Work Text:
June 2014 - NHL Awards Night - Las Vegas
9:29 pm.
After Ilya Rozanov leaves the bathroom, Shane Hollander gets into the car Rozanov Rozanov had called for him, feeling both horrifically high and devastatingly low. He stumbles past the cab driver, who holds the door open for him like he really is some intoxicated teenager, Shane feels drunk enough that he doesn’t even protest.
Shane barely hears the door close or the radio turn on, he’s too focused trying to decipher exactly how the fuck he’s gotten here. Shane had been angry at Rozanov at some point tonight, for being obnoxious and cocky and downright aggravating– but mostly for leaving him high and dry for half of the fucking year.
If his thoughts were more coherent, he might still have some of that anger left in him, but all he feels is the particular sickness that comes from incorrect depth perception. Rozanov has been out of reach for most of this year, and even when he’d been standing in front of Shane with his soft words in his head and rough hands on his body, Rozanov had still felt a continent away. Right in front of Shane’s face and yet completely out of his reach.
Shane didn’t want to know why the distance made him so angry in the first place. Rozanov had made it abundantly clear he wasn’t interested in anything other than a casual fuck every few months between games, his dismissal during the Sochi Olympics had proven that.
Are you okay?
Please, go.
You didn’t answer my text.
No, I did not answer your boring text, now will you go?
Yet, Ilya had showed up today, and seen him. Ilya had followed him into the bathroom and pulled him back into something resembling Shane Hollander, with little to no sexual activity involved. Well– Shane had been hard for most of it, but still. Nothing had happened.
Shane was the type of person who needed to solve things, to figure them out before he tackled them entirely. His parents had spent most of his childhood trying to soothe his raging anxiety at the fact that he couldn’t, he couldn’t figure everything out, he couldn’t magically puzzle together everything in his head until it made sense. Rozanov didn’t make sense.
No matter which way Shane maneuvered Rozanov in his head, his actions and words didn’t match, and it was making Shane fucking pissed. Mostly because, not for the first time in his life, he couldn’t predict Rozanov’s next move. If Shane was really honest with himself, that's what had made Rozanov so intriguing in the first place.
Shane wasn’t particularly good at predicting conversation, or brand deals, or mid-season tradeoffs, but he was damn good at predicting people's moves on the ice.
Shane never could have predicted Rovanov today– the confrontation and the cocky sexual advances, maybe– but the soft touches and words and insistence that he get to his hotel safely, that wasn’t in any of the many rulebooks or dictionaries Shane had created in his head about Ilya Rozanov.
Shane wasn’t very good at predicting his own behavior either, but he knew tonight would be spent waiting for Rozanov’s text, no matter how much it infuriated him to do so.
Shane was sitting in the back of a cab, drifting and dizzy and just maybe a little bit glad for it. His episode on stage hadn’t been one of his bad ones, but it hadn’t felt great to be standing in front of a national stage while feeling like his lungs were deteriorating from the inside out. He hoped nobody had noticed his hands shaking, or Rozanov’s hands in turn trying to soothe their trembles.
The cab driver opens the door again, and Shane realizes that the car is stopped outside of The Venetian and he’s spent the entire drive daydreaming about Rozanov and his tendency to confuse Shane at every turn. The cab driver asks if Shane will need assistance getting to his room, and Shane feels enough shame to deny him.
The walk up to his room is long, and is only made longer by the amount of time it takes him to put one front in front of the other. Shane feels like maybe he wouldn’t have minded spending another hour in that bathroom, his mind and body devoid of any negative thoughts or stress, all control held in Rozanov palms for a few minutes.
It feels wrong in the same way that wanting Rozanov had been, right back at the start of all of this. He’d wanted Rozanov carnally, sexually, demandingly. He’d wanted Rozanov in that all consuming way that’d had him ignoring calls from his girlfriend at the time and typing things into his computer browser that he’d had to erase immediately afterward, lest his management or parents discover them. He almost wants to pull his Google up now and ask why the hell his head feels like a puddle of muddy water, and why it’s only his fuck buddys hands who can induce it or or fix it.
