Chapter Text
Shane knows that Ilya Rozanov is an asshole.
He’s known it since they met, huddled outside the rink in Saskatchewan, when Shane had spent ten minutes peering around to find the boy from the game tapes that he’d studied, only to be looked at like he was crazy for introducing himself (Which he wasn’t. People introduce themselves all the time. It’s polite. It’s literally the most normal thing in the world) Ilya Rozanov’s frown had been uninviting and his guarded blue eyes had watered from the cold and the swirl of smoke from his cigarette. He’d barely given him the time of day, let alone returned any of the niceties that Shane had so methodically thought out to say.
Shane remembers thinking Rozanov was an asshole then, remembers telling his parents something along those lines when they’d asked him what the other boy was like
So, yes, Shane has known this
Shane also knows Ilya Rozanov sleeps around
He’s known that since, well, since all the hockey gossip rags had made it a point to keep a score of just how many beautiful women the Russian hockey phenom could rake up in one season. Which was, unsurprisingly, almost straight away after they were drafted.
On a good day, Shane can convince himself that he doesn’t care about all that– the asshole-ness and the sleeping around– or, at the very least, that he doesn’t care enough to stop hooking up with Rozanov. On a bad day, it’s harder, but Shane still manages it. He’s a do-er, a dedicated person who achieves anything he sets his mind to. He will choke down whatever irrational bitterness he may feel about the subject and just not care
So Rozanov is an asshole, so he sleeps around. Two things that Shane knows and two things that he categorically does not care about
Except when he does care
Which is usually late at night, once his day quiets around him, once there’s no more cameras or fans or teammates. When he’s alone with himself and the lizard part of his brain that can’t help from wondering what his archenemesis had for dinner. Do his ribs still hurt from that hard check he took at his last game? Are his curls plastered to his forehead with sleep? Is he alone in that noisy city he loves? Probably not, probably…
And so the spiral had started like this:
It had started on one unremarkable night, a night not much different than any others. Shane was home, finally, after a long day of shuttling himself to his commitments. He had done everything that had been asked of him, had been polite and agreeable and marketable for all the people that he was expected to be those things for. He had worked out and eaten his meal prepped salmon, showered and watched some tape to prep for practice. He was in bed by nine-thirty.
Nine-thirty, which had seen him bite his lip in contemplation. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. And yet he always did. Nine-forty five, which had seen him lose the familiar, weak-fought battle against the urge to google Ilya Rozanov’s name.
He couldn't even call it an accident, seeing as he had to fish his glasses out of his nightstand and wiggle into the covers to find a position that didn’t strain his neck too much. There really is no accident in fluffing your pillows and only having to type a few letters before the ‘recently searched’ feature pulls up the rest for you.
It’s a particular kind of torture that Shane subjects himself to far too often. He has no good reason to do it, really, other than the morbid urge— like pulling a bandaid loose from a cut to gawk at the scab— of checking if it still hurt
It shouldn’t hurt, it shouldn’t hurt, it shouldn’t-
Shane had laid there, the blue glow of his phone lighting up his face in the darkness, studying the paparazzi pictures of Rozanov with his woman of the week as if he would be getting quizzed on it later. He let his eyes catch on all the details, making sure he didn’t miss anything. Their clothing (sleek and stylish), what street they were on (something unfamiliar, named after an American president, he thinks), all the points of contact where their bodies were touching (Rozanov’s arm around her shoulder, her hand wrapped around his waist) the woman was beautiful, but that was obvious, and in between wondering how Rozanov had seduced her, or wondering if maybe she had seduced him, Shane had the startling, horrible, thought of: I am feeling something I have never felt before.
Shane had blinked, a bit taken aback by the sheer certainty with which the thought had presented itself
I have never been this…bothered by what another person does or does not do
It was a slippery slope, this thought, but most things relating to Ilya Rozanov were
See, Shane has had girlfriends, a handful of them, he has even been in relationships that could be considered longterm. In highschool, he had a girlfriend that he thinks his mother thought he was going to marry. Lana, tall and brunette and beautiful. She had been his first date, his first kiss, his first sexual encounter. She was smart and kind and scrunched her nose when she laughed. Shane can’t remember ever caring if she smiled at another guy, not in the way he knew he was supposed to. Then there was Jessica, later on, closer to when he’d been drafted, to when he’d met–
His memories of that time are always a bit cloudy, blurred in the edges by the intense want that had exploded, like a hidden landmine he’d accidentally stepped on, so suddenly into his life. Shane had gone from wondering if maybe he just didn't feel things like other people did when it came to sex and relationships, to sitting there, in that locker room in Toronto, makeup wiped off, looking up at Rozanov in a low slung towel, nearly vibrating with an intense desire he didn’t even know was possible
It was alarming, to think about it that way, but the thought is unrelenting, once it worms itself to the forefront of his mind. He had no choice but to continue down the slippery slope, trying to imagine feeling upset at seeing some guy with his arm wrapped around Lana or Jessica. Somehow, he’d been sure that even sixteen year old Shane wouldn’t have cared all that much. He probably would have gotten upset out of principle if any of his girlfriends had cheated on him but it was nothing compared to how he felt looking at the blurry shots of Rozanov with his models and actresses and random, normal, gorgeous women. It was nothing compared to the gnawing, ugly, feeling that festered in the pit of his stomach, to the vindictiveness of it, to how he almost hated Rozanov for being the reason that he felt it at all. And they weren’t even together, at least not in that way. They weren’t in a relationship, they weren’t even in a friendship, and still, Shane was so jealo—
He had tampered down on that train of thought so viciously that he squeaked into the otherwise silent room.
