Archive of Our Own

Shane is sure his first thought post-breakup and ensuing coming out is probably supposed to be something more profound than: I leave for Boston in two days.

But, here he is, waving goodbye to Rose outside of a dimly-lit restaurant, and it’s all his brain can seem to come up with.

I leave for Boston in two days. I play against Ilya in three.

Going to Boston so soon after this should be a good thing, a second chance. In actuality, all it serves to do is make Shane wish he were braver.

If Shane were brave, he would text Ilya as soon as he lands. He would break the ice and lay everything out on the table. If he were brave, he’d just show up on Ilya’s doorstep. He already knows exactly what he wants to ask:

What do you want from me? I can’t figure it out, and I’m really sick of trying. Do you want anything at all, or did I ruin it? Was there ever anything to ruin in the first place?

In the end, instead of doing any of that, he spends his time drafting and deleting paragraphs in his notes app that he never sends, and Montreal loses the game.

Shane knows it’s at least not entirely his fault, but it doesn’t help his focus when Ilya won’t make eye contact with him even once. Gaze always settled somewhere just to the left of where it should be. A poor imitation of his usual self put on for the cameras.

The differences are only noticeable if you know what to look for and after so many years Shane knows what to look for. He knows Rozanov, knows Ilya. He’s not sure when that happened. He’s not sure when he started thinking of those things as separate entities in his mind, either, Rozanov and Ilya.

He sits in the locker room after the game. Goes through the usual routine of taking off his gear and wills his phone to light up with a text he knows is never coming.

It’s stupid to hope. Ilya doesn’t even know he and Rose broke up, though he’s not sure if knowing would make much of a difference to him.

The only person who does know is Hayden, and Shane had only caved and told him in the first place because he wouldn’t stop hinting about leaving the hotel room last night so Shane could spend some quality time with Rose. All raised eyebrows and innuendo that had made Shane vaguely nauseous.

Now, though, he’d almost prefer the nausea over the looks Hayden keeps shooting him, what feels like every five seconds, complete with pitying large eyes and a concerned set to his mouth.

Shane opens his text thread with Lily, which hasn’t been used in months. Stares blankly at the last messages, Ilya’s address, and then straight after that:

Shane had never bothered replying to that. Ilya had known he was coming over as fast as he could anyway, and he hadn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction.

Now, he looks at the blank text box and the blinking cursor and wills himself to be brave enough to text. Takes a deep breath, that’s immediately rushed out of him when Comeau slaps him on the back as he passes by, throwing out,

“We’ll get ‘em next time, Hollzy. Don’t sweat it.”

Shane makes some kind of noise of acknowledgement, jerking quickly to lock his phone screen, spends the whole bus ride back to the hotel with it burning a hole in his pocket, antsy and fidgeting.

Hayden notices, squeezes a warm hand on his shoulder, and leans over,

“Come out with us tonight.”

Shane lets out a dry laugh,

“Dude.”

This is a dance they regularly do.

A lot of the guys like to go out after games; if it’s a win, it’s to celebrate, and if it’s a loss like tonight, to mitigate the sting. Shane rarely joins, but they still invite him even though they know he won’t come nine times out of ten. The idea has never appealed to him, especially not after a loss and especially not in Boston. It just feels like a disaster waiting to happen.

Hayden pushes this time around, only as much as he’ll ever allow himself to push, which admittedly isn’t a lot. He knows Shane, knows how he can get in crowds sometimes, and the way team outings feel more like a chore than anything close to letting loose, so eventually, Shane knows he’ll drop it.

He understands what Hayden’s trying to do. If his breakup with Rose felt anything like an actual breakup, it would probably be a good method of distraction. But it wasn’t a breakup, at least not in the true sense. Not in the same way it had felt to leave Ilya’s house, wearing his clothes with his heart racing out of his chest.

Shane lets Hayden talk at him for a few minutes before pulling out his usual reply,

“I’m good, man. Just gonna head to bed early.”

He gets another long look that he pretends not to notice, crosses his arms against his chest, and closes his eyes for the rest of the ride.

_______________

“C’mon, think of the team morale. It would be nice for the rookies to see their captain join in on the fun every once in a while.”

This is only one of the many other tactics Hayden has tried since they’ve gotten back to the hotel.

Shane gives him an unimpressed stare, remaining a taut line of tension up against the headboard of his bed, and finally, Hayden relents with a heavy sigh,

“Okay,” He raises his hands in mock surrender, “I’ll drop it. We can stay in. Watch a movie or something.”

“I’m seriously fine. I told you me and Rose are going to stay friends. You should still go out.”

Hayden shoots him, maybe the most pitying look of the whole night at that.

“Sure, bud.”

He gathers all his shower supplies and makes his way to the restroom, tossing Shane the TV remote as he passes.

“Pick a movie, I’ll be out in a few.”

Shane rolls his eyes but takes the remote. Hayden means well; he’s trying to be a good friend. Shane can’t fault him for that.

He spends a few minutes looking through the options before he gives up. He’ll let Hayden choose. Shane doesn’t know anything about movies. The only time he ever watches them is during long plane rides, and even then, his mind is usually stuck somewhere else, usually, the game they’re going to play or the one they just finished playing.

He picks his phone up off the side table and scrolls through his messages: too many to count from the team group chat, a couple from his mom about sponsorship deals he’s working on, and notably, nothing from Lily.

Reluctantly, he clicks on Instagram next, hoping he’ll be able to find something to turn his brain off until Hayden comes back.

Usually, Shane tries to avoid social media as much as possible. His entire account is just ads from his various sponsorships, interspersed with a few game photos taken by the team photographer. Shane Hollander™—the brand he’s been marketed into rather than anything close to Shane himself.

When he can’t find anything that entertains him, he means to close the app, but like some sort of cruel divine intervention, his thumb takes him to the explore page instead. Eyes immediately drawn to the top right corner of the screen. A small box of a photo that makes Shane’s stomach sink.

He doesn’t intend to click on it. It’s not a conscious choice, more a reflex than anything else, and by the time he realizes what he’s doing, it’s too late— he’s staring at a photo of Rozanov. More specifically, a photo of Rozanov walking out of what the caption confirms to be a club in Boston the night prior. Curls tousled, cheeks red from the chill of the night, a gorgeous girl hanging off his arm.

It’s a bit like a car crash, the way Shane can’t seem to look away from it. He swipes and finds more of the same photos, different angles. Rozanov’s hand on the girl’s waist, helping her into the car, trying to shield her from the camera flashes.

Shane scans his eyes over the screen and winces at the account username: llyaRozanovDaily. He absolutely does not want to self-reflect on why he’s getting recommended a Rozanov fan account in the first place.

He rationalizes that the small number of people he follows are hockey players and chalks it up to an algorithmic coincidence rather than a byproduct of the multiple times over the years that he’s put Ilya’s username in the search bar.

They don’t follow each other, of course, but in Shane’s weakest moments, he’s maybe scrolled through his account a couple of times, sue him.

He’s regretting it now, staring down at these photos and knowing Rozanov had surely taken this girl home last night, and— and — Shane won’t follow that thought any further. He has to physically shake his head and squeeze his eyes shut the way he does with all of the intrusive things he doesn’t want to think about.

Who cares if Ilya slept with her or not? It’s none of Shane’s business. It never has been, and it especially isn’t now.

They definitely fucked. His brain supplies unhelpfully, Who would leave a club with Ilya Rozanov and not want to fuck him?

It’s a stupid thing to be bothered about. It’s not as if Ilya has spent any of his free time sulking over photos of Shane and Rose; just the mental image of that is so ridiculous that Shane almost wants to laugh. This isn’t the first time he’s come across photos of Ilya like this, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Shane’s sure he’ll be out tonight, too, especially after his team’s win. This or any other beautiful girl at his side that he’ll kiss and fuck and take apart with his mouth or his hands or his cock. If the girl is lucky, it’ll be some combination of all three.

His stomach swoops at the thought, a jealousy curling tight around his ribs and squeezing. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough that he sees spots and pretends the sting that he can feel building in his sinuses is completely unrelated.

He lets out a curse under his breath, just as Hayden emerges from the restroom, a billowing cloud of steam following behind him.

“I want to go out.”

Shane doesn’t know he’s going to say it until it’s already out there, Hayden’s face lighting up as soon as he registers the words.

“Seriously? Fuck yeah, man! I’ll text the guys.

_______________

They’ve been at the bar for less than an hour, and Shane’s already regretting his decision to come.

He’s nursing a lukewarm beer, his second of the night and the most he’s drank in one sitting in ages, while he tries to pay attention to the conversation happening in front of him. It’s something about Drapeau’s new girlfriend. He thinks her name starts with an M. Madison? Melanie?

“Hollander knows how that goes better than anyone, though, right?”

Shane jolts at the sound of his name, lost on the context.

“Uh— sorry. What was that?”

“Long distance.” Drapeau repeats, “Can’t be easy with how you and your girl’s schedules are. I shouldn’t complain, at least Mia can usually come to most of the home games.”

Mia. He knew it was an M name.

JJ lets out a chortle from the other end of the booth, already well on his way to drunk by the time Shane and Hayden showed up.

“Ah, yes, Hollander. Please tell us how hard your life is fucking the insanely hot movie star.”

A few of the other guys let out some jeers at that, and Shane freezes. Hayden catches his eye for a second before gesturing loudly and obnoxiously toward whatever’s playing on the TV above the bar.

“Man, he is such a smug asshole.”

It works at shifting the conversation, everyone turning their focus to what Shane now realizes is a clip of the post-game interview Rozanov must have done earlier tonight.

“Oh fuck that guy.” Patrick, one of the rookies, sneers, “My side is still killing me from that check earlier.”

“Fuckin’ dirty player.” JJ hisses, and along with that come murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group.

Shane finds himself bristling a bit at that comment in particular. Sure, Rozanov is annoying. He gets under guys’ skin, and he knows exactly what to say to provoke someone. He starts and gets into fights more often than he doesn’t, but he’s not a dirty player.

Shane almost says as much before he reminds himself where he is, who he’s with, and who he is. Has to take a deep pull of his beer just to keep his mouth shut.

He’s not sure why it’s bothering him so much. It’s far from the first time the guys have had bad things to say about Rozanov, and if anything, Shane usually agrees with them. But it just— it feels different tonight. It’s the dichotomy, he thinks. The two entities in his mind. The Rozanov, they all think they know, and the Ilya Shane thought he knew that he maybe never really knew at all.

He feels flayed open, scraped raw. Nodding along to the chirps, like he doesn’t know exactly what Ilya’s spit tastes like or the feeling of his tongue against the back of his teeth. Like he hasn’t heard the sounds he makes when Shane looks up at him with his cock in his mouth or felt the grip of his fingertips on Shane’s waist when— anyway. He should stop thinking about that; it doesn’t matter anymore.

He chugs the rest of his beer, tries to signal to Hayden with his eyes that he’s thinking of leaving.

Hayden picks up on it, but it has the exact opposite effect of what he’d hoped for when he claps his hands together loudly and exclaims,

“Okay, enough about Rozanov. Where to next?”

Shane has to bite back the urge to groan aloud as Hayden throws his arm around him.

“C’mon, Shane,” he jostles him playfully, “You didn’t think we were only going to one bar, did you?”

Actually, yes. Shane had thought that. The promise that it would be over soon was one of the only things keeping him from getting up and leaving in the first place.

Comeau laughs along from the other side of him, ruffling Shane’s hair annoyingly,

“Yeah, Hollzy. We gotta make the most of it! Who knows, the next time we’ll be able to get you out with us.”

“There’s that club near here that we went to last time.” Mitty volunteers, “Decent drinks. Hot girls.”

Hayden raises a hand, clearly buzzed when he asserts,

“I, for one, am not picking a place based on the girls.”

Where some guys get drunk and choose to forget about their wives or girlfriends, Hayden is the exact opposite. It’s like his Jackie-meter is turned up by a thousand.

Mitty snorts,

“Speak for yourself, Pike. Not all of us are married with 16 children.”

Hayden scoffs, mock offended,

“I literally was speaking for myself.”

Bosko, a twenty-two-year-old rookie with a baby face, who looks closer to twelve, cuts in then, incredulous,

“What other reason would anyone have to go to a club besides the girls?”

