkindly and pointing at Ben’s cigarette:

“Smoking outside, please.”

“Dude, what? Everyone’s been smoking in here all this time.”

“Well, it’s my house, so I tell you: smoke outside.” Rozanov’s tone was not getting any politer. 

“This is ridiculous.” 

“Get the fuck out then, if you don’t like it.” Rozanov pointed at the door. Shane had seen him worked up before, during games, so him acting rude was not new. This felt different though, since he had no reason to be acting this way. He looked actually bothered, unlike his usual competitive irritation, which usually didn’t run so deep.

“Yeah, asshole, you bet.” Ben said as he dropped his cigarette on the carpet and stepped on it. Then he looked straight at Shane, who felt like he was not supposed to be there at all. “You wanna come with?”

“What? Me?” The question had felt uncalled for, cause why would Shane just leave with him after sharing a ten word conversation?

“Obviously.”

“I don’t think so, no.”

As Ben left and didn’t say another word to either of them, Shane looked down on the cigarette and the stain it had left on the carpet, and he almost felt guilty. It was a white, soft looking carpet, and he imagined ash stains were difficult to get off. He picked it up from the floor. Rozanov took the cigarette from his hand and tossed it out the window. He was looking insistently into Shane and not at the stain, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. 

“Sorry about your carpet, Rozanov.”

“Why sorry? You did not do it.”

“Well, no, but…” He shrugged. He actually didn’t know what he was apologizing for. 

“Do you know this guy?” 

“No.” He hurried to answer. His heart rate was unsteady, and the wind coming from outside was too cold on the back of his neck, and people were talking too loudly over the already loud music. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“There’s one in the hallway but I think there’s people waiting. Come.” It was instructed as if Shane had no other option. So he went, like it was not the only thing he wanted to do: to look behind Rozanov and the curls resting against his skin, to be under his presence, under the roof where he slept and called his. He followed like Rozanov couldn’t take him to any place, anywhere, an empty hallway or into a dark alley, and Shane would still comply and do whatever he asked of him.

The light got dimmer as they got up the stairs. Some people were also there, sitting on the steps and talking. Shane wondered if Rozanov knew all of these people, though he doubted it, and tried not to freak out about where exactly he was being led to. The second floor seemed smaller, but he couldn’t make out much over the darkness. They got into a hallway, and Rozanov opened one of the doors and closed it once they were inside. If it was not Rozanov’s actual bedroom, at least it was a bedroom. Shane felt his breath shaken up, his palms a little sweaty. A warm lamp was lit beside the bed, and the curtains were sheer enough he could notice part of the outside: tree leaves dancing against the glass, an artificial light that made the floor look like a sunset. There was a desk and a picture frame he didn’t dare to look at, the bed had a grey comforter and seemed messy enough to be slept in. There even were clothes folded at the end. Shane had an overwhelming realization that this might indeed be Rozanov’s bedroom.

“Is this your room?” Shane asked. His voice was quiet now that they were alone, and the music and murmur from the outside could barely reach them. He lingered by the door, afraid to go any further, feeling he’d break a sacred promise to himself. 

“Yes.” Rozanov replied in a voice Shane had never heard him use, the word turned into something shy and almost confessional. He looked straight out of Shane’s dreams tonight, or perhaps nightmares, the ones that ran towards him even as he was awake and aware of his curse. He was more beautiful here beside his bed, in this space that felt too intimate for Shane to be there. And why was he, really? Why had Rozanov led him there and shown him a part of himself when there was no way Shane could move on from this, get out of it unchanged and with all of his pieces. It was cruel even if Rozanov didn’t know what he was doing. “The bathroom’s there.” He pointed at another door. Would he wait for Shane until he was done? He didn’t seem in a rush to leave. Shane murmured a low thanks as he hurried to the bathroom and then locked himself in. He took a deep breath and looked in the mirror, trying to ignore whatever was on the counter that could tell him things he definitely didn’t need to know about Rozanov. 

Holy shit, he actually was in Rozanov’s bathroom. Inside his fucking bedroom. He tried to steady his breathing. He almost couldn’t feel the effect of alcohol in his body anymore. That was good, wasn’t it? Even if he couldn’t be a little braver anymore, or a little careless. When he was ready to go out, he braced himself to find the room empty. Surely Rozanov would’ve returned to the party by now, and had only let him use his personal bathroom as a courtesy. But then he got out, and Rozanov was sitting on the bed and didn’t stand up even as Shane walked to him. He actually moved so he could sit as well. Beside him. On his bed. 

And Shane never had a choice to begin with.

Ilya was sitting on the bed when Hollander came out. He had tried to seem casual, and stayed there to make the invitation obvious but not desperate. Truthfully, he was. There was something pulsing inside of him, torn into blood and living flesh, impossible to ignore even if he had forced himself to. He was undone even now, just as Hollander showed a little mercy and sat, settling his weight onto the palms of his hands against Ilya’s mattress. The light from the lamp was hitting his profile warmly, almost like a caress, like a reflector only to show his freckles. Ilya should probably say something before Hollander could regret being there. He thought of a few things: I want to kiss you, I want to do more than just kiss you, I want you, I’ve been wanting you since–

“Why do you like it here more than Russia?” Hollander beat him to it. The question made Ilya tense up a little bit, and he was glad the light was not hitting his face directly and that Hollander wasn’t really looking at him. The answer was simple, though he wouldn’t know how to say it, not in english and not to him, or anyone for that matter. He looked for something that got close enough. He didn’t feel like lying tonight. 

“I feel… less free there, less like myself. I don’t know.”

That made Hollander look at him. Somehow that was worse than the question. 

“Why?”

“My family is not here, my problems are not here. Here I just play hockey and it’s simple, more fun, more…” Not like he was carrying a huge weight against his shoulders, not like he was half breathing and walking on something shattered, “just better. I am better.”

“I’m glad you’re here then.”

Ilya’s chest tightened. Hollander was so close, if he reached out he could touch him. He had never been this long around him, not like this, sitting together and talking and not feeling like he needed to annoy him to get his attention. And Hollander was very cute when he was frustrated, and angry, and shit talking at Ilya and smashing him against the rink, but this was just as good: him in his room, on his bed (he felt warmth flooding him inside), his hair falling over his forehead and eyebrows, his lips slightly parted and a colour pink Ilya had noticed before, of course, but that now seemed even darker. Maybe this was better. 

He didn’t feel like talking about Russia anymore. 

“I didn’t know you were such a prude, Hollander.” He smirked, wanting to get on Hollander’s nerves a bit. Also, he wanted to talk about it. 

“What?” Hollander seemed really confused.

“Well, on the game before. You drank like one time.”

“Fuck you, I’m not a prude. And it was more than one time.” Oh, Ilya knew. He thought he could see Hollander’s face got a little red, and he was turned to the side again. 

“If you say so…”

“It’s not that, asshole. I just, I don’t know, it’s weird, maybe.”

“What is?” He asked too quickly. 

“It’s hard for me to… connect with people, I guess?” Was Hollander trying to tell him–

“You don’t like sex, Hollander?”

“I do! God, that’s not what I’m saying. Nevermind.” He was straight up blushing now. 

Ilya didn’t want to nevermind. He minded too much, more than he needed to. He really doubted Hollander was a virgin, but it would be weird for him to ask. And that moment kept spiraling in his head over and over, never have I ever done something with a person my same gender, sex, kissing, whatever, and exactly what of those things he had done, and most of all, why, with whom. He didn’t remember ever being so anxious about not knowing something, and never had he felt so desperate to know. Not just this. Everything there was to know. What had made Hollander come here tonight, to this party and the inside of Ilya’s room? What had he done that day, before the game, and all week? Had he been expecting today or had it been a regular game, like the rest of them, against any other, and why, why had he noticed Ilya’s hair being longer? 

“No, you can tell me. I won’t laugh.” Ilya was pathetic, he really was, too close to getting on his knees and begging. 

