Chapter Text
Shane's throat felt tight, like his body was physically restraining him from saying any more words. Ilya? Why had he said Ilya? Why had Rozanov said Shane?
He realized where he still was- what was still in his hand, and scrambled off of Rozanov's lap. Biting his lip to muffle a soft gasp at the movement, his fingers twitched as he quickly pulled up his pants, fumbling with his shirt that had been thrown haphazardly to the side. Why had he done that? Why hadn't he folded it?
His mind was a mess of questions, and none of the answers he could come up with made him feel any less nauseous.
Shane knew he had to speak. He knew he needed to leave, and he couldn't exactly do so without saying something. Rozanov probably already thought he was insane, or something much worse if his expression was anything to go by.
Shane's eyes flicked up to Ilya’s face for just a moment, not long enough to hold eye contact, but certainly long enough to see the–was that pity? It couldn't be hurt, could it?–marring his features. Shane opened his mouth, then closed it, clearing his throat, his voice coming out weaker than he'd meant it to when he finally gathered the words.
"I-I should go." He mumbled, still not quite looking at Rozanov. Shane's hands finally listened to the signals from his brain to just put the shirt on. If Shane hadn't been so panicked, he might've noticed the twitch in Rozanov's jaw when those words met his ears, but Shane only noticed the silence.
"I should- uh, I should go," he repeated, unable to say anything else now, his mind focused on only one thing: He had to leave.
He had to go before this was too real, too much. Maybe it already was, and in that case, Shane should've left earlier. He was cursing himself for it. He was especially cursing that little part of him that knew he wouldn't have traded his time with Rozanov to avoid this feeling. Even though he felt like he was going to die.
"I should..." Shane trailed off, searching around the room for something he wasn't quite sure of, his eyes darting around like they couldn't stay in one place too long.
"Go?" Rozanov offered, his brows furrowed, his lips a bit parted. If he hadn't known any better, Shane would almost think he was confused. He couldn't be confused, right? Shane was boring, and Rozanov never missed an opportunity to remind him of that. So why on earth would he be confused as to why Shane was leaving after they had sex? That's all this is, isn't it? It's just sex.
Shane's breathing quickened, and his desire to leave increased even more, lest he have a full-blown panic attack in front of fucking Rozanov. He suddenly regretted putting his shirt back on, the collar too tight around his neck, the fibers itchy against his skin. His hands pulled at the shirt collar, his voice more hoarse when he spoke again.
"I...I shouldn't stay. I... I can't. There's a-" Shane cleared his throat, hoping to sound more confident. It didn't work. "A team meeting in the morning. That I forgot about. So…" The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears. Shane would never have forgotten a team meeting, and more than likely, Rozanov would've known about it. He didn't linger too much on that second thought for his own sanity.
Rozanov raised his eyebrows, clearly disbelieving, and Shane wanted to pull out his own hair, the expression just so patronizing even out of the corner of his eye.
He hated this. Hated anyone seeing him like this, let alone his rival. Were they rivals? Had they ever been rivals? On the ice, of course, but what was this? What were they really? Shane shook his head, his vision starting to blur, his breath shaky as he tried to slow it, determined to not hyperventilate in front of Rozanov.
He didn't know what they were, but he was certain he didn't want to do that.
"You forgot team meeting?" The tone of Rozanov's voice made Shane's skin prickle. He knew Rozanov didn't believe him, but he'd figured the other man would let it go. He could find someone else to spend the rest of his night with, easily. He could call Svetlana, and they could fuck all night. That thought didn’t help Shane's situation, his breathing exercises no longer working, his breath coming in short gasps.
"This... I can't." Shane weakly gestured between them, still not meeting Rozanov's eyes. There was hurt there, though, and he saw it, even in his periphery. Ilya shook his head, his jaw tight.
"Hollander." He said, simply, and the sound of it made Shane want to cry. When had this happened? When had they gone from lewd moans of each other's names to this... this tenderness? When had that happened? When was the switch flipped? God, had there even really been a switch to flip, or were they just like this the whole time, too stubborn to admit it even to themselves?
"I just... I can't do this." Shane choked out, and he forced himself to look up at Rozanov. He regretted it. The man looked like a lost puppy, looking up at Shane with those fucking eyes, those eyes that haunted his every move. Shane could've sworn he saw tears in them, but chalked it up to his own vision being shiny.
"Hollander?" Rozanov said again, and Shane wanted to punch him, he thought, because his voice was even softer now, if that was possible. It sounded like a plea. A quiet, desperate 'stay’, that neither of them were brave enough to voice aloud. And Shane hated him for it. He knew Rozanov had no feelings for him, so why in the hell was he acting like he did? Did he want to torture Shane? If so, he was succeeding. Shane felt like he was drowning. Another train of thought started prodding at the forefront of his mind, and Shane squeezed his eyes closed.