“Fuck” Shane had breathed out to no one, his heart beating wildly in his chest over a word
But it wasn’t just a word, was it? It was admitting something, or almost admitting something. It was gut wrenching, like losing a final in the last second— worse, it was like losing a final in the last second to Rozanov.
Humiliating,
Tragic
Humiliatingly tragic.
No, he couldn’t be jealous
it would be madness
it would be a death wish
Can you imagine? Being jealous of Ilya Rozanov? the man who, according to HockeyBuzz, was already in the double digits for his conquests this season. How did he even find the fucking time?
And so now, of course, because Shane can’t do much else in the bouts of silence that are common in this… thing he has with Rozanov, Shane is left to just think. Not always a good thing. Shane knows he tends to over think most things. So he does, combing through all their recent encounters and interactions with the new deranged lens that his traitorous brain has created
And so the spiral continued with this:
It’s something that Rozanov said last time they were together. Or, more like, something Shane had said in return
They hadn’t seen each other in a while, courtesy of a postponed game, and Shane remembers the dull, aching, feeling of desperation that had settled in his chest as he waited for Rozanov to text that he was outside. He remembers, with at least a twinge of shame, how it had sharpened into a near frantic need as soon as he finally, finally had the hot slide of the familiar tongue in his mouth. How it hadn’t been enough. How he had needed more more more
He remembers the relief he had felt once Rozanov had slid inside of him, once Rozanov had started fucking him in earnest
Shane hadn’t thought much of it then, how necessary it had all felt, how fundamental. The faint smell of tobacco, the deep purr of his accent. Shane’s body had reached out for it, desperate to latch on, greedy and possessed and—Now it’s all Shane can think about, what he must have looked like, what he must have sounded like to Rozanov
It had been an offhand remark, maybe, and Shane had been too otherwise occupied by the feeling of Rozanov folding him like a lawn chair to really register the words all that clearly at the time
“You need it, don’t you, Hollander?” Rozanov had asked, words slurred together like they do when he’s nearing his release
“Need it so bad you wait for me to give to you”
It had all been rhetorical, probably, but Shane had whined. God, he had agreed, moaning like-like a slut
Rozanov had found the clarity to chuckle, speeding up his thrusts, fucking into Shane like a feral thing
“Wait’slong as it takes Hollander? For my dick, only mine”
Shane is choosing not to dwell on how desperately he’d nodded into the sheets, cheek pressed against the cool polyester, nearly drooling, and then—
“Onlyyoursonlyyoursonlyyours, yes, fuck, Rozanov”
It should’ve stayed as an inside thought, really, but then Rozanov had practically growled as he emptied inside the condom, buried deep inside of Shane and Shane hadn’t really had the headspace to regret the words. Until now, that is, as he tries to keep his head above the crashing waves of this spiraling, catastrophic crisis
Still, it was sex talk. Shane likes it when Rozanov gets a little mean (likes it probably more than he should. Certainly more than he would ever vocalize). But that… they don’t say that kind of stuff. Only yours. It’s bordering…possessive. It’s bordering…something they definitely are not
and so now, staring at the new message on his screen, the spiral has brought him here:
Lily: what are you wearing
They play Boston next week at home and it's not uncommon for either of them to shoot off a casual text or two on the days leading up. Usually it’s something teasing on how they’re going to destroy the other on the ice (and then afterwards— on a bed or on a couch or, if they’re feeling particularly desperate, right there pressed up against the door) it’s usually flirty or casual or dirty, setting the tone for however many stolen moments they’ll get together. Shane had been expecting it, hyper-aware that his phone was bound to light up with the familiar contact name in a matter of days. And he had been dreading it
It's not the text itself that has him so anxious, It’s not unusual for Rozanov to initiate sexting. They’ve done that before, too (even if Shane is so bad at it that he has no idea how Rozanov actually gets off on it). It's the other thing, the words that he hasn’t been able to get out of his mind. It’s the way he’d said them, as if there was nothing truer in the world. Onlyyoursonlyyoursonlyyours. It’s the way that they not only shouldn’t be true (for the sake of his sanity and dignity) they can’t be true. In no world could Shane belong to Rozanov and Rozanov certainly does not belong to him. Not that Shane wants that, obviously. Not that he would want it even if it were possible or—Jesus, he’s spiraling again, hands almost shaking at the text that would usually make him roll his eyes and scoff at Rozanov’s cliche sexting setup
Shane has over thought himself into a corner and he’s left now with the need to prove something. To Rozanov or to himself, Shane doesn't even know. All he knows is that that word has no business anywhere near him. He rebukes it, in fact. He’s not jealous of Rozanov, he can’t be, and he doesn’t belong to him, either. He needs to make that exceedingly clear to both parties. He doesn’t want Rozanov thinking that he’s just sitting around waiting for him to text, that hes just counting down the days until Rozanov fucks him. It doesn’t matter how pathetically close to the truth that may be. Rozanov sees other people (plenty of other people) so why, theoretically, shouldn’t Shane?