“It’s never been, how do people put it? Mindblowing to me. The whole sex thing.”He shrugged. Oh. So he was not a virgin, and he seemed to be having bad sex. He wasn’t getting it with the right people then. It felt imperative for Hollander to know that, suddenly. He pictured him for a moment, how he would look enjoying himself, pleased and with his eyes closed and not believing how good it actually could be, asking for more and receiving it eagerly. It was horrible to know this information about Hollander. Absolutely excruciating, and he needed to stop thinking about it before it was noticeable. “Is it to you?” He asked him, quietly, looking at Ilya almost like he didn’t want to know. Why was the question hurting him a bit, leaving him at a loss for words? He didn’t want Hollander to know about it, him sleeping with random people, cause how could he let him know that every single time he would’ve wanted to be with him more? He would trade any of his one night stands for a single kiss. Hell, even to touch his face would do. 

“Well, it can be really good, sometimes.” 

“Oh.” It was such a low sound, it appeared only slightly above Ilya’s heartbeat. 

“But it’s just something you need to talk and practice.” 

“Talk?”

“Yes, you tell the other person what you like, how you like them to be, that sort of thing.” He felt like giving in and asking Hollander what he needed, what he’d like to feel. He would give him anything. 

“And what if you don’t even know that? What you like, I mean.” He looked at him as he said that, turning to face him all the way through. It couldn’t have been more to him, all of this, it couldn’t have crushed him further. Ilya felt it then, finally, that he was not able to withstand the passing of time anymore, the weight of this shadow he was carrying, clouding over and consuming him inside year after year. 

It had been the end of his rookie season. He should’ve been happy, having been the first one drafted and for a team he actually liked, but he felt like a stranger most days, not knowing what to do with himself in a country he didn’t trust or care for, but also not being homesick in the least. To belong somewhere and to long for it back: if he thought about it hard enough, he could imagine what it felt like. Maybe it’d fill him in a way nothing else would. So his days were blurred against each other, practices and games and distractions he indulged in. Mostly women, parties and spending the money he’d never had before. It had been no surprise he was nominated for rookie of the year, and neither had been Hollander’s nomination. And of course he would win: Ilya had seen play more often than he’d admit, and obviously, played against him. Hollander was not only as good as him, Ilya though sometimes, maybe he was better. He was slower but insignificantly so, and strong and focused and so bright, he made it seem as easy as breathing. He could still be graceful after losing, like he knew nothing would take being the best away from him, so he shook hands and smiled and said good game, and kept to himself and did not care about Ilya’s words, however mean they were. Of course both of his parents had been there, displaying their son as he did with the rookie of the year award, lifting it above his head. When he had come across Hollander’s mother earlier, he’d stared a little bit: they looked so much like each other it had been uncanny when she smiled at him and held his hand to introduce herself. So he kept stealing glances towards Hollander all night, and caught him smiling as he talked to everyone but him, just making it clear that there had never been a competition to begin with. It had made him wonder if he’d also look like his mother by then, after many years of growing into his features and becoming a version of a man she would never meet. He knew from memory and pictures that she had blonde hair just like his, and many moles in her face and blue eyes, but he didn’t see much resemblance further from that. He couldn’t be sure, though, and there was no way of knowing now. Ever. That night, it had been more than it usually was, to not know those things. And to know, on the other hand, that even if he had won that stupid award, there was no one he’d be proud of showing it to. 

It had been starting to be too much, the it was a close one, Roz, and the congratulations on at least being considered, and pretending to be sorry for a price he couldn’t have cared less about. He remembered Hollander’s words, when he received the crystal plaque: I’m honoured to even be in the same category as these two players: they inspire me and I’m sure will keep me on top of my game. This guy, always such a good sport, wasn’t he? It made Ilya want to shove him into a wall. Just as when they had met, he was too nice and too correct, and expected everyone to like him immediately, to be thankful to be under his attention and smiles and fucking charm. The first time he had seen Hollander, he almost fell for it. 

“I’m Shane Hollander, I wanted to introduce myself.” He had reached for Ilya’s hand. He hardly understood english back then to say much anyway, but he had been a little struck by the boy’s presence. His face had been flushed by the cold but his hand and the smile he was wearing were warm. “You are an awesome player to watch.” Was this the guy Ilya was gonna play against? He thought so. His kindness felt unnecessary and stupid, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from his face. He was very freckled and shorter than Ilya, and seemed a little fragile inside his winter coat: it had been a surprise to see him play later, ruthlessly and so at his level Ilya had actually struggled to win. 

So he was naturally a little drawn to him, like everyone else seemed to be, but refused to congratulate Hollander on winning the award. So he’d left the party, tired of forcing himself not to look at him (it was just that he looked so happy and was wearing a nice tux), and had snuck to the hotel’s terrace with a drink in his hand. The view was nice, at least. The wind was running cold through his mind’s heaviness and his blood ran a little hotter with vodka. He closed his eyes and listened: the city’s murmur, too loud for it to be past midnight, an ambulance, a song someone played from another terrace. And then, so suddenly it almost scared him, Shane Hollander’s voice:

“It’s not worth jumping over.” He was beside him, looking down as well. Ilya had realized two things at the same time. First, he was just as glad as he was annoyed that he was there. Second, Hollander was the better view as he stood against the city lights and cloudy sky and Ilya’s shaken breathing. He couldn’t speak for a moment, with this thing he was starting to learn about himself being a bit too much. Despite it hitting him so suddenly, it hadn’t felt unnatural or uncalled for. Perhaps it had been growing in him for a while. To play extra hard against Montreal, to look specifically after him to smash against rinks, to shit talk to, to mock him for his perfect interviews speaking french perfectly. And Hollander had been there that night to make Ilya realize it, with his profile leaning slightly towards him and a soft artificial light making him appear sort of ghostly. He had always been lovely, hadn’t he? Painfully so. If anything, it made it worse, it made Ilya want to get out there and scrub himself from the inside, as if he could clean it better, erase whatever stain was starting to burn in his gut. 

“Party’s all over?” He let his annoyance show in his voice. 

“No, I just wanted to get some air.”

“Big night for you, huh?” It was a big night, for both of them it seemed. 

“It could’ve gone to either one of us.”

“It went to you.” Why were they talking about this absurdity anyway? 

“Are you okay?”

Ilya had looked at him for a moment. He was definitely not, but it made it better to be there with him, despite it also making it worse. 

“I don’t care about that stupid award, Hollander.”

“You didn’t answer the question.” 

“No, I’m not okay. But it has nothing to do with you winning that.” The truth had come unexpectedly out of his mouth, like it was something foreign, independent from him. He thought of going back inside before it happened again.

“Oh… Do you wanna talk about it, Rozanov?” 

So he had shaken his head, afraid his voice would break if he spoke over the knot in his throat. They had just stood there, beside each other and the rising quietness, the wind getting colder by the minute and a question that remained unasked but that was deafening: why were they even there, together, and why had they gotten so close their thighs were slightly brushing against each other? Hollander’s presence was calming. Ilya appreciated that he didn’t insist on talking further and just hung there, looking down like there was something interesting in the city that could’ve been any other. It had been too dark to see anything but the blinking apartment windows or the lightning of a car as it drove by, or Hollander’s face just barely outlined in its profile, his nose straight over the curve of his trembling lips. Maybe he was cold. He was only in a tux, after all. Ilya handed him his drink over, helps with the cold, he said, and laughed as Hollander took a sip and instantly looked like he wanted to spit it out. 

“That’s… disgusting.”

“It’s good vodka, Hollander, how dare you?” 

“Yeah, you can keep that.” He was smiling himself, as he returned the glass and crossed his arms over his chest, as if to get warmer.

“You should go back inside, if you are cold.” Ilya suggested hoping that he wouldn’t. Hollander had actually turned to him and kept the fucking smile on his face as he said:

“No. That’s fine.”

Tonight, in his room, he looked a little like back then. Even if his face was less rounded and he was definitely bigger, he had the same questioning stare that melted Ilya inside. His cheeks were more freckled as they always were by summer’s end: Ilya could never help but to notice, unfortunately. Hollander’s freckles drove him insane to a level he found ridiculous. Any time he saw him his eyes were chasing after them, and he wished to stop him and hold his face in place for however long it would take to count them all. He wondered what they would feel like under his lips, if he’d let him praise every single one. 