It feels wrong to be known as someone who holds such a tight grip around his control at all times, only to pass it into the hands of someone else. Thats not even mentioning that that someone is Ilya Fucking Rozanov, or the fact it also felt fucking amazing not having to think or speak or make decisions in the few hours or minutes he and Rozanov carved out for each other. It had disturbed him to no end from the very first time he and Ilya had done this, just how much of an effect he had on Shane, and now Shane was fucked in the head and needing it.
Whatever it was that made his head spin like this when Rozanov was around wasn’t exactly new– both and and Rozanov knew that. There were strict roles they played and things they did to each other, but Shane was, mortifyingly, the only one who got loopy and stupid and touch-drunk.
Shane eventually gets to his door, and it takes an excruciating four swipes of his key card for the door to unlock.
He walks in, seeing the evidence of his previous arrival a few hours before the show; his suitcase tucked beside his nightstand, the sneakers he wore on the plane placed neatly beside it, and the cologne his mother insisted he start wearing, because apparently he did cologne brand deals now? Shane was a hockey player, not a– what the hell would you call someone who sells cologne?
Shane throws his phone on the bed, and then his body. With his face pressed into the silky sheets, he can almost forget how much he’d embarrassed himself today, but then Shane hears his phone buzz from beside him, and the two-ton weight of the world crashes back down on his shoulders.
Fuck, this is why he’d wanted Rozanov now. He didn’t want to sit here and imagine the judgement the hockey world is probably throwing at him right now, what kind of nationally-known hockey player couldn’t stand on a stage for ten minutes without needing his fuck buddy to shove him against a counter and put his fingers in his mouth? Shane wanted Ilya to shut his brain and body down until he could think clearly again, he didn’t want to linger between this limbo of being dizzy enough to not walk straight but clear headed enough to overanalyze himself.
Shane felt around the bed for his phone, lifting it to his face and seeing a text message from his mother.
Brand Manager (Mom): I know you said you didn’t feel well, but if you’re not asleep yet, at least turn on the T.V for the MVP award. You’ve worked so hard this year, I don’t want you to miss out on this. 9:37 PM
Shit, the award show was still happening, he’d forgotten about that. Too busy daydreaming about Rozanov, what else was fucking new. At least the MVP award was the last one of the night, and then hopefully Rozanov would finally send him a goddamn text message.
Shane: You sound awfully confident that I’ll win. 9:38 PM
Brand Manager (Mom): I need to be confident enough for the both of us. With me and your dads confidence combined you’ve already secured MVP next year. Good luck, baby. 9:40 PM
Shane smiles despite himself, sending a quick heart back to his mom and reaching towards the T.V remote that's resting beside the lamp on the nightstand. Flicking through the channels until the NHL logo flashes on his screen before it cuts to some laundry detergent commercial.
Shane glances back to his phone and swipes onto Rozanov’s contact before he can stop himself. The same messages Shane had sent a few months back staring back at him, as ignored as they had been at the Olympics.
Shane felt a bit like the teenage girls in those movies his mother insisted he watch because they were “classics”; sitting and waiting for a call from some guy who hadn’t shown remotely as much interest in him as Shane had in the guy. In those stories the guy usually ended up coming to his senses and falling hopelessly in love with the girl– but Shane wasn’t a teenage girl, he was a world-renowned hockey player, and the guy was also a world renowned hockey player, and in no universe would he love Shane, and in no universe could Shane love him back. Nice going, Shane.
The sound of applause starts coming from his T.V and Shane snaps his attention back to the screen. Some other hockey player– one of Scott Hunter’s teammates, Matthew MacDow, Shane thinks– stands behind the same podium he had, reading the script he has in front of him announcing the nominees for Most Valuable Player.
Split screen portraits of all the nominees pop up on screen, the simple cut and paste photo the NHL uses for all of Shane’s promotion fills his T.V screen, as well as Ilya Rozanov’s smug face. The man's bowtie is missing for some reason, and his button up is undone at the top to reveal freckled skin and a hint of collar bone. He’s sipping from a glass of clear liquid– vodka, probably– like this award means nothing to him. Infuriating.