Shane takes his opening, looking straight at Hayden as he says,

“We can just go back to the hotel, if you want, man, I’m getting tired anyway.”

The chorus of boos he gets at that is enough to have his ears turning pink.

“No, we’re going.” Hayden nods decisively, “Someone needs to make sure you all get home alive.”

He levels Shane with his Dad look, the one he gets when Ruby steals a toy away from Jade and lies about it. Very obviously waiting him out, and Shane’s never claimed to be immune to peer pressure.

“Oh, my god. Fine.” He leans in closer to hiss out, “An hour tops, dude. I’m serious.”

_______________

If Shane thought he hated bars, it’s only because he blocked out the memory of what being inside a club feels like— a thousand times worse. He hasn’t been in one since the night with Rose, when he saw Ilya dancing with that girl, and if he had a choice, he’d probably never step foot in one again.

The music is way too loud, and they’re all cramped together close enough that the edge of Hayden’s elbow keeps digging into Shane’s side every time he shifts. He can feel a bead of sweat getting ready to drip down the small of his back, his shirt sticking to the skin uncomfortably, and the seam of his sock is askew, twisted just slightly in his shoe. Absurdly, the feeling of it is kind of making Shane frustrated enough to want to cry.

It used to be a common occurrence: him at five years old, getting ready for school, his mom tying his sneakers, and Shane having a fit over the feeling the sock made against his foot. He remembers the way she would have to talk him down, take off the shoe, readjust, tie, and re-tie enough that by the time Shane was satisfied, he’d made them late for school drop off.

He hasn’t thought about that in years, but he thinks about it now. Feels out of place and uncomfortable and more than a little heartsick. He tells himself it’s only because of the memory of that night in the club with Ilya. A leftover hurt that hasn’t scabbed over yet. Nothing else.

JJ comes back to the group with a tray of tequila shots and a girl hanging off his arm, and Shane grabs one immediately, throwing it back before he can talk himself out of it. He just wants it all to stop. The way everything in here is making him want to peel his skin off, the constant loop of the game they lost that’s played in his head since he stepped off the ice.

Tired of the ache in his chest. Tired of it feeling like he’s pressing on a bruise every time his mind drifts to Ilya, purple and marled and deep, no matter how quickly he tries to redirect his mind somewhere else.

The guys all make a big show of whooping obnoxiously as he takes it, slapping him on the back. Hayden has a wary grin on his face, like he’s not sure it’s allowed, leans over,

“You good, man?”

It’s a fair question. Certainly warranted considering Shane can count the number of times he’s taken a shot on one hand, but he just nods. Tries to project a calm that he’s nowhere close to feeling.

_______________

An undetermined amount of time later, Hayden’s question feels simultaneously both harder and easier to answer. Shane is good. Shane is really good. Shane is also really drunk, which he knows, sober-him would take to mean that he’s edging a lot closer to bad.

He’s the most drunk he’s ever been in his life, probably. Definitely. Though it’s not as if that’s a high bar to clear. He’s never gone through a party phase. His life has been regimented from an early age— practices, diets, sleep schedules. When he does allow himself a drink, it’s never more than two with a water in between.

The closest he’s come to how he feels now was the night of the rookie of the year awards years ago, on a rooftop with Ily— with Rozanov. But even that is nothing compared to this.

Right now, Shane is wasted.

On top of the two beers he already had at the first bar, his original tequila shot turned into subsequent shots with the guys. Everyone kept coming up with reasons they needed to take one. Mostly just because Shane never does this, a special occasion of sorts, and it’s true that this probably won’t happen again anytime soon, even through his tipsy haze, Shane could recognize that, so he took the shots.

Now, he’s sipping on some sort of fruity cocktail, just drunk enough that he hadn’t felt too embarrassed to order it. He knows it has rum. It feels like one of those things you’d order on a beach vacation that would come with an umbrella straw. Shane loves it.

“Hey, bud. How about we switch?”

Shane’s brows pull together as Hayden takes his glass from him and trades it with whatever he’s holding.

“What’s this?”

Hayden bites back a laugh,

“Water. I think you could use a few sips.”

Shane screws his face up,

“I don’t like drinking out of other people’s cups.”

He pushes it toward him again,

“I know. I didn’t drink out of it.” Hayden puts on a cheesy imitation of a serious voice. “Scouts honor.”

Shane levels him with a considering look before acquiescing and taking it.

“Drink like half of that, and I’ll give you yours back.”

Shane snorts,

“You were the one who wanted me to go out, remember?” He rolls his eyes fondly, “You’re such a dad.”

Hayden huffs out a laugh,

“Trust me, no one’s happier than me that you’re letting yourself relax for once. Just don’t want you to die tomorrow.”

Shane takes slow sips as he surveys the room, jumping at the feeling of a pair of hands squeezing his shoulders, as someone passes by, a good portion of the water sloshing out the sides of the small cup with his jolt.

“Seriously?” Hayden glares, “I just got him to start drinking that.”

JJ lets out an unattractive guffaw, throwing a loose arm around Shane’s shoulders and playfully shoving Hayden in the process,

“Relax, Pike. Let our Capitaine have fun.” He snorts again, “You sure you and Hollander didn’t swap bodies tonight?”

Before Hayden gets a chance to answer, Comeau follows close behind with one of the rookies to rejoin the group, loudly declaring,

“You’re actually a really fun time when you let yourself unclench for once, dude.”

Shane knows he should probably be a little offended by the backhanded compliment, but right now he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I’m always fun.” He nods his head in Hayden's direction, “Tell ‘em Hayd. I’m fun.”

This sets them all off into laughter that Shane hadn’t meant to cause, but he supposes it kind of proves his point. They find him funny at least.

“Jesus, dude. You’re so wasted.”

He has the fleeting thought that he’s never been this drunk in front of his team before and pushes away the surge of panic that crawls up his throat. Distantly, he knows there’s a reason he never lets himself do this, a fear. Loose lips, lowered inhibitions, a slight chance that he’ll slip up and say a truth better left guarded.

The fear isn’t new. When Shane was fourteen, he put off getting his wisdom teeth out for months. Did everything he could. Claimed it would interfere with hockey, which worked for a while until it didn’t.

He was terrified he’d spill his guts out to his parents under anesthesia. Say something much too revealing, like: Nick Wilson chews on the end of his pencil during English Lit, and it makes me think about his mouth all day.

Shane knew they were going to take a video. Prime blackmail material, his Dad joked. He watched it back afterward with his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear the audio. Waiting for the moment he opened his mouth and ruined everything, but it never came.

The anxiety creeping back in has him grabbing his glass from Hayden before he can stop him, chugging it way too fast, the sugary-saccharine taste sticking to the back of his teeth.

“Think ‘m gonna get another.”

Shane points his thumb back in the direction of the bar, and Hayden reaches out to steady him. He hadn’t even realized he was wobbling.

“I don’t know if that’s a—“

“We’ve got you, man. We were just talking about getting another round anyway.”

“Guys—“ Hayden tries, but it’s too late. They’re already making their way toward the bar.

The look on Hayden’s face right now makes a juvenile giggle slip out before Shane can stop it, and he gets a half-serious death glare in return.

“You’re laughing now, but tomorrow’s going to be a totally different story.”

Shane can’t wipe the grin off his face. His head is swimming, he’s light in a way he can’t remember feeling in years. Shrugs,

“S’not tomorrow yet.”

Hayden’s not really upset with him, just concerned, which is made clear in the next second when he leans in close to whisper,

“Look, I know you’re upset about Rose, but it’ll pass. If this will help you feel better, then I’m glad. I’ll stop giving you shit, okay?”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut like he’s thinking hard, shaking his head,

“No, s’not Rose.”

“What?”

“m’upset about Lily.”

Hayden looks baffled,

“Boston Lily? I didn’t even know you guys still talked.”

Shane shakes his head again, fast enough this time that it makes him feel a little dizzy.

“We don’t. Not—with Rose we didn’t, but I need to talk to her. Right now.”

Now that he’s thought about it, it feels urgent. He pats his jeans, confused until he remembers he’s wearing a jacket, pulling his phone out of the pocket.

“Shane, you’re really drunk right now.”

Shane rolls his eyes. Hayden doesn’t get it.

“She won’t care. He—She’ll think it’s funny.”

Hayden sighs, a deep, full-bodied thing as Shane continues,

“You can have my drink, okay? ‘M gonna go get some air.”

“Are you sure?”

Shane’s the most sure he’s been all night and if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s putting up a front, so he squares his shoulders, tries to act the way he thinks he would if he were sober— nodding decisively, making a vague gesture in the direction of the side door, raising his phone in the air and squeezing Hayden’s shoulder as he passes.

“I’ll find you later. Won’t be long.”

If Shane had any sense of self-preservation left in this state, he might reconsider the optics of doing this now—in the back alley of a busy club in Boston the night of a game—but he’s drunk, and he misses Ilya with an unearned ache in his chest.

They’re not like this. They don’t do this. They don’t call each other, and they’re certainly not in a relationship. Shane shouldn’t feel this raw. As it stands, though, the more drunk he gets, the more his mind has become a constant sick loop of Ilya Ilya Ilya. It would be pathetic if Shane were sober enough to be self-aware about the whole thing.

The cold bites at his skin the second he gets outside, and he pulls his jacket tighter in response as he surveys the area. A couple is making out far enough away that he knows they won’t be able to hear anything, and an older guy is smoking around the corner. The coast is clear enough.

He stays near the door so he won’t miss anyone who might come outside, leans against the brick wall, and tells himself he’ll only try once. If Ilya doesn’t pick up, he’ll leave it alone. He tries to tamp down the butterflies in his stomach when he navigates to Lily’s contact; he tries not to let himself hope.

Shane presses a hand to his chest as he listens to the dial tone. His heart kicks up so suddenly, he’s halfway afraid it’ll find a way to jump out and across the city to find its way to Ilya. It takes a good amount of rings, long enough that he almost talks himself out of it altogether and hangs up.

Then, suddenly, there’s a loud burst of noise as the call is answered. A distant muffled muttering of Russian, like Ilya’s speaking to someone off to the side, away from the phone. The sound of it makes Shane’s breath catch in his throat.

Everything tapers off, the line quiets like he’s left wherever the loud noise was coming from, and then:

“Hollander?”

Shane is too drunk for this. He didn’t think far enough ahead for this part. Can’t gauge the tone of Ilya’s voice when his head feels so fuzzy.

He clears his throat awkwardly.

“Hello.”

He sounds like a telemarketer. Hello, sir, are you available to talk about our insurance options today? He tries again,

“Hi Lilya.” He mistakenly combines Ilya’s real name with his moniker in his drunkenness and lets out an unattractive snort. “I mean Lily. Hi Lily.”

He at least has enough wits left to know not to say Ilya’s name out loud.

“Hollander. What is—“

“Y’know we’ve never talked on the phone before?”

It’s the first thing that pops into his head, and with his filter completely gone, he just says it—no lead-up.

There’s silence on the other end for a few seconds. Long enough that Shane takes the phone away from his ear to check that the call is still connected.

“You are drunk.”

Shane shouldn’t be surprised that Ilya can already tell, but he is. He tries to play it off,

“No, m’not. That’s—no, I’m not.”

It’s a futile attempt. All his words come out too slow, like he’s wading through molasses just to find the right ones to use.

Ilya sucks air through his teeth,

“Okay. If you are not drunk, why call?”

“Why would I call if I were drunk? That makes no sense.”

Rozanov grumbles something under his breath that Shane can’t catch and then:

“I am not the drunk one. You tell me.”

“You’re not? You should be. Aren’t you celebrating?”

“Khvatit uzhe,Enough already, Hollander. Why have you called?”

Shane’s not sure what half of that sentence means in English, but he can at least read the tone of it now.

“You’re mad at me.”

Rozanov lets out a long breath,

“This is why you call me? Because you think I am mad?”

He doesn’t just think he’s mad. Based on the game tonight, it was like Shane didn’t even exist as far as Ilya was concerned, though it’s not as if Shane doesn’t deserve it. His stomach twists.

He’s too in his head and forgets to reply before Ilya talks again. His voice coming out cool and unaffected.