For a moment, he tries to imagine himself with a faceless hookup every night. He cringes. Okay, maybe just a handful of reliable, discreet hookups? Yes, that would probably work. He just needs time, he needs to vet everything closely. He will, probably, at some point, he reasons with himself, he can start with just alluding to the fact and work on the other stuff later. Baby steps
It’s logical, really, and fair. All Shane wants to do is level the playing field, make sure he's back on the steady ground of a shared nonchalance over a casual and mutually beneficial arrangement and he can go back to not overthinking every single Rozanov thought until he's itching to crawl out of his skin. Simple
Jane: No
Except it's not simple. Except Shane has absolutely no idea how to convey any of that through text
Lily: no?
The response comes quicker than Shane was expecting and in a moment of weakness, Shane lets himself imagine what Rozanov must look like right now. He’s maybe wearing sweatpants, Boston branded and cuffed at his ankles. His chain is maybe caught in his mouth in the way Shane has seen him do in paparazzi pictures. He’s probably shirtless, like he usually is, claiming Russians run hot (and I am not only talking about body temperature, Hollander) he’s propped up on the headboard of some hotel, Shane decides. Maybe his hair is curling softly, still wet from a shower…
Jane: No, I’m not doing this with you right now. I’m busy
Lily: 😂😂😂
Shane balks at that. Is it so laughable that he has something to do? ( he doesn’t, really. He’s also just sitting around, propped up on the headboard of his hotel bed, but Rozanov doesn’t know that) Jesus, has he ever said no to Rozanov?
The answer to that question nearly sends him into another spiral. He really needs to do this. He needs to not be so fucking easy and pathetic. This is nothing to Rozanov— convenient, maybe, hot, surely, and safe— it can’t be anything more for Shane. He can’t afford to lose in this, not his heart, not his peace of mind, not to Ilya Rozanov
Lily: at this time? busy with what?
Jane: Stuff
Lily: ah you do not want to tell?
Lily: maybe I should guess?
Shane pauses, chews the drawstring of his hoodie into his mouth. His mind is racing, trying to figure out how to accomplish his goal. It shouldn’t be this hard.
Jane: no
Lily: reading boring hockey book?
Jane: no
Lily: is boring ?
Lily: stupid question, of course is boring
Jane: no
Lily: hm, is sexy?
Shane blinks at the text bubble.
Rozanov is obviously teasing him but the opening is clear as day
Shane feels, stupidly, like he's at some kind of dramatic crossroads. Like he’s somehow teetering over life and death and not just trying to allude that he’s seeing someone else to his casual hookup. All he wants is to tip the seesaw back to neutral, to level the playing field. It’s not like Rozanov will care all that much. That would be hypocritical, he reasons. Knowing he sleeps with other people has never stopped you from fucking him before, why would it stop him?
As noble as the endeavor is, it still feels wrong to lie. Shane doesn’t like lying
Necessary, he pleads with himself, It’s really fucking necessary. He thinks you’re boring, he did nothing but show you a bit of attention and you showed all your cards like an idiot.
For once, Shane doesn’t want to be boring or jealous or care more than he should. For once, since braving the cold Saskatchewan wind to embarrass himself with a hopeful handshake, he doesn’t want to feel so tethered to something he can never have.
He types the words out quickly, hitting send before he can overthink them too much
Jane: Maybe, if I play my cards right
Shane stares at the screen of his phone, his pulse, apparently unable to tell the difference between sending a text and pulling the pin out of a grenade, hammering in his throat
Jesus, what is wrong with him?
The response comes a bit delayed, enough that Shane feels like he’s having a cardiac emergency as he waits
Lily: cards?
Lily: haha what cards?
There’s a pause. The text bubble that says Rozanov is typing appears, disappears, then appears again. Shane watches with a bit of fascination. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rozanov write and rewrite a text so many times.
Lily: you are seeing someone?
