Chapter Text
When Shane woke up, the air around him was sweet.
It wasn’t sweet like pastries or flowers, but like afterglow and bliss. Like the smell of a room that was unfamiliar but somehow so, so fitting. A room that could take all of Shane’s life’s problems and make them seem so insignificant that it was a shock that they were even a big deal in the first place.
It took a minute for Shane to readjust, to realize where he was. Who he was with.
Ilya Rozanov was lying right next to him — scratch that; he was lying on his chest — in all his golden-curl glory. He looked so peaceful, somehow younger, like this.
Shane’s stomach lurched at the realization that he had fallen asleep with the worst possible person. His brain hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that they were not in fact in a hotel room, moments away from someone knocking on the door and catching them. When it did, however, he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not.
A new panic set in quickly. Ilya must’ve noticed Shane’s heart rate spiking, because he drowsily murmured a couple of words, possibly in Russian, that were too quiet to decipher.
Fully sitting up, Ilya rubbed his eyes and grinned at Shane. Shane tried to mirror his action, only to be met with a sharp ache that shot through his legs.
It didn’t take a genius to guess why he was so sore. And he himself realized why only a moment after.
Ilya quickly leaned in for a kiss, pressing one on Shane’s abs. Trailing up his torso, Ilya’s lips eventually pressed against Shane’s softly. “Good afternoon, Hollander.” Taking his sweet time, he slid out of bed and walked out of the room. Shane would never admit how his eyes traced all the beautiful moles and freckles on his back.
The shining daylight from outside indicated that it was not morning, which made Shane feel a bit better when he realized he didn’t accidentally spend the night at Rozanov’s. Shane could only manage a hum in response, his throat dry and slightly painful.
Mentally cataloging all the information Shane’s brain had just caught up was more challenging than he anticipated. What was he supposed to think? Mercifully, he didn’t have time to contemplate this situation before Ilya called out from the other room.
“Hollander, I didn’t invite you over to just use my bed. I know I made you exhausted, but I am not a hotel. Get over here.”
Shane snorted and got out of bed, his eyes trailing to the pile of clothes on the laminate floor. He grabbed his pants and the first shirt he could find. It was black; he couldn’t remember, for the life of him, if he had worn a black shirt today or the white one that was sitting on top of the pile. He was sure Ilya wouldn’t mind if he accidentally took his shirt. He’d give it back the next time they met up if he did discover the top belonged to the blond.
Shane emerged, and Ilya couldn’t help but notice that Shane had grabbed his shirt. The black one with the barely-there ink stain at the bottom hem. It was not nearly important enough to comment on.
Taking a seat on one of the barstools, Shane’s eye caught the way that Ilya was leaning on the counter across from him in a way that perfectly emphasized his biceps. And he knew it, too. Screw him.
Something flashed over Ilya’s expression. It was only there for a moment, and Shane barely caught it. It was gone before he could decipher it, and Ilya spoke before he could ask.
“You like tuna melt?”
Ilya’s genuine question caught Shane off guard. Something about the intonation made it clear that this wasn’t just an offer of food. That settled uncomfortably as Shane’s mouth opened and closed, a yes on the tip of his tongue.
Shane wasn’t hungry, truthfully. Some asshole cut him off right before a red light on his way here, and he decided to turn into a parking lot instead to go another way and skip the wait. That parking lot just so happened to belong to a Starbucks, and Shane felt too embarrassed to not get anything as soon as he realized he pulled in right in front of the drive through.
He got a fucking panini.
Ilya started again, already turning towards the fridge. “I was gonna make one for me. I can make—“
“I’m not hungry.” Shane blurted out, his words too clipped and forceful to be polite. It was truly accidental.
If Shane dwelled on the thought of eating a tuna melt, made by Ilya, in Ilya’s home, he might melt. So he didn’t dwell on it. Just said the first thing that came to mind in an accidentally, slightly rude tone.
No harm no foul.
Although he didn’t mean to, Ilya completely froze in his spot. It was only for a split second, but it was far long enough for Shane to realize what he’d just insinuated.
Dejected, Ilya slammed the door to the fridge shut, shrugging with tense shoulders. “Nevermind. I am not hungry anymore, either.”