“If that’s all, is fine. I am not mad. Problem solved. Go drink some water, hm?”

Shane gives a disbelieving scoff,

“Real convincing.”

Ilya softens a bit as he questions,

“Where are you?”

“Outside.”

Shane’s tone is clipped. He’s being difficult on purpose. Doesn’t want to stop himself.

Rozanov hums,

“Very descriptive. Where? Top of a big building?” He speaks his next words slowly and knowingly, “I don’t think losing a game is worth jumping over.”

The callback to that night all those years ago, the fact that Ilya even remembers it in the first place, makes something tug in Shane’s chest.

“I don’t care about the game right now.”

It’s only as he’s saying it that he realizes it’s true, which objectively doesn’t make much sense. Shane always cares about the game. He cared about the game earlier tonight. Sometimes it feels like the only thing he’s capable of caring about at all.

Ilya says as much:

“Now I know for sure you are drunk.“ He makes a considering sound, “Or else replaced by alien. Could be either.”

It’s not even that funny, but Shane is drunk, and he’s missed this more than he’s let himself think about, so he can’t help the giggle that slips past.

Ilya’s tone firms back up,

“I am serious, though, you are safe, yes? Drunk at hotel, sitting on balcony, crying over Montreal’s terrible loss?”

It makes sense that Ilya’s mind would go there first. Shane said he was outside. Based on past behavior, the hotel balcony is probably the only place Ilya would expect him to be. He feels a little giddy that he gets to shock him for once.

“I’m at a club, actually.” He has to bite back a self-satisfied smile as he speaks, “With the team. Safe.”

It's quiet for a few moments before Ilya deadpans,

“Very funny joke.”

Redundantly, Shane adds,

“Some of the guys wanted to go out.”

Like that explains everything. Like Shane has ever gone out just because the other guys on the team wanted to.

Ilya’s voice is tight,

“You are outside of a club, alone, and drunk.”

Shane thinks he meant for that to come out as a question, but it doesn’t land that way at all.

When Shane doesn’t reply, he follows up,

“You are rooming with Pike?”

Shane nods, not registering that Ilya can’t see him until he questions again.

“Hollander. Who is your roommate for Boston?”

“Yeah, s’Hayd. Why?”

“Where is he? Why are you alone?”

Shane rolls his eyes more than a little dramatically. A wasted effort when no one can see him.

“I’m not alone. The other guys are—“ He makes a loose hand gesture in the air, “Dunno. Inside somewhere.”

Ilya lets out a noise of frustration, but Shane cuts him off before he can say anything else.

“S’fine. They know where I am. Gave me space to call Boston Lily cause I—”

“Your team knows about Lily?” and then, before Shane can respond, incredulously, Ilya adds, “They think you cheat on Rose Landry?”

“No. Hayden knows about Lily.” Just in case he’s worried, Shane tacks on, “Not that it’s you, just that I used to text some girl from Boston named Lily a lot.”

He tries not to wince at his own wording, used to.

Shane knows he should clarify further, something along the lines of:

He doesn’t think I’m cheating because I don’t have a girlfriend to cheat on anymore. I’m gay and probably in love with you. Isn’t that hilarious?

He doesn’t say any of that. Just let the words hang in the air. When Ilya doesn’t reply, he counters,

“Where are you?” Curious, greedy for any bit of him he can get, but Ilya doesn’t respond to that either.

Shane scuffs the toe of his shoe against the pavement and tries to pretend he can’t feel the prick of oncoming tears. He feels suddenly incredibly stupid. The longer the silence goes on, the more self-loathing roots itself in his chest.

Why did he think this was a good idea? He’s being so obnoxious, calling Rozanov out of the blue when he’s clearly busy at some bar or a party. Treating him like things are normal, as if Shane didn’t completely walk out on him and get a girlfriend less than a week later. As if they’ve ever done this in the first place, even when they were talking and fucking.

“Never mind, sorry.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “This was a bad idea. I’m gonna—“

“What is the name of club?”

Ilya’s voice is rough, commanding, in that way it gets when he says things like, Get on your knees, and something swoops low and hot in Shane’s gut at the sound of it after so long.

“What?”

He sniffs,

“I am picking you up. Send your location.”

Shane’s heart stops and starts in the span of three seconds. Stupidly repeating,

“What?”

“Your team is full of idiots. You will die of alcohol poison if you stay.”

Shane doesn’t have a leg to stand on, but he still tries,

“You don’t even know how much I’ve had tonight.”

Ilya lets out a dry chuckle,

“Is not hard to tell. You are very obvious.”

“How would you even get here? Drinking and driving is—“

“Bozhe moy.Oh my God.” Ilya groans, “I told you I am not drunk. Had one drink over an hour ago. I would not ever drive you if I were.”

Shane takes a second to consider it, though it’s not as if it’s really a question. This is the exact best-case scenario drunk calling Rozanov could’ve produced.

He drops a pin to his location and gnaws on his lip apprehensively.

“I need to tell Hayden.”

“So tell Hayden. You say he knows Lily, will be fine. I will leave now.”

Shane hears him moving around, the sound of a door clicking open, and the loud noise he heard earlier filtering back in.

“What if someone recognizes us?”

“It is fine. I will wait for you down the street. Just get in like I am Uber.”

Before Shane can say anything to that, a woman’s voice interrupts in the background. He has no idea what she’s saying; it’s too loud, but he recognizes the lilt of her words, familiar, Russian.

She must be standing close to Ilya if Shane can even hear her. It’s probably the same person he was talking to in Russian when he first picked up the call.

Shane’s chest feels tight with an irrational jealousy that he has no right to, only intensified when Ilya cuts in,

“I need to go. See you.”

And then the line goes dead.

Shane shakes out his limbs, all restless, anxious energy only worsened by the numb feeling in his hands from the cold. He takes a deep, steadying breath and goes back inside. The temperature change is immediate, body heat and bright lights of the club making Shane’s cheeks flush with residual warmth.

It takes him longer than he wants to find Hayden again, only successful when he eventually spots Mitty in the crowd, currently sticking his tongue down a tiny brunette’s throat. Shane thanks everything in the universe when he doesn’t have to interrupt to ask about Hayden’s whereabouts, spotting him a few feet away with his back turned.

“Finally.” Hayden squeezes his shoulder when Shane comes into view, “I was about to send out a search party.”

An empty threat, considering he knows exactly where Shane was. He lets out a weak laugh,

“Yeah. Uh— no search party needed. I’m actually going to head out.”

Hayden shoots him a knowing look that only worsens the flush on his cheeks, mouthing out the shape of “Lily?” while he waggles his eyebrows.

Shane gives a tight, imperceptible nod.

“Let me walk you out.”

“ No.” Shane panics, “She’s—I told you she’s private.”

Hayden raises his hands in surrender,

“Fine, keep your mystery girl to yourself. But you need to text me when you’re with her so I know you made it alive.”

Shane rolls his eyes fondly,

“I’m telling Jackie you’re not allowed to watch those true crime docs with her anymore.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket as he speaks, cursing under his breath when he notices how much time has passed and the missed texts from five minutes ago.

Seconds later, his phone buzzes with a new text.

He wouldn’t do that, Shane knows he wouldn’t, but the idea of it makes him feel a little lightheaded. Imagining Rozanov making his way in here to claim Shane, squeezing a hand against the back of his neck and guiding him out, like he belongs to him. He has to shake his head quickly to rid himself of the fantasy.

“I need to go, I’ll text you.”

Hayden claps him on the back,

“Be safe.” And then lower, teasingly, “Say hi to Boston Lily from me.”

Shane rolls his eyes, calling over his shoulder as he walks away,

“I am not doing that.”

He rushes toward the front entrance, shoots off a quick reply as he goes,

He knows that he’s still really drunk; it’s not physically possible with how much he’s already had to have sobered up this quickly, but with the combination of adrenaline and anxiety coursing through him, he barely feels it.

He walks a ways away before he spots a big sign for a burger place and a nondescript black car, much different from Rozanov’s usual flashy choices, idling close by. He looks around, paranoid, before pulling open the passenger side door and sliding inside.

Neither of them says anything at first, keeping up the ruse of an Uber ride, for an audience of no one, considering Rozanov’s windows are tinted anyway. Shane doesn’t even look at him, staring straight ahead. A radio commercial, volume turned low, and the sound the tires make against the poorly paved street, the only noise for a few blocks.

Shane makes the mistake of finally glancing over, right as a street lamp illuminates Ilya’s face. The sharp edges of his cheekbones and smattering of moles practically glow, and something in his chest stutters.

He has exactly two thoughts in quick succession. The first, completely unbidden: I want to kiss him. And then, immediately following that: Oh. This was a terrible idea. The worst idea in the whole world.

Ilya’s eyes cut over to him then, and Shane whips his head forward, obvious and embarrassing in his staring.

Ilya clears his throat,

“There is water there in the cup holder. You should drink.”

A still cold bottled water sits sweating condensation in the center console, and Shane is quick to grab it, if only for something to do with his hands.

“Thanks.”

He’s afraid to say anything else. His lips are too loose like this. The usually carefully crafted mask he wears over his emotions may as well be made of cellophane right now.

His phone buzzes loudly from the pocket of his jacket, and he takes the distraction easily.

Shane rolls his eyes, flipping the camera so he can take a selfie as a consolation, holding a thumbs up, and sending it off before he can over-analyze himself too much. He doesn’t wait for a response, flipping his phone over and tucking it back into his pocket.

“S’just Hayden checking that I made it.” He clarifies, even though Ilya hadn’t asked.

He expects to be teased for the photo, or at the very least for Ilya to make some offhanded comment about Hayden, but he gets none of that. He’s keeping his eyes firmly on the road, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.

“Are you okay?”

Normally, if he were sober, Shane wouldn’t ask, but right now, it’s like every thought he has falls right out of his mouth.

Rozanov rakes a hand roughly through his hair,

“Am I okay?” He sputters, obviously upset, “You, Shane Hollander, sober, boring, hermit, call me from club, wasted out of nowhere, and you want to know if I am okay?”

Shane turns away, resting his forehead on the cool glass of the window. He had felt fine earlier, excited even, but now his stomach is twisted up in knots. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t said anything at all.

“You didn’t have’ta pick me up.”

Ilya huffs,

“Yes. I should have left you drunk in alleyway. You freeze to death. No more competition for me. Great plan, Hollander.”

Shane pats around the pockets of his jeans for a few seconds, finds his ID and credit card, thank God, but nothing else.

“Think I left my room key somewhere.” He grumbles, “‘S’okay. Just drop me out front, and I’ll get one from the front desk.”

“You are not going to hotel.”

That’s what Shane had hoped for originally, but Ilya’s clearly upset with him. Clearly feeling put out with having to deal with him. He should just leave him alone.

“M’fine, Rozanov. Just need to sleep it off.”

A muscle jumps in Ilya’s jaw.

“Yes. You will sleep it off at mine.”

No further explanation, non-negotiable.

Shane snorts derisively,

“Don’t put yourself out. Hayden’s gonna be back at the hotel soon. I’ll be fine.”

Ilya sounds genuinely offended at the suggestion.

“Hayden Pike, who left you drunk, alone in an alleyway?”

“He didn’t leave me anywhere. I told him I wanted to call Lily, and he tried to stop me, but I—“ He cuts himself off.

He doesn’t mean to phrase it that way—to say I wanted to call Lily. It’s just—it feels easier, even as drunk as he is, to say it like that instead of the truth. I wanted to call you. Lily is a shield of sorts, a buffer he’s not above using.

When Shane doesn’t finish his sentence, Ilya looks over,

“You are the one who called me in the first place. Is this not what you wanted?”

It’s not asked like a question he expects an answer to. If anything, it’s a taunt. Condescending and all too knowing—like he’s aware that this is exactly what Shane hoped for and he’s not above saying it directly, should it come to that.

Shane doesn’t reply; twists his body away petulantly, leaning against the window again, and closing his eyes.

He filters in and out of consciousness for the rest of the drive, too wound up to truly sleep, startling upright when he feels Ilya gently shaking his shoulder,

“We are here.”