Shane can’t focus on MacDow’s words, too busy watching Rozanov ignore the camera completely to talk to some girl to his right. She’s probably one of the other player’s wives, right? Not that Shane cares, because why would he care if Rozanov was talking to other people. Why would he care, he doesn’t, really he doesn’t.
Rozanov throws a casual hand behind the girl's chair. Okay, he cares, god fucking damnmit.
Shane forces himself to look at MacDow, he can’t care about anything but winning right now. The MVP award means something, but Shane couldn’t care about the professional implications right now, sure, it would greatly improve his reputation in the league, but more importantly it meant both that Shane would have bragging rights against Rozanov– and he’d be able to ask the man to do whatever Shane wanted to him, and he honest to God wanted that more than anything else.
MacDow peeled open the small envelope, his face twitching into a pained grimace at the words printed there. Fuck, Rozanov won.
It’s confirmed a few seconds later when MacDow speaks the Russian’s name into the mic, and the shark-like smile Shane knows so well fills his screen as the camera angle goes wide.
Rozanov gets up from his chair with his vodka-filled glass still tight in his hand, walking down the aisle toward the stage with the kind of casual confidence Shane would kill for. Rozanov walks onto the stage, completely ignoring the handshake MacDow tries to initiate and stepping up to the microphone on the podium. The crowd is loud despite his reputation for being an asshole on the ice– not even Shane can deny that Rozanov was a… great player– he would get applause no matter where the man went.
Rozanov takes a small sip from his glass while waiting for the crowd's noise to fade, and Shane hates him, just a bit. For being smug and awful and hopelessly attractive. The sound ceases.
“Ah. I won.” Rozanov says, his teeth peeking past his lips.
The crowd temporarily fires up again, and Shane feels his lips curl– into a smile or a snarl he isn’t quite sure.
“I would like to say thank you to my father and mother for getting me here today… And I would also like to say thank you to Shane Hollander… for being a worse player than me so I can win this award.”
Shane scoffs. Fucking Asshole.
Rozanov looks straight towards the camera pointed at him on stage, slowly lifting his glass into a high salute and winking when the camera man zooms in on his face.
Oh, Shane hates him. He wants him so bad.
Shane reaches for the remote again, abruptly smashing the off button as Rozanov is video’d walking back down the steps, lifting his hands wide and basking in the attention he gets as he walks back to his seat. Shane sees enough of that man's too-high confidence, he doesn’t need to see it on his T.V screen too.
Brand Manager (Mom): Me and your dad are holding onto that confidence, you’ll get in next year, baby! Don’t let Rozanov get in your head! 9:54 PM
Don’t let Rozanov into your head…right.
Lily: Penthouse 1. 10:23 PM.
Shane had spent the entirety of the past twenty-nine minutes letting Ilya Rozanov into his head. Shane almost wanted to text his mom back saying sorry, you’re five years too late. He didn’t, obviously, but he did walk out of his hotel room immediately after Rozanov’s message had lit up his phone screen
The static in his head had all but disappeared, and he felt equally glad and upset about that fact. He supposes he can’t be too upset about the loss, if Rozanov was truthful in his words.
Yes, Hollander. I can make you feel like this. If that is what you want.
As Shane presses the button on the elevator to take him up to Rozanov’s floor, he wonders just how much faith he should put into that statement. Rozanov won, which means he has free reign over tonight. Shane knows he’ll put at least some thought into what Shane wants, Rozanov is self-serving and selfish on the ice, but he’s almost the complete opposite of that in bed. He’s still demanding and borderline controlling, of course, but never once has he left Shane unsatisfied.
Shane purposefully undoes his tie, letting it hang on either side of his chest and unbutton the buttons around his neck. His clothes will be coming off anyway, but Shane liked the way Rozanov’s eyes would flit down to all the exposed skin in sight. It felt good to be wanted, even in the smaller ways. Shane knows he won’t be wanted in the bigger ways, so he’ll take what he can get.
Shane pushes in the door code Rozanov had sent him, feeling only a little peeved that his hotel room was nice enough to have a door with a lock that required a code. Shane didn’t care for the luxury, but he did care anytime Rozanov managed to one up him in any way.