The response was sharp, biting. It made Shane flinch. He immediately knew he struck a nerve, and scrambled to fix his mess. “You know that’s not what I—“
“No,” Ilya cut him off. “Is okay. I know what you meant.”
How Shane managed to mess this up this quickly was a mystery to him. And it remained one as he watched Ilya walk towards a cabinet, opening it up and grabbing a glass.
With more force than necessary, Ilya opened the freezer and took out an ice-cube mold. While he was at it, he reopened the fridge and took out a cold can of ginger ale, almost slamming it on the counter in front of Shane.
Shane’s gaze felt stuck to the label. Canada Dry.
It was Shane’s favorite brand.
Ilya didn’t drink ginger ale.
Almost guiltily, Shane spoke up from his spot as he watched Ilya pour himself some expensive looking vodka.
“…I’m okay. I already had some earlier, but—“
Ilya suddenly pivoted, cold eyes locking onto Shane’s. “You’re okay? Then put it away yourself, Hollander. God, you are not a child. Do your own shit. You need me to carry you to living room, too? Fuck.”
Shane had to admit that didn’t sound too bad, but figured that was not at all the thing to say if he wanted to keep all four limbs intact at the end of this. He snatched the can, cold immediately creeping into his fingers, and stood up. He wasn’t sure if keeping his gaze locked with Ilya’s was an act of rebellion, spite or fear. They were now close, too close — despite the fact that they had literally been cuddling not even five minutes earlier — to feel comfortable. Shane put the can back, still watching as Ilya took a large swig out of the glass. Watching his curls as he tipped his head back. Watching the column of his throat as he swallowed.
Shane opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off before he could get even a syllable out.
“Go. To the living room. Put game on. I need a minute.”
“But I—“
“Hollander. Go to— go to the fucking living room.”
Did Shane go to the living room? Yes. Did he do it while making sure his footsteps were obnoxiously loud? Most definitely.
Did he want to go?
Maybe not.
But he was in Ilya’s home, so he did technically have the right of way.
Shane tried not to think about that first part too much. He plopped down on the corner of the couch, crossing his arms and staring blankly at the wall in front of him. He was so fixated on being pissed that he didn’t hear Ilya walk back into the room a couple of minutes later.
To say Ilya pounced on Shane was an understatement. Shane quickly found himself pinned against the couch. The kiss they shared was nothing like the ones they had moments before. It was bruising, messy, teeth against teeth in an attempt to assert… something. Neither of them were sure enough of themselves to admit it.
Shane didn’t question it. He didn’t dare question it. He didn’t dare question why Ilya had immediately latched onto him after he was so clearly mad at Shane. Questioning any of this would be a horrible idea.
Because that would make this shit too real.
Honestly, he should be mad. He should be pissed. He had a right to be, anyway. But nothing seemed to get through to his head when Ilya’s lips were moving against his like they were made to be there.
Shane’s thoughts were cut off by the pressure of Ilya’s thigh slotted between his, and he suddenly found the idea of doubting any of this to be silly.
“Fuck, please,” rasped Shane, who threw his head back to give a desperate Ilya more access to his neck. The other man devoured it thankfully, running his teeth over the column of Shane’s throat. Ilya didn’t seem to hear Shane when he whined and tried to push his head back. Neither of them could risk any marks, but that seemed to be the least of Ilya’s concerns at the moment. Shane’s hips traitorously pressed up against Ilya’s thigh, his cock hardening against the excessive amount of fabric between them.
Switching to straddling the other, Ilya maneuvered over Shane to brush his fingers over his crotch. His hips jerked up in response, a loud gasp leaving Shane’s lips. Something needy followed that was bordering on a whimper.
Just as Shane started to hike up Ilya’s shirt, a sudden ringtone came from the coffee table in front of them.
Ilya froze, much to Shane’s dismay. He thought about just pulling Ilya back on top of him, but the other man climbed off and glanced at the phone. After a moment of consideration, he huffed and stood up, grabbing the device. “I should take this.”
Shane could barely make it out, but the contact name at the top of the screen read, “отец.”
He would have to ask Ilya later what that meant.