Shane wants to say, That’s the first time you’ve touched me off the ice in months. He only just manages not to. Stumbling out of the car, feeling the phantom heat of Rozanov’s palm against his shoulder the whole way inside.

His place looks different at night than in the daytime; an obvious observation, but it’s the first thing Shane thinks when he steps inside. Where before, everything was lit up with natural light, the sun streaming in through the large windows, now it’s all dark, dimmed mood lighting that flicks on when Ilya flips a switch by the front door.

“When was the last time you ate?”

His voice, interrupting the quiet, almost makes Shane jump.

“I’m not hungry.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Shane does his best to remember. Most of the guys got food at the first place they went to, but it was all typical bar fare, greasy, fried, and nothing Shane would be caught dead eating, so he hadn’t.

“I ate before the game, made a protein shake.”

Ilya walks over to the kitchen as he speaks,

“You need carbs. Will soak up the alcohol. I will make you something.”

When he notices that Shane doesn’t follow him, he sends him a warning look, pointing to one of the barstools at the counter.

“Sit.”

He’s using that tone again. The one that makes Shane’s brain feel liable to float away. It’s worse now, being drunk on top of having gone months without hearing it. His body is moving before he’s even made a conscious choice.

“That’s actually a myth. Carbs don’t soak up alcohol. If you eat them before you start drinking, it slows down the absorption, but—“

He’s cut off by a bark of a laugh. When he looks up, Ilya’s eyes are already on him, warm and fond in a way Shane’s sure he must be imagining. Drunk wishful thinking.

“Even wasted, you are so boring, Hollander. I don’t know how you manage it.”

“I’m just saying,” He pouts, “Your logic is flawed.”

Ilya turns away as Shane speaks to start rooting through his fridge, and it’s only then, when he has a minute to take stock of the situation, that Shane realizes what a bad idea sitting down was.

It’s practically an exact replica of the last time he was here—sitting at this counter, Ilya making them food. The worst wave of deja vu Shane’s ever had.

Up until now, he’s been too drunk to let himself think about it. He’s still too drunk to think about it, but it seems to hit him all at once anyway. The memory of that day, months ago. The unease he’d felt at Rozanov’s kindness. The panic that took over his entire body when they’d called each other by their first names.

“Hollander.”

It’s said in the tone of someone who’s had to repeat it more than once. Shane startles so abruptly that he smacks his knee into the countertop.

“Uh— sorry. What?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“Never mind. You don’t get a choice now. I am making what I want.”

If Shane were any more sober, he’d probably protest about that, but he’s not, so he doesn’t. Just sits back in his seat and tries not to feel like he’s in the middle of a memory.

Ilya is silent as he works, whipping together what looks to be some sort of omelette. For Shane’s own sanity, he doesn’t let himself ask about what he’s adding to it. It’s one night. He can skip his diet for one night. He’s already fucked it up with the amount of alcohol and sugar from the cocktails he’s had anyway. He repeats those words like a mantra the entire time Ilya is cooking, up until he sets a plate in front of him.

Shane was right, it is an omelette, along with two pieces of bacon and a slice of sourdough toast, a large pat of butter melting atop it that he tries not to cringe at. All things considered, the meal could be a lot worse; he knows the things Ilya usually eats.

It’s one night. He can skip his diet for one night.

He takes a deep breath and cuts himself a bite, practically moaning at the taste.

“S’really good.” Shane sighs, “Thank you.”

Ilya clears his throat, busying himself with making up his own plate of food.

“Maybe not that good. Your body is not used to anything other than rabbit food. So.” He waggles his hand back and forth in the air, as if to say Ehh. “Not the best judge.”

“Fuck off,” Shane mumbles through a bite of bacon, “Last time I ever compliment you.”

“Oh,” Ilya teases, “Was there a first time? I was not aware. Please tell.”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, and Rozanov doesn’t press for one, just moves around the counter to sit next to him with his food. Shane forgot what this was like—being able to sit in silence with someone and not feel the need to fill it.

It’s not as though they’ve had many opportunities for silence, considering how limited their time together is, but Shane has never felt the nagging itch to interrupt it when they do. He’s comfortable around Rozanov in a way he hardly is with anyone else.

They make it through most of the meal that way, in relative silence, until:

“Did you and Rose Landry have a fight?”

Shane is in the middle of taking a sip of water when Ilya asks the question, and it immediately sends him into a coughing fit.

“Fuck.” He hisses once he finally gets himself under control, “What?”

“I am sure you heard me the first time.”

Shane knows this is his chance to clear the air and tell the truth. It’s the perfect opening for it, but his mind is still hazy from all the drinks he’s had tonight, and he’s not sure how Ilya would take the truth.

Telling even a portion of it would open up everything else. He can’t just say, We broke up, because that leads to the reason why. He can’t just say, I’m gay, because as of now, he doesn’t know how to say that without also admitting that a big part of realizing that came because of the way he feels about Ilya.

“No, we didn’t have a fight.” It’s not a lie; they didn’t. He’s not obligated to elaborate more than that. “Why’d you think we did?”

Ilya sniffs, moving to stand and take their plates to the sink, shrugging,

“I don’t know why else boring Shane Hollander would go get wasted unless he was moping over something, and I know it is not the game because you are very used to losing to me.” Shane lets out a squawk as Ilya continues, “Fighting with your girlfriend makes most sense.”

Shane huffs, offended even though he knows it’s mostly a tease.

“I didn’t like—set out to get drunk tonight. It just sort of happened.” He runs Ilya’s words over again in his head, “And I already told you, I don’t care about the game.”

Ilya hums,

“Yes, you said this.” He sends him a disbelieving look but doesn’t push, “You should go to bed soon. You are going to have very bad hangover tomorrow.”

Shane tries not to let it show on his face how much that idea disappoints him.

“Oh.”

He should want to go to bed—it’s late, and he’s drunk, and he played a hard game earlier tonight, but when he goes to bed, that means this ends. When he wakes up, he can’t hide behind his drunkenness, can’t see Ilya off the ice again, or call him just to call.

The idea that this will be over soon makes something akin to panic crawl up his throat. It feels like his last chance. He doesn’t even think before he says it, just blurts:

“I know I fucked up.”

Ilya shoots him an odd look, accompanied by a laugh that doesn’t feel genuine,

“I think you are allowed one drunk night, Hollander. Is not the end of the world.”

“No, that’s—“ Shane shakes his head, trying to untangle the words he wants to say through the fuzziness in his brain, “I mean with us.”

He’s never said that before. Never acknowledged the existence of an us. He shouldn’t have, he already knew that, but it’s especially obvious from the way he feels Ilya stiffen beside him as soon as the words are out.

“There is nothing to fuck up.”

He expected Ilya to say that, but he still can’t stop the way it makes his chest tighten. It reminds him of Sochi, the cold way he’d said: We are not anything. It’s what he means now, too, even if he hasn’t used the same combination of words; the message is clear.

Shane should leave it alone. Naturally, as is the theme for tonight, he does the complete opposite of what he should do.

“That’s not true.” His words are slurring now, “I know you don’t want this anymore, okay? But that doesn’t mean—that’s not true.”

Tears prick hot behind his eyes. He feels like a little kid. Like he’s on a hair trigger. He continues,

“I don’t know if you ever wanted it in the first place. Not—” Not like I do, he thinks, but doesn’t say. He lets out a wet laugh, “Sometimes I think I made it all up in my head.”

It’s stupid and embarrassing and entirely too honest. Nothing that he’d be brave enough to admit without the liquid courage burning through him right now.

When Ilya replies, his voice is hard. The vocal embodiment of a brick wall,

“Don’t speak when you have no idea what you are talking about.”

Shane scrubs a hand against his eyes and finds that it comes away wet.

He’s suddenly pulled back into a memory.

Grade ten, all the guys on his team were talking about the type of drunk they were and what it meant. Shane made something up, piggybacked off of someone else’s answer, and prayed no one asked him any follow-up questions. He had barely had more than a few sips of beer back then, had certainly never been drunk before. He didn’t know what types of drunk, even really meant. He just knew the type you weren’t supposed to be.

Robby Michelson had told a story about ‘this fairy’ at his school who got too drunk at a party. How people found him sitting on the floor of some girls’ bathroom, crying and wasted.

Shane remembers trying not to flinch at that particular nickname and then just as quickly trying not to think about why it bothered him so much. All the other guys in the locker room laughed, so Shane did too, half a beat too late because he wasn’t sure what made it so funny.

He thinks about it now, drunk and crying. Wonders if that’s the type of drunk he is all the time—weepy and emotional—or if it’s just a byproduct of his proximity to Rozanov.

He sniffles, squeezing his eyes shut when the room suddenly starts to spin,

“Think m’gonna throw up.”

Ilya doesn’t flinch, just takes his bicep in a warm, unyielding grip and steers him off the barstool and toward his bathroom.

Shane's stomach rolls when he kneels over the toilet, and he flushes in pre-mortification. This is not going to be pretty, and Ilya isn’t stepping out of the room.

“You should go. I’m actually going to throw up Rozanov, I’m not kidding.”

Ilya doesn’t move from his spot at the entryway to the restroom, and before Shane can repeat himself, he’s emptying the contents of his stomach over the toilet bowl.

He doesn’t register that Ilya’s moved closer until he feels his fingers raking through his hair and a warm palm rubbing up and down his back. Shane knows he’s saying something, the timber of his voice low and soothing, but he doesn’t know what it is.

He’s not sure how long it goes on for, but by the time he stops, his throat is burning, and his eyes are streaming.

“Fuck.” He spits into the toilet, pressing his forehead against his forearm that rests on the toilet seat. It’s disgusting, but he feels too woozy to lift his head. Too afraid it’ll bring on another round of vomiting if he doesn’t stay completely still.

Like he’s read his mind, Rozanov reassures,

“Housekeeper was by earlier today. Very clean.”

Shane groans, moves to raise his head, but he’s too fast about it, and it does exactly what he thought it would. Making him retch over the toilet for a few more, disgusting, mortifying seconds, because apparently it wasn’t bad enough the first time.

Rozanov stays a steady presence by his side the whole time, and as embarrassed as Shane is, he doesn’t want him to leave either. The calm reassurances continue even after Shane’s body finally takes mercy on him and settles.

“You are okay, hm? It’s better to get it out.”

Shane can’t reply, too busy focusing on trying to take slow, steady breaths as Ilya sets a warm hand against his shoulder and squeezes.

“I will be right back.”

Shane doesn’t mean to, but he must let out some sort of noise at the prospect of being left alone, because Ilya rakes his hand through his hair again, rubbing a warm thumb against his temple. The feeling of it makes Shane wants to melt.

“I will be quick,” he soothes, “Two minutes.”

Shane’s not sure how much time actually passes, but at some point, Ilya is back in the room,

“Can you look at me?”

It takes longer than he’d like, but eventually Shane manages it, raising his head much more slowly than he had attempted earlier.

Ilya’s holding an assortment of items, his joints cracking as he kneels beside him again and sets a damp towel against the back of his neck, Shane shivering at the temperature change.

“Is okay?”

Shane nods, humming,

“Feels nice.”

“Good.” Ilya presses a cool glass of water into Shane’s palm, “Slow sips,” he murmurs.

He’s still rubbing a soothing circular motion against the small of his back as he speaks, and Shane hates it just as much as he never wants it to stop.

“Sorry.” He croaks, embarrassed and exhausted in equal measures. His eyes are still watering, and he’s not sure if that’s more to do with his outburst minutes ago or the vomiting.

“No sorries.” Ilya hums, “You will feel better soon.”

Will he? Shane’s not so sure. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through this night alive at this rate. Doesn’t know how he’s going to be expected to wake up tomorrow and leave Ilya behind.

Shane lets himself sit for a few minutes, lets himself relish in Ilya’s comfort until he finishes the full glass of water, passing it off with shaky hands.

“Do you think you will be sick again, or can you stand?”

Shane wearily moves to get up, and Ilya reaches out to grab his hand to help him. It makes Shane’s heart flip over in his chest, but he lets go almost as soon as he’s sure Shane is standing upright on his own. He leans against the sink, swishing some more water around to try to get rid of the acrid taste in his mouth.

“Do you want to brush teeth or shower first?”

Shane winces, “Fuck. I don’t have a toothbrush.”