Okay, that is very direct, not really what Shane was expecting, especially since he makes it a point to not ask Rozanov about who he’s fucking. He’s not prepared for this. Offering details means lying more, it means having to come up with a convincing lie. Both things that Shane is not very good at
Shane flounders a bit with how to respond before deciding that vague is his best bet
Jane: like I said, if I play my cards right
Jane: now leave me alone, I’m busy
He doesn’t expect Rozanov to listen and actually leave him alone. He expects Rozanov to chirp him about the whole thing, to allude to their upcoming meeting with something crude, to make fun of him for not being able to say it plainly, anything
Shane waits,
And waits, staring at the phone so intently that he forgets to blink until his eye are burning
He’ll respond, surely, soon, and everything will be back to normal. He’ll say something along the lines of Ah, good for you, finally got tired of being boring, yes? Or maybe he’ll just send an eye roll emoji, or a thumbs up reaction, Shane will take anything at this point, really
But he just… doesn’t.
Rozanov doesn’t reply at all
He doesn’t hear from Rozanov. Not the next day, not the day after that, and not when Shane finally decides to text him something he thought was clever and flirty about their upcoming game— feel like getting murdered in a dark alley in Montreal next week?
Shane allows himself to grow fully concerned by the time the day of their game rolls around and their plans to meet are nothing but a cloud of smoke, dissipating so quickly into the air that Shane can’t make out the shape or color of it anymore.
They’ve gone longer without seeing each other, obviously, but never quite like this, never quite with a question mark looming over the whole thing. It was never a matter of will they see each other more than when will they see each other. It’s making Shane a bit crazy, if he’s honest
In the days after their last conversation (if you can even call it that), Shane has flipped between convincing himself he doesn’t care to dramatically admitting to himself that he does care, like some kind of psychotic light switch. He’s landed somewhere between he does care but not enough to reach out first again, a conclusion which has given him minimal clarity and has done nothing to settle the anxiety in the pit of his stomach.
The thing is, he doesn’t quite know how to act now, in light of whatever it is that has happened between him and Rozanov. Did they break up? No! Obviously not, they were never together in the first place. No, that’s not it. It can’t even be called a falling out, they were never in to begin with, never even friends, never quite anything at all.
And that’s the part he really can’t reconcile. How can something that was never anything make him feel like this? Like he’s lost everything
It’s stupid and too dramatic of a thought. He’s catastrophizing, maybe.
He’s even gone as far as to wonder if it’s all just some ploy to fuck with him so he’s out of sorts for the game. Maybe Rozanov is adopting some kind of psychological warfare now that he's seen the soft underbelly of this thing between them. Onlyyoursonlyyoursonlyyours. Maybe he’s being laughed at, maybe Rozanov never believed his silly insinuation to begin with. He saw right through him, maybe, knows that Shane is too paranoid, too boring to find someone else to fuck him on a whim
But Rozanov wouldn’t do that. Rozanov is many things, but he’s not a cheater, and he’s not that cruel. Shane knows this, deep down
Then what is it?
Shane tries his best to seem normal, succeeds to varying degrees. His parents seem none the wiser of his slow spiral into insanity when he texts and calls between practices, his coach too. Hayden seems a bit suspicious but not enough to actually say something about it
All in all, he’s managing.
And then, skating up to the first Boston vs Montreal faceoff of the night, he's suddenly managing less than he was before
Shane approaches slowly, like maybe if he could put off being face to face with Rozanov for another few seconds, he might figure out the answer to this whole debacle.
He could just play it off, casual, ask what he wants to ask as if he doesn’t care what the answer is either way. Still meeting later? If not, no big deal
Except-
Except
Shane has never been casual a day in his life. Isn’t that the point of this whole mess?
Rozanov looks… different once they’re hunched over for the face off, peering up at Shane from behind the visor of his helmet. There’s no teasing brightness to his eyes, not even the bored apathy Shane had been afraid of seeing there. It’s a different emotion altogether, one Shane can’t really place. Rozanov’s eyes dart around Shane’s face like he’s never seen him before, searching like he’s expecting to find something there
Should he…say something?
In the end, there’s really no time. The puck drops and the game begins and it’s brutal almost right away
Rozanov is punishing, even more than usual, refusing to give the Metros even an inch of an advantage. He slams Shane into the boards over and over and he doesn’t say anything, barely looks at him, even as Shane feels his stuttering breath against the back of his neck.