“If you don’t know what you like, you just try and try until you do.” Ilya replied. His own voice had gotten lower. It felt so good to know they were alone and in the safety of his room. He hoped Hollander’s useless friend didn’t think to wonder where he was. 

“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Hollander sighed his answer and looked away.

“Why is it a problem?” 

“I can’t try on my own, can I?” He looked a little amused as he said it, and kept on avoiding his eyes. And what on earth was he trying to tell him? The possibility of Hollander not knowing he could choose who he’d like to fuck with amongst probably thousands of people was ridiculous. He must have known this, or he was more oblivious than Ilya thought. 

“As if you couldn’t do it with whoever you wanted to, Hollander.” And then he kept talking, without thinking: “You are rich, you are a hockey star, you look like… well, I’m sure you’ve seen yourself in a fucking mirror.” 

“I know I’m like, not unpleasant to the eyes or whatever, but it’s not–”

“Not unpleasant? You’re joking.” It was a really bad idea to not shut the fuck up now.

“What are you saying, Rozanov?” 

“What are you saying? What do you mean it’s a problem you can’t try on your own?” He preferred to avoid answering because he didn’t feel like lying tonight. He really didn’t. He questioned Hollander like it didn’t pain him, like it was easy to be gentle and to hide his urgency to know. 

“I can’t just go and sleep with any person. I– I just can’t. So for me to be able to, what you said, try and try, I’d have to… I don’t even know. I don’t know how I would do that.” Hollander seemed genuinely at loss, as if the solution was not right in front of him. Oh god, Ilya was this close to directly proposing something to him. He didn’t know what exactly, but he really was about to stop caring at all. 

“Then with someone you like? There is not someone?” 

“It doesn’t matter. They’d never do it.”

So there was someone. And that someone Hollander referred to in a neutral pronoun, which didn’t go unnoticed. If what he said was true, this person was so incredibly stupid, so much, and it made Ilya want to know who it was but also to never find out. Part of him wanted to delete from his head the fact that there was someone Hollander fancied and who he’d like to sleep with, to try things with. It made him want to die right there. Then it occurred to him: perhaps there was a way around this, if he found a loop hole he could jump right into. He didn’t have to get on his knees and beg Hollander for his affection, he didn’t need to confess that every time he looked at him his heart went up to his throat, he didn’t need to say things, things he had been holding buried so deep he was embarrassed to look at. Hollander didn’t need to know how he felt. He could try really, really hard to conceal it and not let it crack him inside out. 

“Well, I could help you.”

Hollander didn’t react for a second, like he wasn’t understanding. Then his face got red, like, bright red, yet he was looking straight and serious at him. Ilya almost regretted saying it, but it was too late now. Hollander opened his mouth a few times before deciding to finally speak: 

“How could you help me, Rozanov?”

Ilya just needed to play it cool, like it was nothing. Just a favor to Hollander out of boredom and, at most, curiosity.

“We can try things together, whatever you want.”

“I thought you were straight.”

“Are you? I saw you drink to that question at the game.”

“Aren’t you? I saw you didn’t.”

Ilya had wanted to, but at the moment had been too stunned after seeing Hollander taking the cup to his lips as the words still rang, with someone my same gender, he had not realized he hadn’t drank himself. He’d also been busy spiraling and trying to get his eyes off of him and his heart to steady before it’d combust. Ilya always knew he was into boys as much as he was into girls. Though the opportunity of actually doing stuff with girls presented itself way, way more often than with boys, he knew that when he let himself wither away and not repress the fantasies he liked to indulge in, it was the same person he pictured every time. And it was not a woman. What was happening right now seemed too far of a stretch for it to actually be happening. It was as if he could reach out to what he’d wanted for so long and it might actually be there for him: Hollander on his bed and with flushed cheeks as he was then, who hadn’t denied his proposition just yet, who hadn’t seemed disgusted by Ilya’s words, just very embarrassed. That was a good sign, was it not?

“I’m not. No.” Fuck it. “Do you want my help then?”

“Yes.”

It might be the end of the world tonight. It’d make sense, and it’d be perfectly fine as long as it waited just til sunrise, maybe. It wouldn’t be enough but it’d be okay, he wouldn’t mind. He felt too out of himself already, too uncertain of his own reality just hearing the answer. Because that same morning he had woken up to the anticipation of seeing Hollander, just getting the chance of being near him, of teasing him a little bit and getting reactions out of him. It always made him so stupidly happy, most of all after his team won their games, when he held the power over the one thing Hollander wanted enough to engage with him, to look upset about, to admit in a silent resignation that he knew Ilya was good, that he was good enough for him, and that maybe he liked that. That would’ve been enough for Ilya, perhaps ever, until someday after he retired he’d get over his fucking fixation and never think of Shane Hollander again. So it was not stretching it, to think the world might be ending, because his definitely was.

All that could come out of his mouth was: “Oh.” And then, because he suddenly felt a bit nervous and not as in ease as he always was in this type of situation: “What would you like?”

He didn’t register as fast as it happened that Hollander had gotten closer, way closer, and that he was getting too himself, and that the knowledge that he was going to kiss him came as he looked at Hollander’s lips and got his fingers on his chin to lift his head just slightly. He stared into his eyes for a brief moment, from an angle he had never before, and closed his mouth against his. His fingers went from Hollander’s chin down to his neck, and rested there softly, feeling the shadow of a rapid pulse and a vibration too low for Ilya to hear but perceptible in its vibration. Ilya did make an audible sound as he felt hands pressed on the back of his neck and head, fingers working through his hair as if looking for something desperately, and making him feel so good, too good, he had to get his tongue inside Hollander’s mouth and grab onto his nape and his jaw harder to pull him deeper. He could hear a response then, and he was embarrassingly aroused already, caressing the soft skin on Hollander’s neck and trying to be slow, trying to taste him as he sucked a little on his bottom lip and wondered how on earth he’d been willing before to go on forever without knowing how Shane Hollander kissed. He was sweet but eager as he held on to him and moved his fingers so much around his hair he actually pulled a little bit and made it ache, but he didn’t mind, he didn’t care at all, because it meant he was that into it. Hollander opened his mouth and let him roam around there like he’d been waiting for it, and then let him push him into the bed a little and lifted his head so they wouldn’t break apart. This was killing Ilya to an extent that didn’t feel possible.

When they pulled apart, he noticed he was leaning so much into Hollander they were almost on the edge of the bed, and he couldn’t help but to awe at the view of his lips reddened and his chest rising and falling fast, his expression softer than he’d ever seen it. Also hungry. Ilya adjusted his position to disguise that his pants were fitting tighter on his cock. He wouldn’t stop to think much about any of this, he decided. He felt like asking, even if it was obvious:

“Did you like that?” His voice was barely more than a whisper. Hollander sat straight and readjusted on the mattress. He looked unbelievable as he ran a hand through his already messy hair.

“Yes, yes. Hum, a lot actually.” His voice was breathy. Ilya knew already he would not be able to help himself at all, not as far as he allowed him. “Did you?”

“I wanna keep doing it.” He didn’t wait for much of a reply. He would ask later how Hollander wanted to proceed. For now, he felt like he needed to kiss him more so he reached for his mouth again, and he felt him react immediately: Hollander’s hands were on his arms and went a little under his sleeve and then down, and then above, over his shoulders and the base of his neck as he kissed him. That alone was making him lose his mind, noticing how starved he had been for this, just to be touched by him. He bit onto Hollander’s lip gently, and carried his hands down to his chest and the hem of his shirt. He wanted to see him so badly, but he told himself to wait as he kissed his neck instead, just brushing softly over and over (and he couldn’t believe he was doing this), and then lingering longer and sucking just slightly (he really couldn’t believe it), making the softest sounds come out from Hollander, and feeling the warmth of his blood running just under his mouth, his hands pressing him down as if he was asking him to do that forever. Ilya would. He kissed behind his ear and down to his shoulder, careful not to suck too hard or be too messy, barely managing to keep it slow and careful as he caressed Hollander’s waist over his shirt and tried hard to ignore his own arousal, twitching under his clothes: ridiculous how turned on he was over neck kissing. But Hollander’s breathing had gotten so fast and so loud that it made him feel better. Also harder. He had to break apart.