"You like them? Girls?" Rozanov's words echoed in Shane's head, and he tried his best to push them away, he did. Because really, deep down, he knew he didn't like girls. Not like that anyway. He thought they were beautiful, of course, but not in the same way he thought Rozanov was beautiful. And he certainly couldn't linger on that for too long.
"I–I'm sorry." Shane willed his feet to move after he spoke, but his body wouldn't listen to his brain. His eyes were still squeezed shut, his jaw tense as he fought the urge to gnaw on his nails, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his sides, trying to calm himself just enough to get out of Rozanov's house. His blood was rushing in his ears. He was sure his heart was going to burst from his chest at any moment, and it would stay beating on the floor from the sheer momentum of his pulse.
Shane almost yelled when he felt a steadying hand on his lower back, not sure when Rozanov had moved from the couch. His face scrunched up, and Rozanov's hand moved away immediately. If Shane had opened his eyes, he would've seen Rozanov looking nearly as panicked as him, the blond man's eyes flicking over Shane observantly.
"Hollander, sit. You will fall." His voice was deep, grounding. Though Shane could never admit it, he felt his pulse slow just a fraction at the timbre Rozanov always used when saying “Hollander.” He managed to make his last name sound like something to be fucking worshipped, to be revered. Not in the same way that the fans did, no. Shane would give up hearing fans scream his name for life, he thinks, just to hear llya fucking Rozanov saying his name in that tone, and that was a thought he DEFINITELY couldn’t linger on. He did anyway.
He wasn’t sure when it happened, but he was sitting now, and he was vaguely aware of a presence beside him, heavy and comforting, though maintaining a safe distance. Shane was grateful for that. He didn’t think he could handle anything else touching him right now. He pulled at his shirt collar again.
"Is too much?" Rozanov's voice was gravelly, and Shane nodded helplessly instead of replying, not trusting his voice to work at the moment.
"Can I help?" This time Rozanov sounded almost hesitant, and Shane's heart fluttered. That was a tone he'd rarely heard. Rozanov was always so sure of himself, so confident and direct in his approach to everything. He nodded again, though, and didn’t flinch this time when he felt fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. He didn’t focus on how the fingers carefully avoided his skin. He couldn't focus on it. The shirt slid over his head again, in reverse, and all Shane could feel was relief for a brief moment, before the reality of his situation came crashing down on him again. He was having one of the worst panic attacks of his life, and Ilya Rozanov just took off his shirt. Ilya Rozanov was witnessing this entire disaster.
Shane took a shaky breath, and focused for a moment. Ilya Rozanov wasn’t witnessing this entire thing. He was helping Shane. He was being sensitive, and caring, and respectful. If Ilya Rozanov thought Shane was crazy, surely he'd be pushing him out the door right now, not sitting next to him patiently, speaking in that low quiet tone that seemed to be reserved for only Shane. And he couldn't help but think he would like it if that was reserved for only him. The idea didn’t make his throat close like it would have a moment ago.
"Better?" Rozanov's voice cut through Shane's thoughts, and Shane finally opened his eyes, blinking quickly before looking over at the other man, his chest still heaving, but the panic plaguing him starting to dissipate. Shane nodded affirmatively, swallowing hard, his mouth suddenly very dry. Probably from the hyperventilating, he thought. Before he could say anything, a glass of water was being pressed into his hand, and blue eyes were looking at him expectantly.
"Drink." Shane wondered if he had said his throat was dry, or if Rozanov could just read him that well. He wasn’t really sure. He brought the glass to his lips with a shaky hand, the water cooling against his tongue. Shane's back hit the couch, his head falling back to look at the ceiling. Rozanov took the empty glass.
"If you still want to leave, you can," Rozanov started, and Shane felt a pang go through his chest that he ignored. "But I do not want you to. And I would not let you drive like that. Not safe." His voice was small when he spoke, and Shane briefly wondered if he sounded like that when he was younger. Before all the pressure, before he was in the public eye. Before he was always so charismatic and charming. Shane had only ever heard that tone when they were alone together, and the thought made him wonder if maybe Rozanov was comfortable with him, but he dismissed that idea as fiction.
Shane turned his head, greeted with beautiful blue eyes and a small frown just inches away from his own pursed lips. Shane wanted to kiss the frown off of his face. He hated that he put it there. He shook his head slightly, his voice quiet.
"I don't want to leave." Shane swallowed hard, his chest heaving with a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
Rozanov's expression twisted again, this time in confusion, and he sat up, looking down at Shane with raised eyebrows.