The room is dark, only lit by a few white-light lamps scattered across the room. Rozanov stands by a wall of high windows overlooking the city, his shirt is completely unbuttoned, and Shane feels his hand fumble on the doorknob as he catches the trail of dark hair leading down past his pant line. He still has a stupid fucking glass in his hand.
Rozanov taps his finger against the bottom of his glass a couple times before lifting his hands into the same gesture Shane had seen on his screen after Rozanov had won, outright asking to be praised in a way that only Ilya Rozanov would. He looks irritatingly good, and Shane wishes he would ask for a kiss instead of a congratulations.
“Congratultions.” Shane sighs, nodding his head exasperatedly.
“Thank you.” Rozanov nods back. He tips the liquid in his glass into his mouth. “Now take off your clothes”.
Shane shakes his head, feeling a familiar burst of unwanted warmth in his chest at his bluntness. Rozanov was frighteningly good at asking for what he wanted– in contrast, he always had to drag it out of Shane, usually when Shane was on the brink of release and was more feeling than thought.
“You’re such an asshole.” Shane huffs, but moves toward the couch to fold his blazer over the back of it. He feels the burn of Rozanov’s gaze as he meticulously strips off his clothes. Rozanov’s eyes dip below his torso more than once, and Shane has to stop himself from taking his hands away from the buttons of his shirt to rip the pants off right then. Not giving Rozanov what he wanted when he wanted it felt like a cardinal sin.
The ice in Rozanov’s glass clinks loudly in the silent room, only a companion to the sound of Shane’s clothes ruffling against his skin as he pulls it off. These windows are huge. They’re quite high up right now, but the familiar paranoia boils in his gut at the thought of anyone looking through the glass to see two rival hockey players eye-fucking eachother right in the living room.
Once he’s left in nothing but his boxers, Shane turns to stand and stare at Rozanov, feeling as open and exposed as he always does when Rozanov barks out commands at him like Shane’s some unhousetrained puppy. Shane doesn’t know what it means that he always follows said commands, almost enjoys it. In that scenario would the treat be Rozanov's–
“What?” Rozanov asks as Shane’s eyes flit to the windows and back.
“Just a lot of windows.”
Rozanov’s eyes glance at the windows, and then he gestures his head toward the room behind him. Shane watches him grab a chair and drag it past the doorway and into the bedroom, placing it a few feet away from the foot of the bed.
At first Shane thinks he’ll get to spend the night posted between Rozanov’s legs as he sits in that chair, sips on his vodka, and stares down at Shane’s stretched mouth, which is a much hotter concept than Shane thinks it should be. Shane abruptly realizes that he wouldn't even care if he got off, as long as Rozanov could lift him into the higher plane he’d been resting in earlier. That’s a bad thought, because would that count as sex? They only did sex. Well, sex and some kissing in fancy bathrooms, apparently.
“Good.” Rozanov says, staring at Shane as he stops beside the bed. “Now get on the bed.”
Shane doesn’t even ask why, his head already too full with thoughts of Rozanov taking what he wants. Shane pads onto the bed, shuffling his back up against the headboard and crossing his ankles the same way he would in meetings.
“This is a good hotel, very nice vodka.” Rozanov moves to sit in the chair, and Shane feels vindicated that he knew Rozanov’s choice in alcohol. “It’s hard to find in America.”
“Ok…” Shane furrows his brows, waiting, waiting, always waiting for Rozanov to make the next move. Tell him where to go, what to do, where to put his mouth or his hands.
“Touch yourself.” Rozanov bites out, blunt and straight-forward as always.
Shane feels a bit dumbstruck, when he said where to put his mouth or hands, he usually meant where on Rozanov.
“What?”
“Show off for me, I want to watch you.”
“You what?” Shane breathes out a laugh.
“It’s my special day, Hollander, I want to watch.” Ilya says, a tinge of impatience in his voice that made Shane want to do whatever he says, no matter the content of the words.
“I’ve never…”
“No shit.” Rozanov just barely rolls his eyes.
“Fuck you.” Shane bites back, feeling a bit insecure. He didn’t like feeling like he held all of the attention in the room on the best of days, and yeah, maybe it was just Rozanov, but still. “Give me some vodka, at least.”