“And that? Did you like it?” He was just asking because he wanted to hear it, really. Hollander’s eyes were barely opened. He sighed and then closed his eyes again and waited a few seconds to reply.

“God. Shut up.” He laughed a little and pressed his fingers against his eyes. 

“Just checking.” He almost went to kiss him again. But maybe they should discuss what they’d do and not just stay on kissing, cause he’d very much like to do more. “Do you wanna try something else?”

“Sure. What?” 

“Whatever you want, Hollader.” Even if he could have made it clear that he meant it with the words’ full implication, he probably wouldn’t. But when he said whatever, he meant Hollander could ask anything of him, anything there was to do. Part of him wished Hollander would say something like help me count all my freckles and also kiss them, and let me suck your dick while you do that. He hoped he didn’t look too eager. But then, as he leaned against his hands on the mattress and tried to calm the fuck down a little, Hollander stood, making him worried that he would leave, but just as quickly he knelt between Ilya’s legs and pulled at his jeans a little. He didn’t look at him as he asked:

“Can I suck you?” 

“О боже.” Ilya didn’t waste a second. He stood just as much as he needed to pull his clothes down. He’d never been insecure about his body, and now, Hollander’s glazed eyes staring at his dick were doing it for him so good, he didn’t care it was showing how turned on he was, how hard Hollander was making him. Merely that was enough without his mouth actually on him. Hollander got closer, still on his knees, and met Ilya’s lips as he wrapped his fingers around his cock. Ilya had to bend down to fully catch his mouth and kiss him back. Thankfully the bed’s base was short so he managed. He grabbed his face, maybe roughly, and he didn’t show any restraint now as he licked his tongue and his lips and tried not to jump on the bed to follow his hand’s rhythm. Hollander was giving him long, slow strokes, sometimes circling around the head with his thumb, and then down to the base and sometimes going a bit faster and then slower again. Was this how Hollander touched himself? It was tortuous. His free hand was playing with his hair again, and it was too much to have him on his hair and his mouth and his dick at the same time. He’d never felt like this. He moaned into his mouth after holding it back, and wished his hands could reach down enough to jerk him off as well, but he had to settle for holding his face, and pulling his hair, and touching his chest and his neck and his nave: his hands were running without him even thinking. Hollander broke apart from his mouth and moved his lips to his neck, going faster on his cock at the same time, with short and quick strokes on his head in between the long ones that went down to the base. He kissed him with an open mouth and moved to one side of Ilya’s neck to the other, and then down to his clavicles and chest and then up to his jaw, his cheeks, his lips, and Ilya was panting, shuddering, holding on to Hollander’s shoulders like he was about to pass out.

“Чёрт возьми.” He pulled him back. “Hollander, if you wanna suck me, maybe do it now.”

Hollander looked so worked up, breathing fast and with his lips swollen and tasted by him. His hand had stopped but was still holding his aching dick. His freckles stood out bright on his face: it was the hottest and prettiest any person had ever looked, Ilya was certain. He didn’t stop himself from running a thumb against them, and cupped Hollander’s face just to do it, lingering and tracing the path a few times. He loved them so much, it made his chest tight to be finally touching him like this. 

“ты такой красивый.” If confessed like that, it was safe, he could say it. 

“What did you say?” Hollander whispered, smiling softly under his caress. And after Ilya didn’t reply for a few seconds: “Please tell me.”

“I like the freckles on your face.” He was not lying, definitely, though he didn’t translate what he’d actually said before. Hollander smiled wider and leaned into his touch, and gave his forgotten dick a single stroke, just to kill Ilya a little further.

“Do you really?” 

“So much, Hollander. I…” He didn’t even know what to say. “Stop fishing for compliments.” That made him laugh. He stroked him once more and went lower, his mouth right above Ilya’s cock. His breath tingled him.

“I, hum… I’ve never done this before, so don’t expect much, okay?” Ilya nodded as a reply. That information relieved him in a place he didn’t know was hurting. From the game earlier, he’d been wondering what exactly Hollander had done with a man. But not this, then, not what he was about to do. He liked to be certain of that, at least. He couldn’t think much further from that though, cause then Hollander was pressing his lips to the top of Ilya’s dick, sucking lightly and then letting go, going lower and licking his entire length from the base as if it was a fucking popsickle. Ilya’s hands went immediately to hold his head as he took a deep breath. He already felt it was gonna be hard to control himself. Hollander did that same thing a few times, getting him wet and sore and looking straight out of Ilya’s luckiest wet dreams, before he finally took him inside his mouth. He went uncertain, not going too deep at first, with hands tracing circles on his thighs and his pretty head moving slowly. Ilya could tell it was his first time, and how on earth that made the whole thing even hotter, he didn’t know. Hollander seemed determined to get him deeper, even as he struggled and had to pull apart at times, he went back for it. Although he couldn’t get all the way down at times, he sucked and moved his tongue to an instinctive rhythm, one that suited him so well, that made him want to rock his hips forward and that spread a burning sensation all the way through his legs and stomach. It was, on top of all, a kind of endearing Ilya had never experienced in a situation like this. Hollander was so determined to make him feel good, to make him enjoy this, to keep going, it occurred to Ilya, until he cummed. He also didn’t try to hide the fact that he was enjoying himself, moaning into his dick, sending delicious vibrations all around it, sucking the precum right out and tilting his head to get his tongue everywhere, not wanting to miss any space. 

Ilya was glad the music was loud outside, cause he couldn’t help but to groan out and murmur nonsense he didn’t even register. His hands had gone through Hollander’s hair so much he had memorized the texture, and he tried to be gentle as he closed a fist into it, not wanting to be controlling but feeling like he needed to hold onto something, for his dear life. 

“Fucking fuck, Hollander.” He was actually getting close to finishing. “ты меня убиваешь” He saw one of Hollander’s hands go to his own pants. Was he gonna start to touch himself now? Oh, just to think about it was the most tempting and mind-blowingly hot idea, but Ilya refused to let it finish like that. “Stop, stop.”  

Hollander pulled apart almost immediately, and looked at him like expecting something.

“What happened?” He looked disappointed he had to stop. Ilya wanted to die and bury himself in the frown between his eyebrows. “Were you not liking it?”

“Oh, I was. Hollander, you…” He sighed. “I was going to finish soon, so I told you to stop.” 

“Why? I wanted you to.” 

Ilya felt like thanking him, truly, he felt like ripping a piece of his soul and handing it over. He had never wanted to cum that badly and at the same time to let it linger for as long as he could. He helped Hollander stand up, and to suppose that his knees were sore made his heart ache and made Ilya want to kiss them and caress them and also to get him down on them again. He sat down beside him.

“We can take our time.”

“Oh...” That didn’t seem to displease him. 

“So, you liked doing that also?” Ilya couldn’t help but ask.

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Hollander murmured, looking straight at the floor.

“No need to feel embarrassed, Hollander. It was really good.” It had been more than that, but Ilya wouldn’t be able to reach words that could describe it in english. It was everything and more he would’ve dared to ask.

“Well, I liked doing it. I actually, well, I can’t believe how good that felt.” 

Ilya could give him shit about that, he really could, make a little joke about how Hollander had gotten so worked up on eating his dick like a fine meal. It was right there. But the confession had been so earnest and he had a small smile on his lips, and maybe it would make him a hypocrite cause, beyond how good that had physically felt, it was better knowing that Hollander had enjoyed himself that much and had wanted to make him cum, and it was also making it hotter and charming. He wanted to stop time for a few minutes so he could process all of it. He would worry about the implications on his feelings later, about how on earth he was supposed to get over it after tonight without asking for more (he couldn’t, could he?), about how this would ruin any other hookup for him, surely, it’d have to, and it was not fair and it was lame but he wouldn’t ever regret it. That, he knew. He also knew he wanted to make Hollander feel just as good, more even, before the night ended. However long that was gonna be. Thankfully the music was still loud outside and the darkness was still going through the window. So it felt safe, as if a spell had been cast upon his room and would remain as long as the night was still on and the party was still alive out there. As long as Hollander kept looking at him as he was, with open eyes and something that felt like trust, like longing, like nothing Ilya would have ever dared to imagine. 