He hadn’t exactly been considering the advantages of good oral hygiene when he agreed to come to Rozanov’s place for the night.

“Ah.”

Ilya holds up a finger in the universal gesture for wait, reaches underneath his sink, and pulls out an unopened toothbrush.

Without warning, something sour twists in the pit of Shane’s stomach at the sight of it. He suddenly has an unwelcome vision of Ilya doing this for everyone he brings home to fuck. Pictures a basket of extra toiletries he keeps fully stocked to break out at the right time: Toothbrushes. Mini tubes of toothpaste. Face wash. Travel floss.

He hates thinking about the fact that so many other people have gotten to have Ilya like this; have gotten to stay the night and use a fucking toothbrush when Shane hasn’t.

Shane is sure he must know Ilya better than anyone else who has stood at this sink, at least in some ways. He’s known him since they were teenagers. They’ve fucked for years, they understand the pressure they’re both under with their careers.

Yet, the only time Shane gets to be here like this is because he forced himself here. Called and derailed Ilya’s night. Threw up in his bathroom and spilled his emotions out at his feet, ugly and embarrassing and too much.

He’s not sure what’s worse, having to live with the knowledge that Ilya keeps a stash of ugly orange toothbrushes on standby for all the people he fucks, or the idea that if tonight hadn’t played out exactly as it did, he would have never known about them in the first place.

“How many of those do you have under there?”

The words come out without his permission, his tone too biting.

Ilya’s brows pull together in confusion,

“What?”

Shane makes a loose gesture at the closed door under the sink,

“The toothbrushes. If I use one, are you gonna have enough left? You running low?”

Ilya’s brow quirks up,

“I am very rich, Hollander. You should know this by now. I think I can spare a toothbrush.”

“I just mean—“ Shane stops himself, heaving a large sigh. “Never mind.”

He’s aware enough to know how insane he would sound if he explained his reasoning. Jealousy brought on by a toothbrush. New fucking low.

Reluctantly, he uses it, grumpy and heartsick the whole time, and pretends not to notice the way Ilya is looking at him. Eyes assessing like he’s trying to decipher something out in the lines of his face, the furrow between his brow.

He leaves him alone to finish brushing and then comes back with a stack of soft clothes in his hands, setting them on the countertop, folded just the way Shane likes.

“Do you need anything else before you shower? You can use anything in there, but I know you are—” He waves a hand in the air, “Particular, so.”

Shane doesn’t bristle the way he would if anyone else were saying that to him. Ilya doesn’t mean it negatively—he’s just been around him long enough to know how Shane functions. He has routines, and a shower is no exception. Specific products he uses, a specific order of operations.

It’s sweet of Ilya to check, especially considering his earlier outburst, even though it’s not as if he has any of Shane’s usual products anyway.

He shakes his head, afraid of what he’ll say if he lets himself speak, and Ilya nods,

“You feel okay to be alone? Not dizzy?”

That one’s harder to answer. Shane wants to say no, even though he’s sure he’ll be fine. The nausea has passed, at least for now, and though he’s still drunk, it’s nowhere near as bad as it was when he got here.

Even so, the gooey tenderness that exists in his chest doesn’t want to be alone right now. He wants to ask him to stay. Ilya wouldn’t even have to shower; he could just sit and exist in the same space as Shane, and that would be fine. That would be more than fine, but Rozanov has already done more than enough for him tonight, more than Shane deserves, so he leaves it alone.

“I’m okay.”

Ilya takes a second before he nods this time, like he’s trying to be sure Shane’s telling him the truth, but he eventually does, turning away before stopping in the doorway, knocking a knuckle against the door jamb,

“I will be out here if you need something. Just call.”

And then he’s gone, clicking the door shut as he goes.

Shane blows out a large breath, leaning forward to dig his forehead into the cool marble of the countertop; the pain grounding him enough to shut his mind up for a few seconds.

He goes through the motions of a shower without really registering what he’s doing. Time feels odd and non-linear, the way it always does when you’ve had more than a few drinks. One blink and he’s washing his hair, another blink and he’s scrubbing down his body, another and he’s standing outside of the shower dripping on the tile, skin pink from the heat.

He makes quick work of drying himself off before grabbing the clothes Ilya left. The shirt is a size too big, black with an odd logo, and something in Cyrillic written on the back. Then come the boxer briefs and gray sweats he has to roll up once at the ankles.

He’s never worn anything of Ilya’s before, beyond the one time the day of the tuna melt. It feels domestic like this, something well-worn, obvious in the way the words on the shirt are peeling at the edges. The tiny hole in the neckline.

He gives himself a second to indulge, lifting the neck of the shirt over his nose and taking in a deep lungful of the scent. It smells strongly of Ilya, like he’d worn it once and put it back in the drawer without washing it, and Shane has to dig his nails into his palms to snap himself out of his reverie before opening the bathroom door.

Ilya isn’t in the bedroom, but he’s not hard to find, sprawled across the couch in the living room, holding his phone above his head, too close to his face, the way Shane is used to scolding him for the few times he’s noticed him doing it.

“You’re going to give yourself a headache.”

Ilya jolts, dropping his phone flat on his face, clearly having not heard Shane walk up.

“Blyat,Fuck, Hollander.”

The edges of Shane’s lips turn up at the look on Rozanov’s face as he whips around to playfully glare at him, rubbing a hand against his nose where the phone landed.

“Sorry.”

Ilya rolls his eyes,

“Yes. You look very sorry.” He sits up with a stretch that shows a sliver of his stomach when his shirt lifts, “Good shower?”

Shane has to blink a few times before he can answer, his brain feeling sluggish at the peek of golden skin, and when he finally raises his eyes to meet Ilya’s, the look on his face is familiar. Smug and knowing in a way that makes his stomach knot up.

“Uh—yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

Luckily, Ilya doesn’t call him out, just stands and walks past him, though Shane stays put. He feels outside his body, off-kilter—too aware of his limbs and the way his heart is beating now that he’s closer to merely drunk rather than wasted.

“Follow.” Ilya calls, looking behind him, “You need to sleep.”

Shane’s not sure what he’s expecting. Maybe to be led down the hall into one of the guest bedrooms he’s never seen or taken to a closet with blankets so he can make up the couch for himself. What he’s certainly not expecting is to be led right back into Rozanov’s bedroom.

His heart jumps in his throat, and he must tense up for a second because Ilya turns his head toward him and rolls his eyes,

“Relax. I am not sleeping in bed with you.”

Shane panics,

“I can’t take your bedroom.”

Ilya clicks his tongue against his teeth,

“Sorry. Non-negotiable. This is only room with connected bathroom. You might get sick again later.”

“Rozanov,” Shane sighs, “I’m barely drunk anymore.”

Definitely hyperbole, and Ilya knows it if the raised eyebrow he levies at him is any indication, so Shane amends,

“Okay. I’m still a little drunk, but nothing like how I was earlier. I’ll be fine.”

“You are tired, we have both had busy nights, yes?” He reaches over to squeeze Shane’s shoulders, shaking him playfully. “Go to bed.”

His tone is firm again, final. It makes Shane want to sink into the floor. Melt at his feet. Makes his brain feel soupy.

He’ll blame that on why he blurts out,

“Where were you when I called?”

Shane has wondered since the second he picked up the phone. It feels like he’s always thinking about that lately, where Rozanov is in proximity to him. It’s the first time Ilya’s mentioned his night beyond Shane, the first and only chance Shane has to find out.

Ilya takes the question in stride, letting go of his shoulders, his jaw cracking as he answers through a yawn,

“At a friend’s party.”

He doesn’t elaborate further than that. Shane tries not to be disappointed, tries not to let his mind run wild, but the thought pops up anyway: A friend? Or a friend?

He doesn’t think he wants to know the answer.

“I figured you’d be celebrating. Why’d you only have one drink?”

Ilya hums,

“Most of the time I would. Usually, I go multiple places. Party, maybe club or bar. Depends on night.”

“You didn’t want to tonight?”

Shane knows he’s being annoying, asking far too many follow-up questions, but he’s curious, and it’s not as if Ilya is stopping him.

“Yes, well,” He gives a half-hearted shrug, “Big change of night plans. Not often that second-best hockey player in league calls you drunk. He is usually very boring, so you can imagine my surprise.”

Shane knows he’s just ribbing him the way he always does, but he can’t help the guilt at how much he’s inconvenienced him tonight. Has to fight off a wince when he says,

“Right.” Clearing his throat, “Sorry, I know you were probably—“ His words cut off, and he flails his arm in an indistinguishable gesture like that’ll finish his sentence for him.

Rozanov looks seconds away from a laugh, not uncommon when he knows he’s gotten under Shane’s skin in some way.

“Probably what?”

And then, because Shane has apparently gone insane, he blurts,

“I saw the pictures. From last night, you and that girl.”

He hadn’t been planning on admitting that. He doesn’t even know why he said it. Shane feels suddenly like he’s apart of some sort of twisted humiliation ritual. One he apparently willingly entered into.

Ilya smirks, teasing,

“You are looking at pictures of me? I knew you were obsessed, Hollander, but I did not expect you to admit to it.”

Shane glares, bites out,

“Fuck off. It wasn’t on purpose. Obviously.”

Ilya snorts, repeats, “Obviously,” In a mocking tone.

He shakes his head, frustrated at himself for being so obvious. “Whatever. Never mind. Just—sorry. I know you were probably planning on getting laid after your big win.”

The two things are non-sequiturs. He didn’t have to bring up seeing those photos to apologize for cock-blocking him. But they’ve stayed at the back of his mind since he saw them, and apparently, his brain-to-mouth filter has taken the night off; wasted or buzzed makes no difference.

Rozanov hums, the edges of a smirk still left on his lips,

“How do you know I did not?”

Shane’s stomach lurches.

“What?”

“It is almost 2 am, Hollander. There are many hours between now and the game last night.” He shrugs, “Many hours before game also. Good warm up.”

Shane feels like an idiot. Of course. Ilya has girls lining up to sleep with him. Surely guys too, but that’s—Shane can’t think about that. It’s not as if he has to go out to find someone to fuck him. He could have anyone over to his place in ten minutes if he wanted to. Quick and easy.

It’s not a process for him the way it is for Shane. He doesn’t have to work himself up to it. Doesn’t have to bite the edges of his nail beds bloody with his agonizing. Doesn’t have to think about someone else the whole time to get anywhere close to hard.

He’d said as much the last time Shane was here. It plays back in his mind on a sick loop: I think I will find someone else.

The memory makes his stomach turn, especially accompanied by the thought of Ilya taking apart some faceless person, laying them out on his bed, careful and hot the way he’d done with Shane all those months ago.

When did it happen? Ilya’s being far too vague. Before the game? After the game? Both times?

Dread slides down his spine as he considers the worst-case scenario: the party Ilya was at earlier tonight. Pressing some girl against a wall and then getting the call from Shane.

Was he on speaker? Did they laugh? Poor pathetic Shane Hollander. Gets drunk one time and throws himself all over the last person in the world who would want him.

Logically, Shane knows that Ilya would never do that, but still, just the idea of it is enough to make him nauseous. His eyes land back on the bed—the rumpled navy sheets—and he promptly turns around and walks straight out of the room.

“Hollander.” Ilya sighs, calling after him exasperated, before the sound of footsteps follows seconds later. “Where are you going?”

Shane’s clenching his teeth so hard his jaw aches. He knows Ilya must be able to tell just from the tone of his voice how much this is affecting him, and tries to tamp down on his irrational anger.

“I don’t want to sleep in your gross, used sex sheets. Just tell me which room I can use.”

He doesn’t have to see him to feel the eye roll.

“I told you which room. My room has the biggest bathroom. Biggest bed. Will be best place if you feel sick again in middle of the night.”

Shane’s never been given a house tour, but he’s willing to bet any of Ilya’s guest rooms are just as nice as his bedroom. All at once, it feels cruel. Like some weird attempt at a power move that Shane doesn’t have the energy to deal with.

He’s tired in a way that feels bone-deep, and he won’t be able to sleep if he has to think about all the other people who have been in that bed with Ilya since the last time he was here.