“Mmm, no, no, no. Vodka is for after, as your reward.”
Shane just notices the small twitch of a smile from Rozanov as he lifts the glass tauntingly back to his lips, the ice clacking loudly against the sides. Shane imagines the liquid flowing down his throat, and his throat contracts in a gulp of its own as Rozanov swallows the alcohol down.
Shane takes a breath, stiffening whatever dignity and resolve he had left. There would be none of it, after this. Shane couldn’t find it in himself to care, not when Rozanov’s promises are already making his peripheral go loose and fuzzy like they had in the bathroom.
He widens his legs, watching raptly as Rozanov’s eyes follow every movement. Shane moves his hands without thinking, he doesn’t want to give himself time to overthink this. He wanted Rozanov to make him feel good, now he just had to trust that this would do that. He had no reason to believe it wouldn’t, Rozanov didn’t go back on his promises when it came to sex.
Shane palms the back and side of his neck, feeling the baby hairs on the back of his neck raise at the touch. His hands weren’t nearly as big as Rozanov’s, but if he’s particularly rough with himself right now he can almost pretend Rozanov isn’t sitting a few feet away, not touching him despite Shane wanting it so badly. Shane wants Rozanov to push his body into the bed, put pressure onto every muscle and limb until he has no choice but to surrender to relaxation.
Shane drags his hand down his chest, trying to muffle the small breath of air that wants to breach his lips as he grazes over his nipple. Rozanov’s lips twitch upwards again and Shane knows he caught it anyway. Nevermind, Shane didn’t care that Rozanov had all his attention on him, it was intoxicating. He was glad Rozanov had denied him the vodka, he didn’t need it now.
Shane's hands flutter as he reaches down, and his breath stutters out of his chest as he feels silk and skin fill his palm. Rozanov’s eyes are all black as they stare at Shane’s handful. Shane feels like a live wire, twitching and energetic and ready to shock anything or anyone that lays a hand on him.
Rozanov’s gaze drags back up to him, and Shane muffles a whine at the dominating look in his blown out pupils.
“Do you want to know how it feels?” Rozanov murmurs, his eyes not straying from Shanes.
Through the honey-thick liquid buffering his thoughts, Shane manages to finally decipher the words.
“How what feels?”
“Holding the cup.”
Shane wants to hit him. The floaty feeling doesn’t leave, but Shane manages to swim through the blood-thick water to throw a glare back at the man.
“You fucking asshole.”
“Ah I can barely describe it, Oh my God, Hollander.” Rozanov tosses his head back, and Shane shoves down the urge to crawl forward off the bed and beg for a taste of the skin lining Rozanov’s vocal cords. Shane wants to press his mouth there until the flavor is imprinted on the skin of his lips, maybe if he kissed deep enough, he could lick over his lips once he leaves this hotel and still be able to taste Rozanov in his tongue.
Shane reluctantly takes his hand off himself to grab at the waistband of his boxers, shuffling them off of his body and throwing them at Rozanov’s lax form. They almost hit the glass out of the man’s hand, and a sharp grin pulls at Shane’s lips. The grin turns greedy as Rozanov’s eyes bore into him, a challenge and a warning all in one.
Rozanov picks the boxers up between his fingers, staring at the fabric like it’s done him a personal misservice. Rozanov tosses them to the floor carelessly, his eyes still glaring bullet holes into his skin.
Shane lets his hand roam farther down his body, fighting through the fog and telling himself he needs to remember how Rozanov is looking at him right now. It’s been too long since Shane has had this man's attention, he wants to savor it, log it into his internal calendar and count down the days until he gets it again.
Rozanov watches his fingers dip lower and lower, a hungry look painted across his features.
“Fuck.” Rozanov grunts.
“Are you gonna fuck me?”
“We will see.”
Shane bites back another whine, wanting desperately to beg Rozanov to say yes. To tell him he wants to feel good again, wants to tell him that he needs Rozanov to touch him, to make him loose and drifting and gone.
“I need…”
“What.”
“You know.”
Shane wants to remind him of their conversation earlier, where Shane had been drooling against his shoulder and begging him to keep him down, but the words are heavy and demanding and Shane will take anything Rozanov gives him, even if it isn’t exactly what he needs.