“Would you like me to do it also?”

“Yes, please.”

“Always so polite, Hollander.”

So Ilya got down on his knees in between Hollander’s, just as he had done, and took his already very hard dick inside his mouth. He was like that just from sucking Ilya, with liking precum that had surely left a stain on his boxers, and felt heavy and hot inside his mouth, taking a fistfull of Ilya’s comforter with one hand and with the other grabbing onto his hair, just twisting it around his fingers, his shaking fingers, his gentle fingers. Ilya made sure to notice how they traced through his hair like a caress, like someone would when they’d want you to fall asleep. He suddenly gripped him harder when Ilya went low into the base of his cock, pulling a little, and then: sorry, went back to being gentle again. He wouldn’t mind Hollander pulling his hair, but he couldn’t say it with a dick in his mouth, so he made sure to let him know. He wrapped his fingers low around the base and placed his mouth on top, and stroked Hollander at the same time he was sucking him.

“Holy shit, Rozanov.” He dragged his name, said it in pieces, turned it into a plea, a shudder. “Oh god, that… that’s, god, that’s good.” He closed his fists into his hair, his legs shaking a little bit, and panting, his breathing filling the room and making it warmer, making him warmer, harder, lose whatever was still left of his head, lose any other coherent thought other than Shane Shane Shane, the noises he was making and the taste of him, the weight of him, the feeling of his hands pulling his hair and how absolutely he was the best thing Ilya had ever seen in his entire fucking life, eyes tightly shut and mouth opened and head tilted backwards, like he couldn’t even hold it in place, and then looking directly at him from above, flushed and not bothering to be embarrassed, with eyes so dark they shone through the dim light, with disbelieved and pure and heavy want, want, want. It was burning through Ilya like a melted metal. He was straight out moaning at times, repeating his last name like a prayer, or its short version, Roz, cursing, making him wish he had a recorder cause he would be jerking off to the mere memory of the sounds later. It was a struggle just to stop from touching himself now. His rationality had left him a couple of Hollander’s moans ago, so he really was not thinking when he stopped and pulled away:

“Has anyone fucked you before, Hollander?”

“What?” He asked with a heavy exhale. 

“Cause if it’s happened before, you know, maybe you want to? With me?”

“You wanna… have proper sex?” 

“If you’ve tried before and you didn’t like it, maybe we can try, us?” He was so desperate he didn’t even know what he was saying. Perhaps it would be too much? Yes. He knew it would be, for him at least. There’d be no returning from that, and yet, he couldn’t believe how badly he wanted to, how he’d do it as many times as Hollander would let him, however he wanted to, as long as he wanted to.

“I’ve never done it before, no. I mean, I’ve had sex, but not with men.” He blushed a little. Ilya’s hopes sank to the ground. There was no way Hollander would want to then. Rightfully so, perhaps. There was a line to be crossed and that was it, so it was better not to indulge. He nodded in understanding, and Hollander gave him a tiny smile in return, still agitated and with his dick out. Ilya was so infatuated, down bad and in his grave, so far gone, he wanted to bury his face in Holander’s lap and cry. He was. “But, I’d like to, with you. I’m not sure it’ll go well, but we can try.” He was.  

“You’re sure? We don’t have to, really.”

“I am. I’ve been, well… I’m not sure I should say this.”

“What? What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.” Hollander looked away and sat a little further on the bed. “Doing it with a man, cause with girls it doesn’t seem to be working properly.”

“Oh…” So Ilya just happened to be the first guy Hollander had stumbled upon who was willing? Sure, he’d take that, but he didn't like to think of it that way. He noticed his stomach felt a little hollow. “So before, when you said you did something with a guy, you meant…”

“It was just a kiss. I was very young, so it hardly counted. And you? You didn’t drink to that question but you seemed, well… hardly inexperienced back then.” 

“No, I’ve had sex with someone before. I mean, with another guy.” Ilya sat beside Hollander on the bed and tried to be as present as he had been before. Why was it bothering him so much, if he just happened to be Hollander’s opportunity to hook up and not this nerve wrecking, gut melting, heart ripping out of his chest moment it was being for him? He needed to stop being pathetic right now so he could fuck Hollander like he meant to, but part of Ilya wanted to ask him to lay there with him and let him breathe into every single corner of his body, and let him memorize what it felt like to be that close to each other so he could recall it later, when he was gone. 

“Oh… I guess it’s good that at least one of us knows what they’re doing.”

Ilya just couldn’t help it. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the wave that was coming to drown him over, to choke every bit of his existence. He would just have to know in silence, that this was everything. Hollander smiled at him. It really was. 

Shane had thought he knew what it was like, to be with someone. To consummate whatever desire had been burning and feel it shrink away like a low tide that returns to the ocean. He never had a clue. Now, he wanted to rip his skin apart so he could be touched deeper, to take in each and every one of Rozanov’s sighs and swallow them, to give himself in ways he hadn’t known he’d be willing. Mostly, he wanted to say his name. I-lya. He wanted to spell it like a confession, to mark its syllables like a single word conjuring. Maybe he didn’t know how to speak it. Maybe it would be foreign in his mouth and not his to pronounce, but it was echoing in his mind over and over, mostly so he wouldn’t have the space for a nervous thought, for the what if it goes wrong’s or the what if I’m not good’s he already felt were trying to lurk in. So he held on to Rozanov’s name tightly and to the realness of the four walls of his bedroom. He was safe here with him. He didn’t know how he could be so sure about it, but he was. 

He had showered earlier after the game, as meticulously as he always did, so surely it would be fine, right? He recalled his light pregame meal, hours ago, an hour before the game even started. He could actually eat now, for his stomach felt hollow suddenly, and his palms sweaty, and his head lighter. Shane needed to stop thinking. Why was he feeling like a teenager about to lose his virginity with their high school crush all of the sudden? They just needed to go back to how they were before, touching and kissing so intensely his mind had shut down entirely to anything other than Rozanov, how he felt in his mouth and how Shane felt in his, and the way the heat had crawled all the way up to his head, making it spiral and burn and shrink to its most basic function. Which was, apparently, Ilya Rozanov’s name. It was a little ridiculous, that he had been sucking him off just earlier but felt like saying his name would be stepping out of line. He noticed Rozanov had quieted down, and was not really making an advance.

“I showered after the game, if that’s worrying you.”

“Oh no, Hollander. I know you are particular about your hygiene.”

“How– well, is something wrong then? You seem… not as excited as you were just now.”

Rozanov didn’t say anything for a few seconds, and had him circling in his mind again. Would he take his offer back? Would he tell him to get out of his room and forget about it? 

“Is that why you wanna do it with me? Cause you want to do it with a man?”

Shane felt taken aback, not catching the exact implication on the question. The truth was, if it was any other man in this bed beside him, offering what Rozanov had, Shane would say no. He wouldn’t go all the way through with a stranger, or even someone he knew slightly. Hell, Shane wouldn’t be wanting to do this with anyone else, would he? Maybe he’d do some of it, if put in the situation, as he gave in to girls from time to time, just to try, just to let himself live a little, but he knew. This was his ever longing fantasy, the best case scenario, the outcome that would be too ideal to ever actually happen. He felt Rozanov needed to know this, at least partially. And for some reason, he didn’t feel like lying.

“No, that’s not the only reason.”

“Why then?” Rozanov was looking at him with a pleading look, more open than he had seen him maybe ever. I’ve been dreaming about this for what feels like so long, so, so much. 

“I wanna do it with you. I don’t fool around with any person, like I said.”

“Yes but why me?” Why him, exactly. Shane didn’t even know. He knew that sometimes, when he didn’t imagine Rozanov fucking him, he imagined him letting Shane press his face against his chest and feel his heartbeat, imagined how the warmth of his body would settle against his face, the closeness so painful it felt like a memory of something that would never happen. And he knew that sometimes, just picturing that kind of thing felt even better than picturing himself being pinned down and taken from behind. 