“Look, Rozanov,” He turns around, squeezing his eyes shut tight as he speaks, “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I’m tired, and I really don’t need you to rub it in right now, okay? I get it.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh, “You fuck lots of girls, you have fun doing it. Awesome, good for you, but I really don’t want to think about that while I’m trying to—“

“I did not fuck anyone.”

Shane’s eyes shoot open.

“No one has been in my bed. The sheets are clean, obeshchayu,I promise, just—“ He makes a big gesture in the direction of his bedroom, “Come, Hollander. Sleep. Is no big deal.”

It takes Shane a few seconds to move. He hopes it looks like a purposeful act of defiance instead of the frozen shock that it really is.

Ilya didn’t fuck anyone. No one has been in Ilya’s bed.

It’s a low bar to feel so giddy about. Shane knows that obviously he only means he hasn’t fucked anyone tonight. No one has been in his bed tonight. He should be upset at Ilya for insinuating otherwise, for lying just to piss him off, but when he roots through his emotions to hold on to his anger, it’s like it slips right through his fingers.

Shane clears his throat and makes a show of stomping toward the bedroom,

“Whatever.”

It takes a few seconds, but eventually Ilya’s footsteps follow him in. Shane doesn’t turn to face him, just stands at the foot of the bed and listens to the sounds of Ilya moving around his closet, his shirt hitting the floor.

He should just get into bed, but it’s like he can’t get his limbs to move. Frozen in place until the sound of Ilya’s voice makes him jump,

“You are feeling sick again?”

“Oh. Uh—“ Shane clears his throat, “I’m fine.”

He finally moves forward toward the bed, pulling the covers back enough to slip in before he allows himself to look at Ilya.

He’s standing near the entrance to his closet, shirtless, which Shane expected. Even so, the sight of it still makes his face flush. He’s never been more grateful for the low-mood lighting in the room than he is now.

“You are warm enough, yes?”

The question almost makes Shane want to laugh. He looks down at the large duvet he’s lying under, the two other blankets strewn half-hazardously across the end of the bed, and bites back a smirk when he answers,

“I’m good.”

Shane half expects him to make a play to sleep in the bed. He knows if Ilya even slightly nudged him about it, he’d acquiesce. He’d make a big deal about it, pretend to huff and puff, but ultimately welcome it a lot more than he wants to admit.

He’s waiting for it, bracing himself, as his heart rate kicks up, but Ilya just nods once and makes his way to exit with a measured,

“I will be—“ He points his thumb loosely behind himself, “If you need something, I have my phone.”

Shane doesn’t realize how much he was hoping for Ilya to ask to stay with him until the option is taken away. It’s well within Ilya’s prerogative to sleep in his own bed if he wants. Shane is the one who is here uninvited.

He gnaws on his lip, wills his heart rate to slow, and forces out his final act of bravery for the night,

“Good night, Ilya.”

Ilya goes stiff for a blink, and you’ll miss it fraction of a second— Shane only catching it since he knows to look for it— before relaxing back into his usual unaffected demeanor and throwing out his own,

“Good night, Shane.”

He exits then without looking back, flicking off the lights as he goes and leaving the door slightly ajar.

Shane whooshes out a breath, scrubbing a hand roughly across his face, just barely holding back a groan. It’s only now that he’s alone, lying in the dark and still slightly buzzed, that he’s able to take stock of the situation he’s put himself in.

He used Ilya’s body wash in the shower, some woodsy, masculine scent that he’s taken to associate with him. The sheets are no better than they were earlier, still rumpled and used, but now that he knows that it’s no one else but Ilya’s own doing, it makes something warm flare up in the pit of his stomach. Shane can’t stop himself from digging his nose into the pillow and taking in a deep lungful of the scent.

Ridiculously, his eyes feel hot, and he has to blink in quick succession so nothing spills over his waterline. This much of Ilya at once: surrounded by his scent and wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, after months of no contact, feels like the sweetest form of self-inflicted torture.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, willing the tears in his eyes and the stinging in his sinuses to subside, but he must fall asleep at some point because when he blinks his eyes open next, the room is pitch black, the clock on his phone blinking 4:34 AM.

He realizes what woke him when he feels fingertips brushing back his hair, tender and gentle. Can only just make out the shape of his body in the dark.

“‘lya?” Shane slurs, barely awake.

“Go back to sleep, solnyshko.little sun. I am only checking.”

Shane is too drowsy to parse out his words. He wants to tug Ilya on top of him, burrow under his arm, and take deep pulls of his scent straight from the source, but it seems his body has other plans because between one blink and the next, he’s asleep again.

_______________

Waking up comes in stages of self-awareness. First, Shane registers the throbbing pulse of a headache. Next, the dryness that’s taken over his mouth, the scratchy sensation in his throat when he tries to swallow. He knows wherever he is, it’s bright, can tell even with his eyes half-lidded and only just pulled from sleep.

He throws an arm over his face, trying to will himself to get out of bed and start his morning routine, until he hears the muffled sounds of something outside the bedroom door and freezes.

It all comes back to him then—getting drunk after the game, calling Ilya, spending the night in his bed.

He mumbles a curse underneath his breath, smothering his face into his pillow with a groan, and lies there for as long as he thinks he can get away with before finally forcing himself up.

Shane stops by the restroom to brush his teeth—only just holding back a petulant glare at the orange toothbrush on the counter as he does so—then makes his way toward the sounds he hears coming from the kitchen.

Ilya doesn’t see him at first, his back to Shane as he messes with his espresso maker, mumbling something in Russian under his breath as he works.

Shane clears his throat, trying to make his presence known before Ilya turns around and gets spooked, but it does the exact opposite of what he’d intended, Ilya jerking in surprise,

“Fuck, Hollander.” He presses a hand to his chest, “You need warning bell. Scared the shit out of me.”

There’s a pillow crease on his cheek. It’s the first thing Shane notices when he turns around, and the sight of it elicits a tender tug in his chest.

He’s never seen Ilya like this before; drowsy and sleep soft in the morning light. Fumbling around his kitchen. The closest they’ve come to this was the nap they took together the last time Shane was here, and that’s not something he particularly enjoys dwelling on.

He realizes he hasn’t replied when Ilya shoots him an odd look. Shane huffing out an uncomfortable laugh in the next second,

“Sorry. I was trying to do the opposite of that, actually.”

Ilya turns back around, continuing to fiddle with the espresso maker,

“You want coffee?” He tips his chin to the left, “Pain meds are over there. Water in fridge. I am sure your head hurts.”

“Oh—uh, yeah. Thank you.”

He opens the bottle of Tylenol that’s sitting on the countertop, tossing two back with a swig of water, and a wince.

They don’t speak as Ilya continues to make their drinks and Shane tries not to stare at the way the muscles in Ilya’s back work as he moves. Taking slow sips of his water and averting his eyes every time his gaze sticks for too long.

Eventually, Ilya finishes, handing over a warm mug,

“You want to sit on the couch? Will be more comfortable.”

Shane hums through a sip of coffee as his reply, following Ilya to the living room, still drowsy enough that he barely notices anything different until Ilya doesn’t immediately sit down.

He’s folding up a comforter that must have been previously laid across the couch, taking a pillow along with it, and stuffing them both in the linen closet.

“Did you sleep on the couch?”

Ilya nods in confirmation,

“Part of the night.”

Shane’s face screws up in confusion,

“Why? Your place must have like a hundred guest rooms.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes,

“Oh, so I should let you choke on your own vomit and die?” He shoots him an unimpressed look, like Shane’s an idiot, “I would not take that chance. Can you imagine headline? Your mother would have me in jail in a week, I am sure.”

Shane snorts,

“Probably less than that. She’s very efficient.”

“See?” Ilya huffs, “Now you know why I had to keep eyes on you.”

He has a flash of memory. Ilya at his bedside, fingers in his hair. He’d thought it was a dream.

“Well, thanks.” He squirms uncomfortably, ears turning pink, “I don’t remember everything, but I know I was probably—“ He flails an arm out, “a lot. I don’t know.”

Shane wishes that were true. It’s easier to say that than to admit he remembers every second of last night.

“Is nothing.” Ilya shrugs, “Just glad I kept you alive. Would not want Rose Landry fan club showing up at my door with pitchforks. Wrath may be even worse than your mother, I think.”

Shane doesn’t know how to reply to that, just blinks at him before letting out what he hopes is an easy laugh, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.

Now or never.

“Think they’d be more likely to show up at my door, actually.” He can’t meet Ilya’s gaze, eyes zeroed in on a speck on the wood floor, “We uh—Rose and I broke up recently. Haven’t told the press yet, but,” he shrugs, “I’m sure her fans won’t be very happy with me when they find out.”

Rozanov lets out a huff that Shane thinks is supposed to be a laugh,

“Oh.”

That’s all he says, oh. His expression is entirely unreadable, and Shane rushes to fill the silence,

“It was mutual.”

It sounds fake coming out of his mouth; the thing that all guys say after a breakup that they hadn’t planned on, but it was mutual. At least once, Shane got with the program enough to admit to himself what Rose already knew.

Ilya clearly doesn’t buy it because he snorts,

“Okay.” rolling his eyes and then, “Why would you do that?”

Shane fumbles, repeating dumbly,

“Why?”

“Yes. Why? She is famous movie star. Public loves you. She is beautiful. You fucked her, yes? You know this.”

His tone is condescending, the words crude enough that Shane wants to scrunch his nose up in Rose’s defense.

There’s clearly been a shift, something in Ilya flipping like a switch at the mention of Rose. The ease of last night and a few minutes ago falling away into an anger that Shane doesn’t understand.

Shane attempts to clarify,

“No, that’s not—I mean she is and yeah we—“ he speaks the next words low, embarrassed despite how much Ilya knows about his sex life, “we had sex but—“

Ilya snorts, cutting him short,

“But what? Did Rose Landry not know the right way to suck your dick?” He hums in faux consideration, “Or it was you? Did she get bored of you, Hollander?”

Shane flinches at that. He shouldn’t. Ilya has called him boring a million different times in a million different ways, but this feels different— sharp. A barb used to dig in and hurt rather than the fond tease that it usually is.

It makes Shane want to bite back. If Ilya wants to be angry, he can be angry too. Shane is well practiced at it when it comes to him,

“Fuck you, Rozanov.”

Ilya shakes his head, a mean smirk sitting on his lips,

“Ah, no. Did you forget? I fuck you.”

He’s trying to get a rise out of him. Putting on a front of nonchalance that Shane isn’t buying.

Shane spits his next words out only with the hope of getting a reaction; something other than this stone wall of a person he’s woken up to.

“Yeah, well, not anymore, right? You made sure of that.”

The mask slips for a split second as Ilya registers the words. Cocky grin fading before he pastes it back on. His words are sharp-edged and controlled, following up with a non sequitur of:

“Was not Rose Landry you called last night.”

Shane scoffs, setting his coffee down and rolling his shoulders back,

“Yeah, no shit, asshole.”

It’s quiet for a beat, and then Rozanov raises his brows, sniffs,

“Makes sense now, why you called then.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ilya shrugs,

“You needed rebound, yes? Missed my dick too much.”

“Yeah, right. Cause in-between puking my guts out last night, all I could think about was how much I wanted to fuck. Really great foreplay. You got me.”

Rozanov shrugs, cool and unaffected,

“Either way, would have been better than whatever you and Rose Landry did. I am sure of that.”

Shane raises a hand to his temple, rubbing back and forth, trying to quell his ever-growing headache.

“Can you ever be serious about anything for more than two seconds? Jesus Christ, Rozanov.”

“I am being serious. It was terrible, yes? You do not know how to fuck women. Is just a fact. No big deal.”

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Ilya’s made similar jokes before, if a little less direct. Jabs about being the only one who knows how to fuck him, about the little amount of sex Shane has had outside of him, even though Shane’s never confirmed it.

He doesn’t take the bait, too exhausted and hungover to fight right now.

“Look, I’ll get out of your hair, okay? Just give me a second to call my ride.”

They don’t have a flight until late tonight, so technically, there’s no rush to get back to the hotel, but with how quickly this is going downhill, he’d rather be safe than sorry.