“Tell me.” Rozanov grunts, impatient.
Shane loves and hates this, he hates the distance, the lack of closeness, the fact that he can still feel the phantom touch of Rozanov lips on him, the fact that he craves to feel it again. He loves that even without all that, Rozanov can still make him weak like this. The lack of control feels like the high he got from a blunt his high school girlfriend once pushed to his lips when he was sixteen. The air feels like it did then; heavy and weighted and thick.
“I need you.” Shane murmurs, not feeling nearly as shameful as he thinks he should.
Rozanov’s eyes pull tight, and Shane knows he’s got him. Rozanov hums, downing the rest of the liquid in his glass, finally standing up out of the chair. Rozanov pulls the shirt off his shoulders, tossing it behind him on the floor.
Shane hasn’t been told that he can move, but he can’t help himself. He drags his body toward the foot of the bed, only feeling somewhat concerned with how heavy his bones feel. Shane shoves his head into the fabric covering Rozanov’s crotch, so desperate for contact that even the rough fabric feels like heaven against his forehead.
When Rozanov’s hand sifts through the hair at the back of his head, Shane doesn’t have the mind to smother the gaspy whimper that leaves his mouth. Rozanov only presses his face harder into his crotch, cradling the back of his head and petting him like he’s a needy street dog panting for attention.
“...Hollander. Hollander.”
Rozanov’s hands suddenly wrap around his jaw, and then Shane's face is being tugged up. A barely audible gasp leaves the man’s mouth, and Shane distantly wonders just how insane he must look right now to shock that response out of him.
“Oh my, look at you.” Rozanov murmurs, his thumbnail scraping across Shane’s lips. Shane just whines, pushing harder into the hand and grasping at the back of Rozanov’s thighs. Rozanov lets him do it, his eyes flicking to different parts of Shane’s face, Shane drinks in the attention eagerly, like he’ll never get it again. Maybe he won’t, maybe this is the last time Rozanov will tolerate him like this, he whines louder.
“Hollander, look at me.”
Shane doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but opening them feels like a really difficult task. He’d much rather let Rozanov take his full body weight and do with it what he will.
“Now, Hollander.” Rozanov shakes his head hard, and Shane forces his eyes open at the warning in Rozanov’s voice. They stare at each other for a few moments, taking in the starkly different roles they are currently sporting. Never has this gone this far, never has Rozanov looked so ready to whisper commands in his ear, never has Shane felt so fucking eager to follow them.
“I told you I’d make you feel good, didn’t I?” Rozanov murmurs, soft but sure. Shane sluggishly nods his head. He feels fucking amazing.
“Do you want me to make you feel even better?” Rozanov whispers against the shell of his ear, his free hand carding through the strands of hair falling over Shane's eyes. Shane nods again, feeling miles and miles above ground, completely sky high.
“You need to answer me, Hollander. I won’t do anything to you if you can’t say it.” Shane groans, feeling like his voice has retreated somewhere foreign in his body. He can’t grab the words, can’t force them into a proper sentence. It’s vaguely terrifying, and if he was more present he’s sure he’d be panicking just a bit.
Rozanov must see his struggle, because his canines poke through his lips with the sharp smile flashing on his face.
“Shane Hollander... You are usually the public’s pet, no? You sit and you speak and you do everything they ask of you. How would they think of you now, shchenok?” Puppy.
Shane doesn’t know Russian well enough to piece the taunt together, he doesn’t really care enough to, anyway. Rozanov can call him what he’d like.
“Speak, Hollander. I cannot do anything if you don’t”
Shane grunts against Rozanov’s leg, begging his brain to cooperate with him for just a few seconds. A single sentence, and then he can completely let go.
“Yes, please. Please Rozanov. W’na feel good. Make me feel good.” Shane slurs into Rozanov’s thigh, which is now damp with spit from Shane drooling at the mere thought of having Rozanov this close.
Rozanov lets out a low whine of his own, before pushing at Shane’s shoulder to move him back on the bed a bit. Shane tries to move forward again because the thought of not touching Rozanov right now makes him sick to his stomach. Rozanov pushes him back again.