Shane is confused by it, though he wonders if he should be. Ilya Rozanov is, after all, the kind of whiplash you get from slamming the breaks of your car at 100 mph. And he has been, ever since the start. His clipped tone, then a soft touch. A flurry of texts for months, insistent and suggestive and then, once Shane gives in, once he bares a piece of himself, his body…then silence. Shane can’t help but think of Vegas, of how the silence had fucked with his head, with his self esteem, with everything he thought he knew about himself. It’s a pattern, maybe. Or maybe he’s the problem. Too eager, too boring. Maybe Rozanov’s other partners take his hot and cold attitude in stride, maybe they can just take it for what it is. Casual pleasure, nothing more
It's not until the game is nearly finished and Montreal is running away with the lead that the captain of the Boston Bears finally acknowledges Shane’s existence (aside from taking any opportunity to check him into the boards, that is)
“You are slower than usual, Hollander” Shane startes at the low, unexpected sound of Rozanov’s voice “Maybe should not be staying up late to play your cards so much”
His smile is sharp and suggestive and nearly vicious. You wouldn’t think he was minutes away from losing
Shane should be glad, Rozanov seems to have gotten the message, he seems to believe that Shane has been sleeping around, or that he had that night. He accomplished what he wanted. They’re finally even. They’re finally equals, two people who see each other casually, non-exclusively
But then, is that why Rozanov is acting like this? Why he’s been ignoring Shane for days? Why he hasn’t said anything about meeting?
It’s stupid. Why would it matter if he did the same thing Rozanov does?
Shane doesn’t have the time to consider an answer before Rozanov is skating away, taking his loss but not before dropping his gloves first to fight with one of Shane’s defensemen, earning himself a bloody mouth for his troubles. He smiles around it as he skates off, spits the blood onto the ice, nearly on top of Shane’s skates. He doesn’t look at him again
The post game interviews go by in a blur of tired, curated answers. What went right today, Shane? Well, the team went out there and played some good hockey
Yes, of course, it’s always great to win at home
Oh, yes, even better if the win pulls him ahead of Rozanov in goals scored for the season
By the end of it, Shane feels hollowed out
It’s just the break in routine that’s bothering him, that’s what he tells himself.
It shouldn’t affect him this much, not when each time he sneaks around to meet up with Rozanov he tells himself it’s the last time.
And yet it does, it does affect him, and he’s scared to think about why
Shane fumbles his way through an excuse as to why he can’t go out and celebrate. He’s a bad captain when it comes to this stuff, he knows, but he can’t think of something less appealing than going to a loud and obnoxious club right now. He makes his way home, showers and eats on autopilot and he tries to go to bed, falling in and out of a restless kind of sleep.
He’s no stranger to wondering what Rozanov is doing, to imagining how he might organize his fridge, or if he likes pickles, or if he eats his burgers with ketchup. On most days, the thoughts are rote, almost calming. Today, though, the wondering is meaner, sharp around the edges. Today, Shane wonders how quickly Rozanov was able to find a replacement to fuck in Montreal.
He’s laying there, overthinking this whole mess for what seems like the hundredth time when his phone starts buzzing on his nightstand. It takes him a second to figure out that the buzzing isn’t coming from his own head and he pats around for it, yanking it off the charger and blinking at the bright screen enough times that the contact name comes into stark focus
Lily
He sits up so fast in his bed that it almost makes his head spin
Why- why would Rozanov be calling him this late?
Why would Rozanov be calling him at all?
Shane’s mind starts to race, jumping to different possibilities at light speed. Maybe it was an accident? Could Rozanov have butt dialed him? Maybe it’s a prank? No, that would be fucked, Maybe he’s in trouble? But why would he turn to Shane of all people for help?
Maybe he regrets—God, it shouldn’t be this easy to hope.
God, and Shane shouldn’t be so quick to do it
He swipes to answer the call with shaky hands
The line connects and Shane is met with a chaotic jumble of noise. Loud music and voices
“Hello?”
“hmm, hello”
Shane freezes
The voice is deep and familiar but there’s something different about it, something heavy and a bit slurred
“Rozanov? Are you—are you drunk right now?”
There’s a pause, then a deep sigh
“If I play cards right” Rozanov says
“What?”
“If I play my cards right” he repeats slowly, as if any of this is making any sense “I asked around what it means. My fault. Did not like the answers”
“I don’t-“
Rozanov sighs again, long and suffering “Jane” he whispers
“Jane, Jane, Jane…” and it’s stupid, it sounds so much like Shane when he says it like that, which was the joke, obviously, but it makes his heart stutter anyways
What is happening right now?
“I don’t understand-“
“Hey, Roz, that her?” There’s jeering in the background, one voice louder than the rest. It gets closer until it's close enough to the phone to be heard very clearly “C’mon Jane! whatever this asshole did, just forgive him already, his moping is getting sad”
Jesus, Rozanov is out with his team. Rozanov is calling him while he’s out within earshot of his team. Is he fucking insane? Shane shuts his mouth so quickly that his jaw aches with it. Is Rozanov drunk enough to have him on speaker? Surely not, right? What if one of his team members recognizes Shane’s voice? Or recognizes that Jane’s voice doesn’t sound like a Jane at all.
He hears the sound of a scuffle, a muttered Fuck off, Marly, and then more laughing. He waits, his heart beating wildly in his chest, until the laughter fades back into the blurry noise of whatever club Rozanov is at right now. Shane wonders if it isn’t a better idea to just hang up. What good can come out of this?
He doesn’t hang up, too frozen in place to do anything but continue to hold the phone to his ear.