Without the blaring distraction of a hot man straddling him, Shane could think a bit more clearly. As he watched Ilya retreat to the kitchen, speaking something in Russian into the phone, he realized he should be more angry at him. He had just yelled at him, and now he had the audacity to start making out with him? Deciding that being angry was the correct thing to do, Shane sat on the couch, arms crossed, staring intensely at a spot on the floor. Unfortunately for him, he was too focused on the tiles that he only realized after Ilya re-entered the room that he could’ve tried eavesdropping.
Mirroring Shane’s position, Ilya found a spot right in the middle of the couch. The whole concept made Shane uneasy; the fact that they were sitting together in the broad daylight. The fear was entirely irrational, of course. Then again, not much seemed to make sense recently, anyway.
Ilya had acquired a cigarette, which was now sitting between his still-glossy lips. The same lips that had worshipped Shane an hour ago. He was tense; unlike himself just moments before. There was a good amount of distance between them, which neither of them wanted to be the one to close it and risk anything.
From a painful distance, Shane watched in something shamefully close to admiration as Ilya fiddled with his lighter. It took him a few tries, but when he got the cigarette to light, he tossed the lighter on the side table.
Shane didn’t dare comment on how bad smoking was for him. They sat in a less comfortable silence than before, and it was painfully noticeable. One would think that after two people just had sex, that there would be less tension between them.
Having no clue what to say, Shane dragged his eyes up to the ceiling. He needed something else to focus on, and his mind immediately latched onto the first thing he noticed.
The lack of fire alarms was glaring.
“Where are your smoke detectors?” The words pushed their way out of Shane’s mouth before he could think better.
Ilya paused, responding without looking over while taking his cigarette out of his mouth. “Smoke detectors? I don’t need annoying machine to detect smoke. I can do it myself. Look, smoke.” He gestured to the end of his cigarette, where sure enough, a small trail of white smoke was flowing around the end of it.
Shane laughed traitorously; this banter was normal. This was good. Maybe he didn’t fuck it up after all. He was only overreacting. Surely. “You know that’s not what I meant. What if you were to, like, die in a fire in the middle of the night because you forgot to turn your stove off and never installed smoke detectors? The Raiders would probably get worse.”
Shane was expecting a laugh back, maybe a snarky remark about how he’d love a hot firefighter to be the last thing he’d ever see.
But not a word left Ilya. Only an unreadable expression crossed his face, one that only made unease wash over Shane.
Well, shit.
There was still a chance to salvage this, Shane gaslit himself.
“I’m just trying to look out for you.” Dropping the topic was very clearly the best route of action here, but alas. Hollander wasn’t one to let things go that easily.
Shane watched Ilya’s expression, expecting a change as small as a setting of a brow. What he wasn’t expecting to be met with, however, was an eye roll.
Irritation spiked through Shane immediately, who sat up even straighter.
“Don’t give me that.” He retaliated, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
A huff left Ilya, who dug his hand into his sweatpants pocket that emerged with a pack of cigarettes. He wordlessly held them out to Shane, the tempting package in the air between them.
“I shouldn’t smoke. You shouldn’t either.” Shane muttered childishly, still on edge.
“That was not my question. You want one, or no?” Ilya shook the pack out in front of him, which was strangely reminiscent of their time together in that one hotel gym. The fluorescent lights were still glaring in Shane’s head, even years later.
He didn’t get a response from Shane. Seemingly getting the hint, Ilya withdrew his hand, tossing the pack onto the side table in the same manner he just did with the lighter.
“Thanks— thank you anyways for offering.” Shane muttered, seemingly unable to keep his eyes off of Ilya’s.
Ilya only snorted, his hand finding a place on Shane’s thigh, gently rubbing back and forth. “Sorry. Was stupid question. I know you don’t smoke with your— with your rabbit diet and your “my body is… temple” bullshit.”
“No, I—“ Shane trailed off, looking down at the searing hand on him. “That’s not why I— I just care about my health.”
As soon as the words left Shane’s mouth, he could physically see how they landed. Ilya tensed up and stilled.
“I’m sorry; I said that wrong—“
“It’s okay. There’s no need to apologize. I forgive you.”
“I was just trying to be nice.”
Ilya mumbled something to himself, and Shane was not about to let that slide. “What?”