“It is okay, you are fine. I will make you feel good.” Rozanov whispers, and Shane feels tears well up embarrassingly in his eyes. He wonders if Rozanov’s pained grunt is real or imagined.
“Fuck, okay. Pretty thing.” Rozanov lets one of his hands fall, and Shane catches it with his own, lacing their fingers together. It is enough, thank God. Rozanov's hands have stuttered, and his eyes are pinpointed on where they are holding hands. Shane isn’t in his body enough to remember that they don’t do this.
Shane watches Rozanov focus again and start unbuttoning his pants with one hand, saliva pooling under his tongue and filling his cheeks. Once his pants are off, Shane can’t help but shove his face into the front of Rozanov’s underwear.
Rozanov lets out a breathy laugh, his eyebrows lifted high.
“I was going to let you have it, but you’d be more than happy like this wouldn’t you?”
Shane nods dopily, feeling the heat of Rozanov’s skin through the thick fabric.
“Let me, Hollander.”
Rozanov pulls his underwear down and off his body, letting it fall to the floor with a dull thump. Rozanov’s eyes grow sharp as they see Shane’s pupils dilate impossibly wider.
Shane smiles.
Shane opens his mouth.
Shane is high as a fucking kite.
Rozanov had kept his promise, had given him everything he’d wanted and more– well, in the sexual and mental sense, at least. They just– they hadn’t kissed. Rozanov hadn’t kissed him once and Shane had honestly been too touch-drunk to say anything other than please, or more, so he hadn’t asked. Asking feels out of reach, anyway. Rozanov had kissed him in the bathroom, but even that had felt like a boundary place; I will kiss you now only because I can’t fuck you now.
It wasn’t enough.
Everything else was great, Shane felt like he was outside of his body, floating in liminal space. He couldn't feel the sheets against his skin, or hear the thump of Rozanov’s feet as he moved throughout the room, maneuvering Shane until his body was in a comfortable position. He thinks maybe Rozanov is saying something, but it sounds like pure radio static.
Time is non-existent to him, the numbers on the clock are indecipherable, and Shane would prefer it to stay that way. The longer that clock ticks, the shorter amount of time Shane has to sit here, covered in spit and release and Rozanov’s attention. Shane wanted to stay here, maybe forever.
“Hollander.”
Shane didn’t reply, but he felt a warm cloth start wiping across his body. His face and neck first, then his torso, which required more attention because there was more than sweat staining his skin there, then to his lower body. Shane didn’t manage to quiet his noises as Rozanov’s hands touched the more sensitive parts of him, but Rozanov just petted his forehead as he wiped the mess away.
Shane didn’t know how much time had passed but eventually he felt more inside his body, and a large hand wrapped around his ankle. Shane lifted his head up, feeling like he was lifting something much heavier.
Rozanov was standing a few feet away from the bed, holding an inconspicuous blue bottle in his left hand. The labeling looked Russian. He was still very naked, it was very distracting.
“Welcome back. I almost didn’t think you’d survive.” Rozanov's voice was back to its rough, uncaring tone. Nothing like the soft, cooing voice Shane had been hearing for the last hour. Shane tries to ignore how much he misses it.
“Shut up.” Shane scoffs, pressing a half-fake smile onto his lips and pulling himself into a sitting position on the bed.
“Careful, Hollander, or you won’t get your reward.” Rozanov lifted the bottle, shaking it in a way so reminiscent to their first real meeting in the gym as rookies Shane almost feels eighteen again. Shane realizes it’s vodka and not water. He shakes himself out of his stupor when Rozanov starts moving towards him, twisting the cap up and off.
Shane looks in his other hand and sees no glass. Rozanov tilts the bottle up towards his mouth, and Shane feels the distinct urge to pour the alcohol all over him. Asshole, couldn’t even get him a glass.
“Come on, Hollander, do you not want it?” Rozanov taunts, shaking the bottle some more. Shane rolls his eyes, because yes he still wants his reward from Rozanov, for some stupid fucking reason.
As Rozanov tips the bottle again, Shane suddenly hesitates.
“Wait– are you– are you gonna have me drink all of it?”