Eventually he can tell that Rozanov is back on the phone, he can hear his uneven breathing against the phone’s microphone, close enough to tell that he isn’t on speaker
Rozanov hums after a few more moments of breathy silence “Marly is right” he says, exhaling “It is sad. I am sad, Jane, all the time” he blows a raspberry to punctuate the statement “Lose game? am sad, Win game? am sad, Find a beautiful woman to fuck? am sad after. Sad sad sad—Less sad when I am with you though” it’s too vulnerable, too much like a mirror of Shane’s own terrifying midnight thoughts, I’ve known desire because of you, I’m happier when I’m with you.
It’s all too much
“Rozanov, don’t-“
Don’t what? Shane doesn’t even know what he means to say, doesn’t know what to call the feeling in his chest, doesn’t even want to guess what he could call it.
Shane should hang up. He really should. Rozanov isn’t in the right state of mind to be saying these things. He might not mean them, he would never say them if he was sober. It’s not right, probably, to listen
But then, Shane isn't really feeling like his most generous self at the moment. He’s hurt, maybe, by the rejection, and scared that he’ll never find anything else that makes him feel the way Rozanov does. He’s jealous, too, he can admit it easier now, he’s jealous of the women Rozanov steps out with, jealous of the people who walk up to him at crowded clubs, who get his attention when he’s laughing and sweating and finally out of his own head. Shit, he has half a mind to be jealous of the air that hits Rozanov’s cold-bitten face, of how freely it touches his skin.
Most of all, Shane is terrified that he’s alone in all of this
So he doesn’t hang up
“You-you didn't want to see me” Shane murmurs instead, finally letting the vulnerability he’s been feeling over the past few weeks seep into his voice
“Hmm not true, always want to see you”
Shane closes his eyes against the soft admission. He shouldn’t be—this conversation really should not be happening
“I am idiot, I know this but-” Rozanov continues, his voice nearly drowned out by the loudness of the club. Shane strains to hear him, pressing the phone harder against his cheek like that will help, like he could push himself through the tiny holes of the speaker and materialize wherever Rozanov is, like that would help at all either “-but I do not want you to play your cards with other people”
Shane’s breath catches in his throat, registering the words
so that is what this is about
“that’s not-“
“I am better at playing cards than anyone else” Rozanov says, suddenly, as if it’s a revelation, his voice sounding petulant and determined “Yes, I-I will show you, I will remind you-“
Okay, this metaphor is really getting out of hand
There’s muffling on the line again, as if Rozanov is on the move, then his loud voice over the pounding noise, directed away from the phone
“Ay Marly! I’m going!”
Shane can’t fully make out the response but then Rozanov is yelling again
“Fuck you, are you my mother?”
Shane realizes then what Rozanov’s intention is. He means to come here, to come to Shane’s house.
“Oh, no, Rozanov, you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t drive like this-”
More shuffling, as if Rozanov is fumbling to get the phone back to his ear “What?”
“No, I’m saying it's not a good idea for you to come here, you’re obviously drunk”
“Russians do not get drunk” Rozanov scoffs “especially not from weak Canadian vodka”
Weak Canadian vodka…? Okay now this whole situation is getting out of hand. Shane should actually hang up now before Rozanov does something to actually embarrass or endanger himself. He might not even remember this in the morning. It would be no harm done.
No harm except, of course, for the irreparable damage to Shane’s psyche from hearing Rozanov murmur in this soft, unguarded voice– less sad when I am with you
“Rozanov, I just really don’t think-”
“Please, Holla-“
“Okay!” Shane says quickly, cutting him off “Okay, okay, just, get an uber and stop talking before you say something you shouldn't"
Rozanov makes a sound of victory that makes Shane sigh and hang his head in defeat
Okay, this is happening, Rozanov is coming here, he’s as intoxicated as a Russian can be on weak Canadian vodka, and he’s coming here to do or say what? Shane is not really sure
Shane keeps listening, straining to hear whatever conversation Rozanov is having with who sounds to be Cliff Marlow “Yeah man, I can get you into an uber, if you’re sure but-”
Shane’s body is strung so tight that he has to stand, pacing back and forth, thumbnail stuck between his teeth
“-am not drunk! How many times do I have to say this?”
Shane can hear Cliff chuckle. The noise is gone all the sudden, as if they’ve moved to a quieter area, Marlow’s voice deep and clear “Roz you are so white girl wasted right now, we all saw you pounding down those frilly cosmopolitan drinks all night—”
Shane stops pacing, can’t help but let out an incredulous laugh at the mental image of that
“Tipsy!” Rozanov exclaims, cutting him off “okay, okay, I am tipsy, happy?”