“I– I don’t know. I’m sure you know you’re good looking, Rozanov.” He felt his face heat up. What was Rozanov asking of him? Why were they still talking? He grabbed Shane’s chin gently to make him turn towards him, and had the faintest smirk on his lips. Being touched by him still felt like a fucking miracle, even after all they’d done. 

“Shane Hollander thinks I’m handsome. I’m flattered.” That smug prick. 

“Oh, so you find me repulsive, Rozanov? That’s why you sucked my face with such enthusiasm?" He rolled his eyes and couldn’t help but to smile a little. Shane didn’t need to admit anything: it had shown how attracted to him he was, had it not? 

“Honestly, I think you are hotter than the fucking sun.” Rozanov said with a straight face. 

Shane felt his heart drop to his knees and warmth curl in every corner of his body. He’d never felt a compliment like that, like it was injected straight into his bloodstream and getting him high. He closed the gap between them and grabbed Rozanov’s face and kissed him deep, letting a sigh melt into his mouth. He was getting hard again, just from the compliment and the relief of being close. He tried not to giggle as he buried his fingers in Rozanov’s curls, caressing the soft strands and feeling like he’d never get enough of it. The amount of time he’d spent just wondering how his hair would feel under his touch, if Rozanov would like it if he played with it, if he told him it was lovely. Shane guessed he could do that now. It was a safe thing to say. Also, he started to care less and less with every passing moment. Then, as if Rozanov could read his mind:

“You trying to get a chunk out?” He whispered against Shane’s neck, then sucked on his skin softly and left lingering kisses as he grabbed his waist to pull him closer. 

“Oh– Sorry. I really like your hair.”

“You do?” He kissed behind his ear. 

“I love it.” Shane was way past any fucks to give. He was certain the alcohol had run its effects dry a while ago, and yet he felt drunk, his eyes were heavy and there was a tingly fluttering in his stomach that was making him sigh every two seconds. He felt like praising Rozanov’s hair like it was a hand made and delicate creation.

“Oh? You love it, Hollander?” Rozanov’s ego would be filling up to the roof, he knew that. But it was fine, cause he was running his hands through Shane’s thighs over his clothes and eating his neck. Also, it felt amazing to say those things, to say how much he was into him even in that way. 

“Yes, it’s lovely, and– and soft, and curly.” Sigh. “Please don’t cut it.” If Shane had not been distracted by the kisses, he might have kept talking. Rozanov grunted onto his neck and grabbed his sides to press him down on the mattress, then reached down to stroke his dick again, slowly. Shane brought him back to his mouth and they stayed like that for a while, pressed against the bed, mouths against each other’s as Rozanov touched him slowly, achingly. They could just stay like that and it’d be enough. Rozanov stopped to look at him from above, panting.

“Look at you… ты меня убиваешь.” 

“What’s that?”

“I am going a little crazy, that’s all.”

“Oh… Me too.” Shane hoped Rozanov said it in a good way. 

“You feel good?” He bent down to kiss his neck again, with a thumb pressed against his throat and then under his shirt. 

“God, yes.” He groaned, pressing Rozanov harder against his body, tugging his hands under his shirt as well, feeling the hot and smooth skin of his abdomen and chest and back.

“I am god now, Hollander?” 

“Oh, shut up.” He pressed his nails against Rozanov’s back, rolling his eyes. 

Rozanov did. He took the rest of their clothes off; Shane let him undress him and found it made him feel vulnerable in the best possible way, like knowing yourself to be in the hands of someone who wouldn’t hurt you. Being looked at by Rozanov like this, as if the sight of Shane was melting something inside of him and burning it up and undoing him, he thought it was just as good as touching and making out. He’d never felt as wanted, and most of all, he’d never wanted to be desired this badly. And to actually get it was better than anything else. Except that Rozanov panting and bare chested on top of him was better, actually. It was fucking unfair. He didn’t fight the urge to touch him, to run his hands through him as desperate as he was, and still he felt it was not enough. His dick was throbbing hard, but he ignored it and grabbed Rozanov’s instead, after licking his palm (was that gross? maybe) and looking straight at him. Rozanov didn’t seem to find it gross. At all. Oh, fuck, he groaned even before he started moving his hand and opened his mouth in arousal so plain and pure it made Shane’s mind spin. Rozanov grabbed his face with a bit of force, and he liked it, he liked the pressure on his cheeks and he liked it when he pressed his thumb against his mouth so he opened it and took the finger in. It felt so good he had to close his eyes as he sucked into it, sliding his tongue up and down and swallowing the taste and Rozanov’s low moans and fuck, yes, Hollander words of encouragement. He wanted that, to hear how good he was doing it, so he sucked harder and sped up the strokes on Rozanov’s cock and moaned into his thumb cause he loved it, he really loved it. Rozanov was swearing against his chest as he kissed him and he was so hard and hot under his hand Shane could almost feel his heart beating on every stroke.

“You like this?” He whispered when Rozanov took his thumb out of his mouth.

“Mmm, I really fucking do, Hollander.” That sent him even deeper into an abyss. Rozanov was touching him also, in a controlled and steady rhythm that didn’t match the state he was in, groaning and biting his neck. It was hard not to grind against his hand to make it faster. “Turn around, on your stomach.” He commanded after a while, when Shane couldn’t hold himself steady any longer and started jumping on the bed a little. That made him freeze. Were they… just going to do it now? Shane knew how it worked, he understood the mechanics of it, the theory. It was gonna be painful, probably. It had to be, right? “Only if you still want to.” Rozanov seemed to notice his indecision. He realized his desire was bigger than the fear of anything else, so he nodded. 

“I do, I want to.”

“You know how this works, Hollander?”

Shane thought he knew. He layed on his stomach and felt his heartbeat on his throat, and was pretty sure his dick had softened down and his quick breathing had not much to do with arousal any more. But he wanted this, still he wanted it more than he had wanted many things in his life, though right now it was hard to recall something he had wanted more. Maybe there was nothing: Rozanov was tracing kisses down his spine, between his shoulders, on the back of his neck, and it felt too close to something tender and sweet, actually sweet, and at times he mumbled something between the kisses, like there’s freckles on your back also and I like them and you smell good and more on a fast and broken russian. Shane was fully hard again, and breathed into the comforter. It was soft. He liked the feel of it on his face and its clean smell. 

“I have to, mmm, how you say this…” Rozanov talked over his ear, “touch you, get my fingers in you, yes? So you can take my dick later.” He kissed Shane’s temple, a hand rubbing his ass and squeezing just slightly. Shane knew he was just explaining the mechanics, but something about the phrasing, get my fingers in you so you can take my dick, was doing it for him so bad he had to close his eyes and breath out. 

“Yes, okay.” Shane grabbed onto the cover.

“You can say to stop whenever.” He kissed his cheek. Shane’s heart was beating into the mattress so hard he wondered if Rozanov could feel it too. “It’s okay, relax.” He kept on kissing him, so many times, so delicately Shane was a little caught off guard when he felt a finger pressed against him, circling the area tentatively. “Do you touch yourself here?” Rozanov whispered in his ear. 

“Um, yes. I’ve done it.” He was glad his face was not directed at him so he could blush furiously without being seen. 

“Do you like it?” 

He wanted to say yes. But the truth was, he hadn’t felt much when doing it. His hand had  always felt too awkward trying to reach for the area, and the only time he’d tried it with a dildo he couldn’t get it to move in a pleasant way, only grazing the ghost of the sensation he’d been craving. 

“Sure.”

“Wow. Sure?”

“I mean, yes. I just haven’t got the hang of it maybe.”

“Mm, I’m gonna try now, yes? Let me know how it feels.” He was looking very intently at his face, upholding himself against his elbow on the mattress, so close to Shane he could feel his hard on pressed against his thigh. He nodded in response, seeing Rozanov grabbing lube from his bedside drawer and putting some on his index finger. He exhaled sharply at the pressure of a finger inside him, and tried not to let the discomfort show on his face. It was hard to focus on Rozanov kissing his neck at the moment: he was too tense and started to wonder if something might be wrong with him, if his body was physically incapable of enjoying that. “You want me to stop?” Rozanov whispered beside him, finger moving inside Shane. He was about to say yes, his face buried between his arms on the mattress, ready to suggest they just went back to sucking each other off. That had worked wonders. But then–

“Oh.” It escaped his mouth as a pleasurable spot bloomed against Rozanov’s touch, woken up from a place Shane didn’t know he possessed. “No, don’t stop.” He murmured, voice muffled against the comforter. So he kept going, and if Shane was starting to worry if it was awkward for him, the feeling of Rozanov’s boner only getting harder against his leg proved him wrong. He didn’t need to tell himself to stop thinking, his mind was shutting down on its own. As Rozanov brushed against that spot over and over, Shane was gripping the covers and trying not to grind into the mattress. It felt good. He thought he could come just by that. 