Ilya acts as if he hasn’t even spoken, picking the thread back up,

“Is okay. We will work on it for next girl. I can give you tips. Should call Sveta, I’ll show—“

Shane’s heart drops. It’s a low blow, even for Rozanov. He wants to throw his hands over his ears and hum like a child so he doesn’t have to hear this anymore. Snaps,

“Will you stop?” His eyes are stinging, his skin feels like it’s buzzing. His voice cracks in half as he finishes, “I get that this is all a joke to you, but it’s not fucking funny, alright?”

Ilya clearly wasn’t expecting his outburst. Lips parted mid-sentence, and whatever he sees playing out on Shane’s face must spook him because he softens his tone, reaches out a hand that Shane flinches away from.

“Hollander, I’m—“

But it’s too late. Everything’s already been ruined. Last night, months ago after a tuna melt, 17 and standing in the cold of Saskatchewan. It doesn’t matter when it happened; it was always bound to.

“What do you want me to say?” He throws his hands out to his sides, rough and sporadic, “That I fucked her twice and both times were a disaster? That I could only get hard if I thought about you?” He lets out a humorless laugh that catches in his throat, teary and pathetic. “There you go. That’s all true, you win. Laugh it up.”

He doesn’t wait around to see Ilya’s reaction, just grabs his phone off the coffee table and storms toward the bedroom for the rest of his things.

Shane vaguely remembers Ilya tossing his clothes from the night before somewhere in his laundry room after his shower. Remembers setting his card and ID on the nightstand.

That’s all he goes to grab. He doesn’t care about the clothes; Ilya can toss them if he wants. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s left here in a hurry, dressed in clothes that aren’t his own.

He scrubs roughly at his eyes to stop the flow of tears. He’s lost enough dignity already. He should at least leave with his head held high.

“Hollander.”

Ilya follows him in, but Shane doesn’t focus on that. Tries to ignore how much his hands are shaking when he reaches to take his things off the nightstand. He keeps his head down, doesn’t look up once as he shoves roughly past Ilya in the doorway of the bedroom.

“Hollander.” He repeats, more frantic now. “Was bad joke, okay? I am sorry. I should not have pushed.”

He rushes to catch up to him, but Shane still won’t turn to face him.

“Whatever.” He’s trying to seem unaffected, but he knows his voice is shaking. “I’ll see you at All-Stars.”

He goes to head for the front door and then:

“Shane.”

The word does exactly what he knows Ilya was hoping it would; he freezes, giving him just enough time to catch up and set a warm hand on his wrist.

“Just—wait for a second." He pleads, "Don’t leave.”

He can hear the words Ilya isn’t saying: Don't leave like this. Not again. Shane doesn’t reply, doesn’t lift his head to meet his eyes, but he stays put.

“That was mean of me.” Ilya’s throat clicks, “I’m sorry.”

It’s not anything Shane expects him to say. They’re never this earnest with each other. They don’t apologize or speak in gentle tones outside of sex the way he is now. It makes him panic, makes him spill out desperate and entirely too anguished, the only thing that’s been running through his head:

“I don’t know what you want from me, Ilya.”

It feels good to say out loud. He’s thought it for so long. Exhausted at having to pretend like he knows anything at all where he’s concerned.

Ilya lets out a dry, defeated laugh,

“You think I know what you want? This is a two-way road,” he scrubs a hand against his jaw, “Fuck Hollander. You—“ he throws an arm out toward him. “You are the one who ran away. I thought you had a girlfriend five minutes ago.”

Shane isn’t past his anger, isn’t ready to acquiesce just yet:

“I know I shouldn’t have left the way I did. But you can’t be upset that I had a girlfriend when you’re the one who told me to get one.”

Ilya looks like Shane’s slapped him,

“What are you saying?”

“We do one thing for years. We’re casual, and it works, and it’s good, and I think I understand what you want from me, and then all of a sudden out of nowhere you ask me to stay over, and you hold me, and you call me Shane. But you also tell me how much you like fucking girls and you—you think it’s weird that I don’t.”

Ilya makes a protesting noise at that.

“I don’t think—“

“How else was I supposed to take that?”

“Shane. I told you I liked girls, and also you. I was trying—“ He runs a hand roughly through his curls, then shakes his head, “Will you sit?”

Shane wants to say no. He wants to walk out the door and pretend like it won’t feel as if he’s ripping his heart straight out of his chest.

Predictably, he sits, tugging his wrist roughly out of Ilya’s grip as he goes. Curling up at the farthest end of the couch—his whole body one flashing neon sign that reads— Don’t fucking touch me.

Ilya is quick to follow his lead, practically scrambling in his effort, as if he’s afraid that if he doesn’t do it fast enough, Shane will change his mind. It’s smart, he’s not far off. Shane probably would change his mind given more time to think; he’s certainly skittish enough for it.

Ilya keeps his distance, following up on his earlier sentence,

“I didn’t know how you felt. If you liked women, or men, or maybe just me. I thought you would say if I told you I liked both.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

He knows the question isn’t necessarily fair. Shane has never been good at picking up on cues, inferring, and reading between the lines, but even if Ilya had just been straightforward about it, Shane wouldn’t have told the truth.

Ilya already knows the answer, clear in his tone as he asks,

“You would have told me if I had?”

It hangs in the air for a few seconds before Shane shakes his head, sheepish and torn open. When he doesn’t offer anything else up, Ilya continues his questioning,

“Why did you date Rose Landry?”

Shane sighs,

“Ilya.”

But Ilya only shrugs,

“Is just a question.”

And maybe it is just a question for him. Something simple with an easy explanation, but it’s the exact opposite for Shane, all tangled up in identity and expectation and self-hatred. He deflects,

“Why does it matter? How is that any different than what you do?”

Ilya shakes his head with a quick jerk, averting his eyes,

“That is not the same.”

Shane lets out an involuntary noise of indignation,

“You left a club to go fuck some girl two nights ago. I saw the pictures, remember?”

Ilya waves a hand in the air like he’s batting Shane’s words away,

“I did not fuck her, that was only Sveta.”

“Oh,” Shane laughs humorlessly, “Only Sveta. The girl who knows everything about hockey, who you want to fuck in front of me to give me tips. Right.”

Shane doesn’t look to see how the words land, still too hurt, but Ilya's demeanor is clear in his tone when he speaks,

“I should never have said that. I’m sorry, I was being cruel.”

“Yeah,” Shane laughs again, but it comes out wet this time, “You were. I don’t know what I—is this all because I brought up Rose?”

Ilya doesn’t reply, won’t meet his eyes, but it’s enough of an answer.

“Are you serious?” Shane rakes a hand through his hair, “I go out with one girl and you—I don’t care if you aren’t fucking Sveta,” Shane spits her name like it’s a curse, “That doesn’t change the fact that you can go out and fuck whoever you want and I don’t get—“

Ilya cuts him off, his voice low,

“It is still not the same.”

Shane scoffs, moves like he’s going to get up off the couch, and Ilya is quick to elaborate:

“Okay. Yes, I have had sex with women often, but you—“ He cuts himself off, grumbles, “She wore your fucking jersey, Hollander. She was a girlfriend. Not some quick fuck. You go to her right after fleeing me.”

Shane’s never thought of it like that before. He’d been so self-focused on trying to seem normal, trying to present himself a certain way and go through the motions with Rose. He hadn’t spent time thinking about Ilya; he’d assumed based on the evidence he thought he knew that Ilya didn’t care.

“I didn’t flee you.”

His defense is half-hearted at best, and he knows it, blowing out a breath as he sees Ilya’s raised eyebrow and amends,

“Okay, I did, and I’m sorry for that, I am, but it wasn’t—I know it doesn’t make it any better, but I couldn’t see another option at the time.

Ilya’s voice is the softest it’s been all morning when he says,

“You could have stayed. I wanted you to.”

He says it as if that would’ve been easy. Like anything about this—them being together—is possible. Shane has to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes, so he doesn’t completely fall apart.

Ilya speaks up again, just as soft,

“What do you want, Shane?”

What does Shane want? What Shane wants is an endless list of impossibilities. He can’t even begin to quantify all of the things he wants when it comes to Ilya Rozanov. He feels sort of insane with the size of it, which must be why the first thing his brain comes up with is,

“I want to know which drawer you keep your spoons in.”

It’s such an inane thing to wish for, and certainly an odd thing to say in response to a question like that, Shane knows that even before the words are out of his mouth.

Still, in his wildest, weakest fantasies, he’s pictured it— some faraway dream where he knows inconsequential things about Ilya’s life simply because he’s a part of it. Where he keeps his spoons, which brand of laundry detergent he prefers, the way his handwriting looks on a Post-it note. A million tiny idiosyncrasies built up and learned through time and reverence.

Ilya blinks at him. The left side of his mouth pulls up like he’s getting ready to laugh, and Shane braces himself for the ache.

“Drawer to the left of the sink.”

It’s Shane’s turn to blink as Ilya continues,

“Would you like me to show you?”

Normally, that would come out as a tease; his words lilted mischievously the way they always do when he riles Shane up. Instead, today, he just sounds soft. Sincere in a way, Shane’s not sure how to handle. His body decides for him, powerless but to nod.

The spoons are, in fact, right where he said they’d be. Drawer to the left of the sink. A neat line of them in a clear organizer. Big spoons, little spoons, forks, and knives, all laid out in exactly that order. Shane’s heart kicks violently against his rib cage.

Absurdly, he wishes he could take a picture of it. Tuck it away in his mind somewhere safe where no one else can touch it; this piece of him he’s never known before.

Ilya Rozanov has blue eyes, plays for the Boston Raiders, and keeps his spoons in the drawer to the left of the sink.

The snick of the drawer closing snaps Shane out of his thoughts. He knows his face is steadily turning red in embarrassment. It was a weird thing to admit to wanting out loud, even weirder to agree to see the physical proof of it. He rushes to rectify his mistake somehow, taking a deep breath,

“Look, I—“

But he’s swiftly interrupted,

“What is next?”

Shane’s breath rushes out of him in a whoosh,

“What?”

“The next thing you want. What is it?”

Shane shakes his head,

“Ilya.”

He means to say more, but that’s the only thing he manages, his throat all at once too tight.

“Shane, I would like to know.”

He scrubs a hand roughly across his eyes, laughs miserably,

“No, you wouldn’t.”

With nothing else to do, Ilya begins his own wishlist:

“Okay, ladno.fine. I will go.” He nods decisively, “I would like you to only have sex with me.”

Shane’s face crumples,

“Fuck off.”

When he tries to turn away, Ilya grips his chin between thumb and forefinger, a familiar, practiced motion, and Shane’s entire body feels like it’s buzzing the second he makes contact with his skin.

“I worded that badly. I mean that I would like us both to only have sex with each other.”

Shane steps away, walking back to the couch, voice cracking halfway through his sentence as he sits,

“I don’t think I can do that.”

Hurt flashes on Ilya’s face, his voice going low and emotionless, widening the gap between them again as he angles his body away,

“I see.” He clears his throat, digging a knuckle into his now closed eyelid, “You are sleeping with other women since Rose Landry?”

Shane almost wants to laugh. Never mind the fact that they’ve been broken up for a whopping total of 3 days; if Shane has any say, he has no plans to sleep with a woman ever again. He slept with Rose because he earnestly believed he could change this part of himself, if it was for the right person. Beyond that, he’s only been with one other man besides Ilya, and though it hadn’t been bad, it also hadn’t been Ilya.

That seems to be a recurring theme in his failed romantic endeavors. Even his first girlfriend. He’d broken up with her after the draft, after the night in the gym with Ilya, and told himself the two things were unrelated.

Instead of admitting that, he goes with the closest thing to the truth:

“I’m—gay, I think. Or—I know I am. ‘S why me and Rose broke up.”

Ilya’s face twists,

“Ah.” His jaw clenches, “Other men then.”

It would probably make things easier on both of them if Shane let him believe that. If he nodded and confirmed the lie, but he’s powerless when it comes to Ilya, and he wants and wants and wants so much that he aches with it. So instead he says,

“No. I— I haven’t been with anyone else. Not since Rose and before Rose it was only you for—” an embarrassing amount of time, “A while.”

“Then why? You don’t want to do this anymore?”

Despite the front Ilya’s clearly trying to project, his voice shakes as he speaks, and something in Shane’s stomach twists, unused to the vulnerable lilt of his tone.