"Sorry? For having panic attack? Hollander." Rozanov shook his head, his jaw clenched. "I am sorry. That you feel sorry." He rubbed his hand over his face, his eyebrows scrunching in frustration. "That is not right. I cannot think how to say in English. But I am not... I want you to... komfortnyy. Comfortable, yes. I want you to be comfortable around me."
Shane just watched him. He loved it when Ilya spoke Russian. It may be one of the most beautiful things he'd ever heard. Definitely in the top three, and the other two were also Ilya. He let the other man's words resonate in his ears, that voice that could convince him to do just about anything if he asked nicely. Or... not so nicely. He wasn't sure when he'd moved his hand, but suddenly he was cupping Ilya's jaw with his palm, and beautiful blue eyes were looking right at him. Shane could stay here forever.
"You are wonderful," Shane murmured, and he almost regretted it, until he noticed the pink coloring Ilya's cheeks. "I am comfortable with you, I just... You feel this too, right? It's not just me?" His voice shook on the last couple words, his jaw clenching as he waited for a response. He felt Ilya's jaw tighten under his hand, and he moved his thumb, brushing the mole he's kissed so many times.
"I like you, Shane Hollander. I would not have kissed you with tuna breath if I did not like you." Ilya sighed dramatically and raised his eyebrows like it should be obvious, and Shane's eyes widened. "I get us commercial together. I follow you to showers. I give you my number. I bring you to home." Ilya gestured around wildly, and Shane had to stifle a laugh, his fingers tightening against Ilya's jaw. "I keep your ginger ale, I make you tuna melt. I kiss you, even with your stinky tuna melt breath! And you think I do not like you." Ilya looked so baffled that Shane couldn't help but smile. He wanted to kiss him, but he held himself back. He raised his eyebrows before replying, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
"You had stinky tuna melt breath too, and I still kissed you." Shane barely had time to fully grin before llya was on top of him, his thighs pinning Shane's legs between them, the both of them laughing, Ilya nudging Shane's nose with his as their laughter died down, the Russian's voice low when he spoke again.
"And that is because you like me, da?" The question came out teasing, but Shane knew him better than that. He knew he needed to hear him say it in those words. Needed to know he's not alone in this. And Shane would do anything for him, he really would. So simply telling the truth is an easy task in this moment, with cerulean-sea irises piercing into his soul.
"Yes, I like you, Ilya Rozanov." Shane said it slowly. He didn't want any of his words to shake, didn't want to sound unsure. He wanted Ilya to believe him. More than anything he wanted that. And Ilya did, if the kiss he gave Shane said anything. It wasn't hungry, not like it used to be, and Shane found himself wondering when that changed too. Maybe after the first time, he thought.
But he couldn't linger on the thought for too long, because Ilya was speaking again, that beautiful, beautiful Russian, and it was being spoken against Shane's lips, and his brain was short circuiting.
"Ya lyublyu tebya, moyo solnyshko." Shane melted. He didn't understand much Russian, but he knew the tone of llya's voice, and hearing that directed at him was enough. He asked anyway, his voice barely above a whisper, his nose brushing Ilya's.
"What does that mean?" Ilya just smiled, pressing another soft kiss to Shane's lips, his hands cupping Shane's cheeks.
"In time, moya lyubov," Ilya murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Shane's forehead as he continued, "You are so beautiful." Shane's cheeks flushed, and he shook his head, his brows furrowed when he replied,
"I am not beautiful."
Ilya laughed, poking the tip of Shane's nose, nodding solemnly, a mock serious expression on his face.
"Ah, you prefer I call you pretty, I see," Ilya teased. Shane rolled his eyes affectionately, smiling up at the other man, the contentment obvious in his voice despite his next words.
"Fuck you."
Ilya shook his head, tutting softly.
"I think you mean to say 'fuck me.’ That would be more accurate, would it not?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and their laughter filled the room, Shane pressed soft kisses across llya's face. Ilya stilled for a moment, pulling back just enough to meet Shane's eyes. "You will stay?" He asked in that unsure tone again, and suddenly Shane was struck by the realization that he never wanted that uncertainty to be directed towards him. He wanted to be a constant in Ilya's life, even if they couldn't be together like a normal couple, even if they'd only see each other a few times a year, he needed to be the thing that Ilya knew he could rely on.
Shane wanted to be predictable in the chaos of Ilya's life, he wanted to be boring. He wanted Ilya to know that he was always there, that even if they were continents apart, he would always answer the phone, just to say hello. Even if his teammates teased him about “Boston Lily,” Shane would be there, and he would leave them all behind to spend just a moment in Ilya's arms. He couldn't find the words, and he was pretty sure he'd sound crazy if he tried, so he pulled Ilya onto his chest, his fingers carding through blond curls, and settled for a simple:
"Yeah, I’ll stay."
And that had to be enough.