“You like this?” Rozanov’s voice sounded a bit shaken, and it made him lose it even more thinking that it was doing things for him, that he liked touching Shane and making a mess of him. 

“Yes– mm, feels so fucking good.” He breathed out. 

“Fuck.” Rozanov groaned and took his finger out. “I wanna see you. Get on your back.” He commanded. Shane complied instantly, wanting to feel him again, almost complaining that he had stopped. He laid down on his back with his head against a pillow, and Rozanov placed himself between his legs right away, having Shane on full display, undone and underneath him. He felt a little self conscious and hot on his face. “Бог, look at you. I’m placing my finger again, yes?” 

“Yes, please.”

Rozanov looked at him for a moment, eyes darkened, and got down to kiss him heatedly and with such force Shane’s head sunk a little into the pillow. He moaned against it, hands pulling him even closer. He felt Rozanov’s hand grabbing his knees and pushing them upwards, folding them into his chest. Their mouths didn’t break apart as he got inside Shane again, a single finger straight up reaching the spot that had him moaning against his mouth in seconds, having to break apart to inhale because he couldn’t breath properly. What was Rozanov even doing and why did it feel so good? Why hadn’t he been able to do it himself? Shane didn’t care that he could see how much he was losing it, that he had to bring his hand over his mouth to suppress his moans and that he was pushing back into his hand almost involuntarily.

“Don’t. Let me see you.” Rozanov grabbed his hand and pushed it away from his face. “Don’t keep you from me, Hollander. Shit, you are such a sight.”  

“Jesus.” Shane wanted so bad to touch himself, his dick throbbing and licking over his stomach. But he was sure if he did he was not going to last.

“I’ll add another finger, okay?”

“Okay.” 

He felt the added pressure, a bit much at first but easing into him with the movement. After a while it was pleasurable again, like a miracle, shocking him how good it was even as it hurt slightly. He watched Rozanov curse and touch himself, like he was surrendering after fighting the urge, stroking slowly as he opened his fingers a little bit inside him. He groaned and let go of himself suddenly, grabbing Shane’s leg and folding it harder. 

“Why did you–” he had to take a deep breath to steady his voice, “stop?”

“I won’t last if I keep touching myself.” He admitted earnestly. 

Shane would really like to see him, though, touching himself and orgasm. He couldn’t count the times he’d imagined that, just to picture Rozanov masturbating was enough to get him to do it, trying to invent the sounds that’d come out of his mouth and the sight of his pulsing cock, throbbing in his fist and licking. At least he wouldn’t have to imagine what that part of his body looked like any more, or how he was when he was turned on and panting and ready to fuck. Shane was really not hiding that he was pushing back into Rozanov’s hand, his embarrassment not being enough to hold him back. 

“Three fingers now, yes?” Rozanov mumbled against his mouth, stopping their making out for that brief moment. Shane’s yes got lost between their tongues and sighs mixing into the other’s. This time it barely hurt, when he added the extra finger after applying more lube and sinking them delicately inside. It took no time for him to moan, eyes and mouth opened as he stared at Rozanov in disbelief: it was too much, it was not enough. He felt like begging and allowing himself to be hurt, to be ordered around and filled up and fucked senseless. He felt like someone else, this was not him. He didn’t recognize this sudden urge that was holding him hostage, that was making him grab onto Rozanov like his body was the center of gravity pulling him in, like every brush of his skin was killing him and making him want to crawl inside him at the same time. 

“I think I’m ready.” 

“For what?” He stopped the movement of his fingers. Shane knew he just wanted to hear it, and it made his head lighter and heat pooled inside him like honey. He’d give him anything he wanted.

“For you to fuck me.”

Rozanov hid his face in the crook of his neck for a moment, breathing into Shane’s skin and mumbling something in Russian he really wanted to understand, but he didn’t ask. He kissed him a few times, leaving goosebumps behind his lips, and then positioned himself between his knees, grabbing onto them for support. Their eyes were locked, and Shane wondered if his fear got through, his hands trembling against Rozanov’s. He wanted this, he was ready. He took a deep breath.

“If you don’t like it, say. Right away, please. If it hurts, I’ll stop.” Rozanov had a serious face all of the sudden.

“It’ll hurt a bit, won’t it?” Shane asked quietly. 

“A little, maybe. But if it’s too much, I stop.”

He tried to breathe evenly as Rozanov slicked himself with lube and a condom; he sighed out loud when he stroked his dick and watched Shane laying ready and eager under him. At first Shane thought there was no way it was gonna fit, as he felt the tip of its head pressed against him, hot and slimy with lube. He tried not to tense up, knowing it would make it more difficult. They paused after every tiny advance, and Rozanov never stopped kissing him in the process, melting him inside. Why was he being so gentle? He didn’t know if he felt like crying over that or the pain, but he fought hard to not let any tears dwell in his eyes and only clung to Rozanov’s neck a little too hard. He wouldn’t say it, that it was hurting, cause he wouldn’t want him to think he wished to stop. And also because the shadow of pleasure was still there, asking to be attended and fulfilled. He embraced Rozanov as close as he could so he wouldn’t tell by looking at his face. He wrapped his arms around his neck and let the warmth of him be a relief and the closest thing he’d ever had to a miracle. They both groaned when it was all the way in, and Shane blinked the tears away and kissed Rozanov’s shoulder. 

“You okay?” Rozanov asked, still being held so close he couldn’t see his face.

“Yes. Give me a second.”

“It hurt too much?” He tried to pull away, but Shane held him tighter.

“Just a little, don’t go.”

They stayed like that for a moment, Shane breathing into Rozanov’s neck and then kissing, their mouths finding each other easily, messily, with a heat that ignited like a storm, as the night carried on outside and passed through the window like a silent witness. He felt he would break apart, and still he liked it. It made him feel grounded in a strange way, feeling his body like he’d never before, pain and pleasure new and unexpected and addictive. And coming from him, from Ilya, who could give him a single nod that would be treasured, but who chose to give him this. Everything. Shane would’ve never dared to ask for it, but he was getting it, so he had to be good, he had to be generous and let himself enjoy what he’d wanted for so fucking long. If it was never to happen again, it’d have to be enough. It had to be.

“Okay, I’m good. You can move now.” He stopped the kiss and untangled himself from Rozanov, a little embarrassed that he’d held him for so long. He felt him tremble on top of him, and saw him nod. He’d be waiting for Shane to say the words. He pulled away so slightly it was barely a movement, and then went back in, careful and breathing quickly. Maybe he was struggling to get into it? Shane felt his stomach sink. He’d waited too long to let him move.

“You can go… harder.” He muttered.

“I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

“You won’t.”

It wouldn’t be bad, if he did hurt him. Shane thought he’d take anything, in any way, even if it hurt a little. Rozanov pronounced the movements then, pressing his body down and spreading his knees wider. 

“Oh, fuck…” he groaned over him, looking down at Shane with an open mouth, thrusting into him deep and slow. The pain was receding and Shane was getting fully hard again; it was impossible not to under the sight of Rozanov fucking him with a red face and not hiding that he was enjoying it, that Shane was making him feel so good he had to moan and close his eyes. “You feel, o Боже, fuck–” He went down to kiss him again, and Shane received him with a moan and fingers tangling in his hair. Oh, was he starting to get it. He was barely hurting now, the pain not being relevant over the pulses of pleasure Rozanov was hitting out of him over and over. He’d never thought it would feel like this, a sweet and hot pressure building inside of him and spreading over his whole body. 

“You like this?” He heard Rozanov ask over their panting.