“No. I can’t do this.” He gestures in between the two of them with a wild hand, “I don’t want things the way they were before.”

He doesn’t even know if his words make sense; in fact, he’s fairly confident that they don’t, especially when he lets himself glance over to Ilya’s expression of confusion.

“Yes,” Ilya nods slowly, “This is what I am saying. We will be—“ He scrunches his nose up like he’s searching for a word, “It will be just us.”

Shane fills in the blank,

“Exclusive?”

Ilya nods again, more confident this time,

“Yes, exclusive.”

“Look, Rozanov—“

Ilya’s face hardens as soon as he hears the moniker,

“Oh, I am Rozanov again?” He rolls his eyes, “If you do not want me, just say it, Hollander. I am a big boy, I can handle it.”

And Shane is tired. His chest aches and his head hurts, and he wants to cry. Wants to curl up on the rug in Ilya’s living room and not get back up. So, defeated and quiet, he mumbles,

“Of course, I want you. That’s not—that’s the problem. I want you too much.”

Ilya reaches toward him, aborting the motion halfway through at whatever he must see on Shane’s face, his hand left hanging halfway in midair as he says,

“That is not a problem. You could not want me too much.”

Shane knows he means well, but he doesn’t get it.

“You want to fuck me. You don’t want me.” Before Ilya can reply, Shane rushes to add, “And that’s totally fair, that’s fine, but—“

Ilya lets out a low groan of frustration, throwing his head back,

“You have no idea what you are talking about.” He moves closer, grips Shane's chin, gentle but unyielding, “There is not a single thing you could ask me for that I will not give you.”

The seriousness in his tone makes Shane’s breath catch in his throat, but he still halfheartedly attempts to protest,

“Realistically speaking, if—“

Ilya is quick to cut him off,

“You want more than fucking? We will be more than that. You want to date? I will date you. I will meet your parents if you want. I will listen to you drone on about boring hockey facts for hours. I will be nice to Hayden Pike for you. Okay?” A muscle in his jaw jumps, “And if you want me to drop this and leave you alone, I will do that too.”

Shane can feel the telltale prick of tears behind his eyes—he is so sick of crying. So sick of denying himself and weighing out the options and outcomes of every decision that he could ever possibly make, instead of just doing what he wants.

He doesn’t know how to say all of that; he doesn’t know how to encompass everything in a neat, easily digestible turn of phrase, but his body chooses for him,

“I don’t want you to leave me alone.“

The words sound as frantic as Shane feels, tripping over themselves on their way out of his mouth, but Ilya takes it in stride, nodding decisively,

“Okay. I won’t.”

“And Hayden’s a really great guy when you get to know him.” Shane deflects, “He has the best kids and his wife is—“

A fond, teasing smile slips over Ilya’s lips,

“We can talk about Pike later, yes? How do you feel about other things I mentioned?”

Shane soldiers through a sharp wave of panic, takes a deep breath, and admits,

“Sorry. Yeah. Yes. I want all of that too.” He pauses, amending, “My parents might take a bit. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet, but—“ He lets out a shaky exhale, “I want to be. Eventually. If you want that too.”

“Yes,” Ilya beams, “I do want.”

For a few seconds, they stay suspended like that, Shane not sure how to proceed now that they’ve both admitted what they want after the rollercoaster of emotions from the last twenty minutes. He sneaks a glance over at Ilya. Tries to speak,

“So.”

Now what? He thinks but doesn’t say, leaving the rest open-ended.

As always, Ilya knows just what to do to break the tension. He blows out a large breath, teasing,

“So. Can I kiss you? It has been months, Hollander, you are torturing me.”

Shane has to fight not to leap across the couch, nodding enthusiastically with a bright grin,

“Please.”

Ilya has no such qualms about leaping, practically tackling Shane down on the couch, and immediately licking inside his mouth with a groan. Kissing him deep and hungry and wet enough that when they inevitably part for air, a sticky string of saliva breaks between their mouths.

This is Shane's favorite place to be. Ilya pressing his body down into the couch, firm and grounding. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back in ecstasy. He’s missed this. He’d known that, of course, in theory, but now that he has it back, he’s not sure how he ever survived without it. He never wants to find out again.

“Shane,” Ilya says in a tone that suggests he’s had to say it more than once, biting playfully at his neck, a shiver traveling down his entire body, “When is your flight?”

Shane tugs Ilya out of his neck with a loose hold on his hair, needing the distance if he wants any coherent thought to enter his brain. It takes a second, Ilya’s whines of protest stalling him before he eventually remembers, stiltedly panting out,

“Tonight. Late. It’s a red eye.”

As soon as he has confirmation, Ilya is back on him, peppering kisses across every inch of his face—the dip between his eyebrows, the freckles on his cheeks, the thin skin of his eyelids.

He pulls back far too soon for Shane’s liking, a smirk he’s seen a million times before tugging at his lips,

“I will take my time with you then, hm? “We have hours.”

Shane pouts playfully,

“Don’t take too long. I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

“Oh, I know,” He smirks, “Why do you think I left room so fast last night? You were practically begging me with your eyes.”

Shane snorts, swatting at him playfully,

“Fuck off, Rozanov. I wasn’t.”

Ilya raises a brow, unimpressed,

“You were. You wanted me so badly, Hollander. Whole night, yes?”

This time around, the teasing feels warm, something settling now that he knows Ilya feels the same way. Now that Shane has somewhere to put these overflowing emotions, someone to hand them off to.

He pushes weakly at Ilya’s body, settling himself in his lap. Rolling his hips in a teasing grind as he confirms,

“I always want you.”

The words have their intended effect, Ilya squeezing his eyes shut with a deep groan before lifting Shane in his arms and walking towards the bedroom.

Shane yelps at the quick maneuver, Ilya huffing a laugh into his neck as they go. He tosses him on the bed with a playful growl of,

“You are a menace.”

Shane beams,

“You like it.”

Seconds later, Ilya is leaning over him, caging him in,

“I like you.” He’s pulled into another toe-curling kiss, “Let me show you how much.”

_______________

Later, spent and sated, he has a lapful of Ilya Rozanov, pressing him into the pillows. The combination of the sweat cooling on his skin and the occasional kisses Ilya’s pressing against his chest from where his head is lying, causing him to shiver.

“We should shower.”

Ilya nuzzles further against his chest,

“No,” He whines, “Give me few minutes, I will be good to go again.”

Shane leans over, pressing a kiss to his curls,

“You know I would if I could.”

They’ve made the most of their time together, the majority of it spent exactly like this. Ilya either inside or on top of him in some capacity, some part of them always touching, never parting for more than a few minutes.

Ilya pulls himself up on his elbows, shooting Shane a flirty gaze,

“Yes, I do know. I think that’s very clear now. You would live in my bed if you could, I think.”

He’s joking, but it’s true. Embarrasingly so. Shane wants to be kept more than anything.

He must be silent for longer than he realizes because Ilya’s face turns serious, gripping Shane’s chin to force eye contact,

“You know I am only teasing, yes? I want you just as badly. Probably more.” He gets a contemplative look on his face, adding, “You would live in my bed, but I would live right here.”

Ilya digs a knuckle into his side to indicate his meaning, and Shane snorts,

“In my ribs?”

Ilya nods, pressing a wet kiss against his neck,

“Yes, make a little home there so I do not have to miss you.”

Shane’s chest aches and lightens simultaneously, his eyes glossing over,

“I would let you. I want that too.”

Shane can’t see his face from the way it’s tucked against his neck, but he can feel Ilya’s smile,

“Good. I will figure out a way. Give me time.”

“Take as long as you want,” Shane muses, “I’m not going anywhere.”

_______________

After another languid makeout session and a quick shower, Shane dries himself off in front of the mirror. Ilya maneuvering to settle his arms around him from behind, hooking his chin over his shoulder, and gazing at him through the glass.

“You look so sweet.”

Shane scrunches his face up, fussing with his hair,

“I look crazy. Your shampoo is awful.”

Ilya huffs a laugh,

“We will get you your things for next time.” He bites playfully against his jaw, “At least you have a toothbrush, hm?”

Shane’s eyes settle on the offending object for a few seconds before he makes up his mind, swiping it off the counter and tossing it in the trash.

Ilya looks at him like he’s grown a second head,

“What the fuck, Hollander?”

Shane stands his ground,

“You can buy me my own. I don’t want the same thing all the people you hooked up with got.”

Ilya takes a second to look at Shane before it must dawn on him, face splitting open in a grin,

“You are jealous.”

Shane huffs,

“No I’m not.”

“You are.” Ilya nods, loving every second of this, “Of a toothbrush.”

Shane gives up his denial; Ilya knows him too well anyway.

“Whatever. That’s not weird to be upset about.” He defends, “Your hookup shouldn’t get the same treatment as your—“

He snaps his mouth shut, blushing, but it’s too late. Ilya turns him in his arms to face him, crowds him back against the counter, leaning down to press a warm kiss to his neck,

“The same treatment as my what?”

Shane stays stubbornly silent, and Ilya continues,

“You are right. My boyfriend deserves much better.” He pauses to kiss him again, Shane chasing his lips as he pulls away, “Electric toothbrush. Boring and dentist recommended the way I am sure he prefers.”

“Dental hygiene is a serious—“

Shane tries to start, but Ilya cuts him off, gesturing toward the trash can,

“Even though I bought him that one in the first place.”

It’s the last thing Shane expects him to say.

“What? You didn’t—don’t you just have a bunch of them?”

“What do you think this is, Hollander? Dentist's office?”

Shane’s heart soars in his chest as Ilya continues,

“Do you keep a stash of toothbrushes at your apartment?“

“No.” Shane huffs out a laugh, embarrassed, “I just thought since you had people over a lot, maybe you’d keep some more on hand.”

Ilya levels him with a disbelieving look, like Shane is being insane, which is fair; he feels a little insane.

“You had one!” Shane nods his head toward the trash, “It’s not a crazy assumption.”

Ilya reaches a hand out to squeeze his face, squishing Shane’s cheeks together playfully, leaving him with what he’s sure is an absurd, fish-like pout.

“I had one for you. The people I was hooking up with did not stay long enough to need a toothbrush. I did not want them to stay. You are different.”

Shane lets out a deep breath as Ilya releases his grip on his face, the tension in his chest easing, but something still catches in his brain,

“How did you get it here so fast?”

It’s not as though Ilya knew he’d be coming over, and he drove to pick him up almost right after he called. Did he put in an order on the way?

“I did not buy it last night. I bought it for—“ He stops mid-sentence, and Shane is only more confused.

“For what?”

Ilya scratches at the back of his neck,

“Ah.” He clears his throat, “For when I thought you were staying the night. Before you ran away.”

Shane’s stomach drops.

“Oh.”

Ilya’s gaze is trained on the floor, his jaw tight.

“I know you do not like to be unprepared. I thought,” He shrugs, ‘Should have just in case.”

It still doesn’t make sense. Shane knows he asks too many questions, but it suddenly feels imperative that he understands.

“But we didn’t talk about me spending the night before I got here. How did you know to get it?“

Ilya shrugs, blushing more than Shane’s ever seen him do,

“I may have planned to have you over before, I asked.”

Shane feels sick. It must be obvious on his face because Ilya cups his face in his palms, quick to reassure,

“You had no way of knowing that, Shane.”

“But I—“

Ilya shakes his head, pressing their foreheads together,

“Didn’t know. I did not communicate. And we were not ready then anyway.”

Shane knows he’s right. There’s no use in agonizing over it now. He'll make it up to him. He starts by tugging him in, licking behind his teeth before speaking against his lips,

“We’re ready now.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, a warm hum buzzing against his mouth.

They stay that way, making out against the sink long enough that Shane is sure he’ll have an indent of the countertop in his back for days. He hopes he does. His stomach fills with butterflies at the prospect of seeing the physical proof of what they've done later, when he's alone.

Shane pouts once they’ve broken apart, looking forlornly at the trash can,

“Now, I want that one back.”

Ilya lets out a bark of a laugh and pulls him in again.

_______________

The next time he visits Boston, the first thing he sees is the brand-new orange toothbrush Ilya's holding when he opens the door. It's his favorite gift in the world.