“You are not trying to be nice. You are trying to make me feel better about myself. There is big difference.”
“What do you—“
“You think you are better than me because you don’t smoke and I do. So you want me to not feel as bad about it. It’s okay, though.”
Shane wasn’t sure what to say to that. An uncomfortable quiet fell over them, heavy and pressing. The only sounds that broke through was the minute tapping of the cigarette against the ashtray that paired with the quiet exhales from Ilya.
They sat there. Silently. That’s all they did until Ilya’s cigarette was finished. Ilya’s hand started moving across Shane’s thigh again, more insistent than before.
Something was off about Ilya, something that wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone but Shane. There was a lack of that something in Ilya’s eyes, the thing that was a constant whenever they were together and alone enough to—
It was that fucking phone call.
Whatever had happened over in the other room clearly set something off in Rozanov. Shane was already rocking on his feet, and he put a stop to whatever he was about to do by putting a hand on his.
“What was that call about?” Were the words that left Shane, sharper than he had meant them to be.
Ilya pulled his hand back, startled, almost intimidated, by the question. “Is nothing you need to worry about.”
“Clearly, you’re worrying about it, so why can’t I?”
“Hollander, it is not your business. Can we please just fuck now?”
Shane groaned. He wasn’t going to get through to him if this continued in this direction. So he straddled him instead, solving all of their life’s problems when he leaned in to kiss him. With his eyes shut, there was nothing else in the world but him and Rozanov and their lips and the breath between them and their quiet mutterings. They were half-moans and half-pleads, many of the latter coming from Shane. Ilya did say a couple of words, but none of them were that coherent. Except—
“Shane, fuck.” It was muffled by their lips. But it was still painfully clear.
Shane could’ve sworn Ilya just said his name.
Not Hollander. His first name. The word Shane just left Ilya’s mouth.
No— that wasn’t— they didn’t do that.
That wasn’t what they were supposed to be.
What was he doing? This wasn’t what their deal was.
Shane shut down any desires for change as soon as he looked down at Ilya’s eyes and realized just how scarily easy that would be.
A dam seemed to break in Ilya. Almost all at once, more words started pouring out as he broke the kiss.
“Shane, oh my God, you’re so perfect. My Shane, so, so beautiful for me.” Ilya began. Hollander’s name sounded different this time. Less… under the breath, cautious, but more pleading.
Ilya leaned in for another kiss, wrapping a hand behind Shane’s neck, pulling him in.
Except this time, Shane hesitated. He didn’t lean in. The only thing he felt was the insistent pressure on the back of his neck loosening along with the subtle shift in Ilya’s expression. He opened his mouth, but Shane beat him to it.
His eyes flickered between the other’s as Ilya’s palm fell off of the nape of his neck. Shane swallowed hard, an Ilya on the tip of his tongue.
“Rozanov, I have to go.”
Before Ilya could protest, Shane crawled off his lap, now standing in front of the black couch. Something twisted in Shane’s gut, and he convinced himself it was just the usual nerves he got when being with him.
Nothing less.
Nothing more.
“What— what do you mean you have to go?” Rozanov nearly pleaded.
“I have a team meeting, and I just forgot.”
“You forgot team meeting?”
Shane could tell that Ilya found that hard to believe. Truly, he didn’t have a response to that, so he walked off to the bedroom to find his jacket.
The sheets were still mussed with the memories of them laying together that afternoon. The sunlight had been shining on them so perfectly that it was like a scene from a movie. Sort of when there’s a highlight reel of the main character’s dead wife frolicking through a field of flowers, Shane thought. He recalled the scent of Ilya’s body, the warm skin against his, the slow up and down of his chest while he laid there. Next to Shane.
How had things gone so south, so quickly?
When he emerged with his coat, Ilya was still sitting on the couch, his eyes not so subtly tracking his movements across the living room.
“Hollander.”
It was almost a whisper.
Shane kept his eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to look at the man in front of him.
“Hollander, look at me.”
The pause that Shane did was almost enough to bring Ilya’s hopes up, like he was considering it.
He didn’t do that.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t look up or sigh or even acknowledge that he heard Ilya’s ask.
Shane left the house without a word.