“Yes.”

“Let me hear you, Hollander. Please.” He went harder into him, enough to make him gasp and cry out loud. “Yes, yes, like that.” He kept that rhythm, not quite fast but deep, making him close his eyes and groan and wanting to ask for more, to say fucking thank you or something. Rozanov paused for a moment to grab his knees and readjusted himself, letting Shane’s leg spread over his shoulder and settling a hand on his chest, thumb caressing over his chest. When he thrust again into him, he hit a pleasurable spot so suddenly it felt like taking a blow. 

“Oh God.” Shane did not recognize his own voice as he said it, lifting his head a little and then letting it fall back against the pillow. Rozanov recognized what it’d been. He licked his lip and went again, and again. “There, that’s so good, Roz–, it’s– yes.” 

“You are good, look at you. You are–” He paused to pant and groan, “You are taking it so good, Hollander. Fuck, тыпрекрасен.” He reached down to wrap a hand on Shane’s aching cock, and started stroking him to the rythm of his thrusts. It was too much, it was more than Shane could handle, he was sure. 

“Am I?” He pleaded. He wanted to hear it, he wanted Rozanov to call him good and all the pretty things he could tell him. He felt high, and didn’t even register how much he was moaning. He didn’t care. He called god over and over as if he didn’t have everything he needed right there.

“You are, милый. Fuck, you are heaven, you are so good.” He marked his words with his thrusting and strokes, making Shane’s vision blur. “I’ve never felt this fucking good.”

That sent Shane over the edge. He wanted so badly to call him out loud, to scream his name and make him cum. He was pushing back however he could into Rozanov’s dick, like the desperate mess he seemed to be turned into, feeling the pleasure start to build up more and more with every movement. Rozanov kissed him, pressing his leg against his body as he sucked on his mouth, his moans mixing into Shane’s and their bodies smashing into each other. 

“I’m sorry, I– ugh, won’t last much longer.” He was so hot, biting his lip with red cheeks and a shaken pant and holding onto Shane’s leg so hard he was sure it was gonna leave a mark. He wanted him to leave a mark. He wanted Rozanov bruised into his body like an aching reminder, as though his blood flooded voluntarily under his touch because it couldn’t help it. 

“I won’t either.” He groaned the words out. Rozanov’s strokes on his dick were fast like his rhythm. “Oh, Jesus. Fuck.” He kept Shane’s waves of pleasure come one after the other so quickly they melted into the same, never stopping, having him take the pillow that was left beside them and shoving it down into his face so he could yell against it without humiliating himself. 

“Hollander, please.” Rozanov took a sharpened breath and stopped moving. Shane took the pillow away immediately, his face red in the heat and pure embarrassment that was, in a strange way, arousing. 

“Sorry. Don’t stop, please.” He pushed himself back down into his cock. Rozanov’s eyes were darkened in the dim light, and in that moment he squinted them and tilted his head backwards a little, like it was too much, like he couldn’t believe it. 

“Fuck, you kill me, oh–” He got back at it again, thrusting even harder, sending Shane so close to the edge he was battling between letting himself go or fighting to last a bit longer. He murmured russian over his gritted teeth, maybe showering Shane with the filthiest name callings or profanities, but it was so hot to hear him like that, he didn’t care. He just really wanted to know what he was saying. “I’m very close, Hollander.”

“Shit, me too.” He wanted to hold it in just to see Rozanov come first, but as he kept going and stroked him messily and fucked him deeper, Shane was moaning out loud to the room, his heart coming out of him mouth, his mind shut down completely, feeling like his entire body was the sensation of Rozanov burying himself in him, one time after the other, shocking him again and again so deliciously and so good, he couldn’t help it. He came over his stomach with a long lasting and overwhelming orgasm. 

It seemed like Rozanov had only been waiting for that, cause he thrust into Shane with force as he saw him cumming all over his abdomen and cursed, then let go of his dick to grab his knees and looked right into his eyes. He orgasmed shortly after and became the hottest fucking image he would ever see in his life, he was certain, engraving himself into Shane’s memory in a picture he’d see every time he wanted to jerk off, the low groan that escaped his mouth being the best complement to it all. Shane couldn’t believe his eyes, or his luck. 

He laid down beside him, still too agitated to say anything.

“Wow, Hollander.” Rozanoc chuckled. 

“Yeah, wow.” 

Shane stared at the sealing and wondered what time it was. Four hours or forty minutes could’ve gone by, and he wouldn’t be able to say because time had been fragmented into a strangeness that belonged out there, in the real world and the foreign night, not in there, where he was safe. His hand was close to Rozanov’s on the mattress. He wanted to hold it. The sudden distance felt like too much after being entangled just a moment ago, and he started to feel too naked and too stiff. Hayden would be looking for him by now, surely. Did Rozanov want him to go? Was he waiting for him to get up? 

“That was nice…” He wished they were under the covers.

“It was fucking amazing.” Rozanov was smiling at him, his eyes still dark and full, but softer, warmer, like a kind gesture. He smiled back.

“Yeah, that’s more like it.” 

“So, you enjoyed that?” He got on his stomach to face him down, smile never fading. Shane’s stomach felt fluttery, his cheeks hot. The uneasiness he was starting to feel could not cloud over his happiness just yet. It could last a little longer, couldn’t it? 

“I mean, obviously I did.” He rolled his eyes, playfully. Then, the air closed around his throat a little: “Thank you.”

“You thank me, Hollander? You let me have hot and perfect sex with you and you thank me?” 

“Wow. Perfect?” Shane’s blush was definitely noticeable, but he didn’t care. 

“Perfect. No notes. No improvement plan.” 

Shane laughed. He wanted the moment to drag along forever. He didn’t know how to step out of there, how to fly back to Montreal in a few hours, how to go back into the life he’d known after being changed so fundamentally. He moved a little closer to Rozanov, if only to avoid the cold he was starting to feel on his arms. 

“Why you thank me?” Rozanov asked after a while, head resting against his fist.

“I don’t know, for making it so good for me.” For giving him everything he could’ve asked for. “For being careful, I… I just felt safe, that’s all.” 

Rozanov mumbled in russian and kissed him softly. He’d thought they wouldn’t kiss anymore, so he almost sighed with relief. He held on to it trying to memorize it. It’ll have to do for forever, probably. 

“Don’t thank me.” Rozanov whispered over his lips. “Don’t. You gave me– всё.”

“What’s that?”

“You made it good for me too. You made it so good, Hollander. You understand this?”

“Okay.” He was dying. 

They got dressed. Even if he was grateful for not being so vulnerable anymore, he dreaded the ending of their time there, the uncertainty that would come after. He checked his phone and 5 text messages from Hayden appeared on his screen:

Hayden: hey man where r u??

Hayden: you completely disappeared lol

Hayden: u getting lucky?

Hayden: I think I’m heading out with this girl, man. Just making sure she gets to her hotel safely 

Hayden: Don’t wait up tho

It was 2:34 am. Shit, he had to fly early in the morning. He should really be going, but something made it impossible to get up from the bed. Rozanov was zipping his pants up, standing right in front of him. Then he looked back into Shane’s eyes, a question lingering in the space between them, one he didn’t even know or had the answer to. Maybe he was waiting for Shane to leave, to make the walk past through the door. He should–

“So, I was thinking.” Rozanov interrupted his train of thought.

“Yes?”

“If you liked this, and you say you did… If you wanted to keep trying things, we could.” He shrugged, but something in the way he was avoiding his eyes made Shane wonder if he was nervous. “When we happen to be in the same city, after games, whatever.”

“You mean doing this again?” His heart fluttered.

“You said it was hard for you to find people you wanted to try things with, no? It will be convenient.”  

Sure. It’d be convenient. Shane didn’t have to think Rozanov was offering due to any other reason; he couldn’t allow himself to think that. They’d both enjoyed it so it was just that. Convenient. 

“Yeah. It would be.” He felt giddy, despite himself, excited at the thought of not having to settle for that one night. It would be the most fortunate convenience. He’d take it in a heartbeat. “Yes. Good idea.”

The smile Rozanov flashed back at him was too close to one of pure happiness. It only lasted for a second.