“Sure man, if you say so. Here, give me the address I can-“
“No!” Rozanov says quickly “I do it. Do not want you getting any ideas”
Marlow scoffs “Right, I’m gunna show up to your girl’s place and make my case to steal her from you”
“I murder you, probably”
Marlow chuckles “Okayyy, noted. Just tell your Jane that she better be on the other end waiting to pull your drunk ass out of this uber”
Shane nods, realizing that it's a stupid thing to do since no one can actually see him. Which is a good thing, obviously
“I will come to you Jane, give me twenty minutes”
The line goes dead and Shane is sure this time, sure that Rozanov had murmured his name. His actual name
The twenty minute wait stretches into an eternity. Shane catapults out of his room, fussing over the already organized space of his living room and kitchen. He turns on every light like he’s not sure where Rozanov will decide to wander into. They should have light for this, shouldn’t they? Shane has no idea how to do this. Has no idea what this even is
The sound of a car approaching his driveway sends Shane’s heart beating wildly in his chest again. He’s probably going to have some kind of heart attack before this is all over. Death by Ilya Rozanov, less unlikely than you might think
He rushes out, stopping to grab a hoodie. He pulls the hood over his head and pulls the drawstrings tight, doing his best to look inconspicuous. This is Montreal, after all, people know hockey here.
When he makes it to the nondescript black sedan, all he finds is an older guy who looks exhausted. Probably from uber-ing all night but also from the annoyingly chatty man in his back seat. There’s no recognition on his face when he looks up at Shane, gesturing towards Rozanov as if to say ‘well? This is yours, isn’t it?’
He thanks the driver, pulls Rozanov out of the car and tries not to think too much about the fact that Rozanov immediately goes in for a hug, wrapping his arms around Shane’s neck, breathing in deeply, nose buried into the fabric of his hoodie. Shane, bewildered by this entire thing, still has the presence of mind to wonder if they’ve ever hugged before, just for the sake of hugging. He’s pretty sure they haven't, thinks he would remember feeling Rozanov’s weight like this, steady and comforting
He wonders, mostly, how many more ‘firsts’ they can handle tonight
“Mmm Jane”
“Jesus, Rozanov, you are white girl wasted” Shane mutters, trying to pull him along
“Nonsense!” Rozanov says, leaning a bit more of his weight on Shane than he would need to if he weren’t “Russians do not-”
“Yes, Russians do not get drunk, I got it”
They stumble into Shane’s too bright house in a gaggle of limbs. Shane drags Rozanov along, keeping him upright for long enough to deposit him onto the couch. He drops into the cushions like a rock, groaning, probably already a bit dizzy from all the cosmopolitans he apparently drank
Shane stands above him, taking inventory of his appearance. He’s wearing a silky shirt with dark jeans, both items of clothing looking rumpled and askew. His curls are starting to frizz at the top, like maybe he’s been running his hands through them too much. His cheeks are flushed, probably from all the alcohol and the cold outside air.
He looks disheveled and more vulnerable than he’s ever seen him.
He’s looking up at Shane now, through his blonde lashes
“Your eyes are beautiful when they are mad” he murmurs, breathing deeply like he’s trying not to fall asleep
“I’m not mad” Shane says. But he is, in a way. Not at Rozanov, not really, although he could’ve done without the little production he put on tonight. It’s just- it was all supposed to be simple. It was a simple concept. Imply that Shane himself is seeing other people, re-establish the casual nature of this relationship. It was a small lie, a white lie, a necessary lie. It was supposed to bring back structure and clarity
And now Shane has neither of those two things. Now he has Ilya Rozanov drunk on his couch
Ilya Rozanov, drunk on his couch and… jealous ?
“Rozanov, are you—I mean, did you drink this much because—“
“To forget”
Shane flinches, stricken by the plain admission.
“To forget…about me?”
Rozanov groans. He sits up, his elbows on his thighs, and lets his head fall into his hands
“More” he mutters “more, more more…..”
Shane feels his eyebrows knit together, feels as if he’ll actually get whiplash from this entire situation
“Rozanov, what?”
“Hollander I do not know how else to explain this” he says, lifting his head to look at Shane with a pained look in his eyes
Shane says nothing, finds that he would actually like an explanation for all of this
Rozanov seems to take it as a sign to continue
“My father, he wants more wins” Rozanov starts, holding Shane’s gaze as if willing him to understand “ always more glory for the Rozanov name, more things to uh… brag about, yes. My brother, he wants more money, money he will likely snort away anyways. My stepmother, she wants more properties, more clothing and jewelry” he rattles it off like a grocery list, like it isn’t the awful thing that it is. Shane feels sick, sick with everything that Rozanov has had to shoulder on his own
“everyone always wants more” he continues, his eyes more desperate for Shane to understand than before “and I-I cannot ask this of you….to give me more”
“I am selfish, cannot just take what you give. More, more, more. Cannot happen, I know. And still, I want”
Shane looks at Rozanov, really looks at him for what seems like the first time. His wrinkled shirt, his frizzy hair, the sadness in his eyes
“You’re not selfish,” Shane says softly “Because if you are, then I am too”
Rozanov looks up at him, eyes shining with something that Shane thinks might look like hope. He recognizes the sparkle of it, feels it splintering in his own chest
He knows there are a lot of things for them to discuss, things they should discuss when both of them are sober, things that Shane should also reveal and admit to. He’s afraid that this bubble of fragile hope will pop in the light of tomorrow and he’s afraid, mostly, that he won't be able to handle it if Rozanov changes his mind again
Those are all things for tomorrow, though. Tonight, he has other things to attend to. Namely, getting Rozanov out of those atrocious club clothes
“Come on, lets get you to bed” Shane says, grabbing Rozanov’s hand and pulling him to stand
He seems lighter now, after the admission, as if getting that off his chest removed a physical weight, and he lets himself be steered into Shane’s bedroom easily
“Okay” Shane huffs, sitting Rozanov at the edge of the bed and considering what he should change him out of first. He’s deciding on the boots when all of the sudden he’s being grabbed and pulled. He lets out a yelp of surprise as Rozanov tackles him onto the bed, falling on top of him clumsily. He has his body caged completely in a matter of seconds, arms pinned above his head, Rozanov’s hips heavy and warm against his own
Shane struggles against it, wiggling uselessly, but he’s laughing, feeling lighter himself
“Get off of me, asshole, your clothes reek of sweaty nightclub”
“Oh? I reek?” Rozanov’s eyes are bright and playful and he’s looking all over Shane’s face, looking across every feature there, as if he’s seeing him for the first time too
He leans down, once he’s looked his fill, and drops a chaste kiss to Shane’s mouth
Once he pulls back, he considers Shane for a quiet moment before speaking again
“If you were trying to ask me before, if I was jealous” he starts, looking down at Shane with an intensity that makes his heartbeat speed up in his chest “I will tell you yes. I was. I am. I am jealous of everything” he lets out a breath that is warm against Shane’s cheeks. It smells like sweet alcohol and cigarettes and it’s so familiar, so achingly familiar, it’s the taste he’s been chasing since he was seventeen. It makes him shudder “of anyone who might get to have you that is not me” Rozanov continues “of the city you love so much, of the teammates who get to see you first thing in the morning. I wish-“ he leans down, nosing at the junction between Shane’s cheek and ear “I wish I could bury myself inside you and never leave”
Shane can’t help the desperate sound that steals out of his throat
“Me-me too” he breathes out and Rozanov laughs, actually laughs. “That is it? Me too?”
Shane feels his cheeks flame “fuck off, I-I can’t come up with things like that in the spot!”
And then, because aside from apparently being a poet, Ilya Rozanov is also a psycho, he leans down and licks Shane, licks a fat stripe from his chin up to his temple
“Oh my god! Did you just lick me?!”
“Yes, I am supposed to be showing you how to play cards, remember? I will lick you first here and then down-”
“That’s not even how you use that phrase!”
“What phrase? I will not use phrase, I will use my tongue, then maybe, if you are lucky, my dic-“
“My god!” Shane says, pushing against Rozanov’s chest to get him off “Will you just shut up, Ilya?”
The syllables land like a fucking bomb between them
Shane freezes, lets his eyes fall closed for a moment before opening one to chance a look at Rozanov who, even in his current state, seems to be fully registering what Shane just said, along with all the implications and repercussions that come with it
There’s silence for a few unbearable, awkward, seconds before Rozanov smirks, wide and delighted
“Okay, Shane” he lets himself plop back into the mattress, finally releasing and rolling off of Shane. Shane, who’s stomach is fluttering with ridiculous butterflies “I’m yours to strip however you want”
He ends up stripping the unbelievably annoying man out of his jeans and into a pair of sweats that are only a tad too small. He gives him new socks and replaces his silky shirt with a faded Montreal Metros shirt. He gets a quirked brow for the last item but no protest and eventually they both settle into Shane’s bed, cold feet against each other's skin, adjusting and readjusting against the pillows, figuring out how they fit together here, like this. Another first, Shane muses
Still, a part of him can’t help but be scared in the wake of it all. He thinks that, in another scenario, this whole thing might have sent him running for the hills. He’s scared of the intimacy, of how easy it feels. He’s scared at how different this all is, being here with Rozanov— with Ilya, taking care of him like this, being here with him, how good different it is
He’s scared of how much he wants all of it
“This is a bad idea” Shane says eventually. Because it is, because he knows it is. There's so many reasons they shouldn't, so many things that could go wrong.
He can hear Ilya’s steady breathing beside him, wonders if the night has finally caught up to him, until he hears his soft answering voice in the darkness
“Hmm yes you said this before, the first time” Ilya mutters, scooting closer to snuggle into the crook where Shane’s neck meets his shoulder “but we will do it anyway”
Shane can’t help the small smile that pulls at his lips. He tightens the arm that has found its home around Ilya
Yes–but they will do it anyway