Rozanov pauses, holding the vodka bottle a few inches from his lips, his eyebrows furrowing and a sharp grin suddenly tugging at his lips.
“Would you? If I put this up to your lips and told you to drink, would you drink the whole thing?”
Yes. Yes, Shane would. Shane would gladly let the alcohol burn his throat and ruin his liver if Rozanov was the one pushing the bottle to his lips. Shane would let his head get fuzzy and his words slur, because really, what was the fucking difference to how he was now?
Ilya’s face pulls into something tight and smugly awed.
“Fuck, you would, wouldn’t you?”
The urge to snap back at him and refuse is strong, but Shane doesn’t want to. Shane doesn’t feel like doing anything other than what Rozanov wants, even if in a clearer headspace that would piss him off to hell and back.
Rozanov slowly brings the bottle to his mouth, and Shane parts his lips accordingly. Shane feels his mouth water at the idea of having something pressed against his lips again. Rozanov hums condescendingly.
“Pavlov was Russian, you know?”
“Get fucked.”
The first splash on his tongue is as strong and disgusting as he thought it would be, but the burn is almost soothed by the dark look in Rozanov’s eyes.
Shane is so distracted he doesn’t even have it in him to protest when some of the vodka spills down his lips and trails down his throat and exposed chest. Rozanov follows the rivulets with his eyes, watching the liquid dip into the planes of Shane’s collarbones and ridges of his ab muscles. It seeps into the cream coloured sheets and paints them a damp white.
“You’re gonna ruin the sheets.” Shane rasps when Rozanov pulls the bottle back, like the sheets aren’t already soaked with their combined sweat and release.
“You’ll be cleaning them later.” Rozanov says so assuredly Shane almost wants to smack the bottle from his hands, but he doesn’t, because that would mean straying from Rozanov’s demands.
Shane merely nods, watching as Rozanov takes his own swig of vodka. A hand cups his jaw, and Shane can do nothing but open his mouth as Rozanov leans over him and lets his lips part, letting the alcohol trail into Shane’s mouth. Shane squirms against his hold, can’t help it, not when their lips are so close.
Please, please, good fucking god, please!
Rozanov pulls back, and the position they're in is so achingly familiar that Shane is sure he feels it too. They’ve been here hundreds of times, with Rozanov pressing lingering kisses against his mouth as he pins Shane down, or pushes him against a wall. Shane doesn’t want his reward anymore, he wants Rozanov’s lips on his.
Rozanov’s eyes flick down to Shane’s still parted lips, and Shane watches as his face pulls into something odd.
Roznov pulls back, stumbling away from the bed. Shane wonders how much vodka he had before Shane showed up. Rozanov pulls the quarter-full bottle to his lips, downing the rest of it in a few short gulps.
Shane stays quiet. Something just happened, but Shane isn’t sure what. He doesn’t think he’s back down in his body enough to deal with it yet.
“I need to sleep.” Rozanov says, and it sounds like the closing of a book.
“Oh.” Shane murmurs, hoping the rejection in his voice isn’t horrifically obvious. “Yeah, me too. I should uh–” He moves to stand up off the bed, catching himself on the nightstand when his legs don’t quite cooperate.
Rozanov’s brows furrow despite the hard look on his face.
“Do you need another cab?”
“No. No, I’m fine–”
“Are you sure?’
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just gonna–” Shane walks toward where his clothes are still folded on the couch, ignoring Rozanov’s eyes as he leans heavily against it while unfolding them. Rozanov nods, then turns around and walks back towards the bedroom. Shane lets his face fall. He can’t cry here, that's embarrassing.
Shane shoves his clothes back on his body, feeling like it isn’t his own. He doesn’t really want to be here anymore, because Rozanov clearly doesn’t want him here either. Shane wants a goodbye kiss, maybe. Just maybe.
“So, uh, I’m off–”
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
Shane feels like a door had just been slammed in his face. Fine. That’s– that’s fine. Shane is fine.
Shane opens the door to Rozanov’s room, closing it softly behind him despite wanting to slam it as hard as Ilya Rozanov just did.
Shane walks down the hallway towards the elevator, feeling like every string that had been holding his body up has just been cut. He presses the down button on the elevator door and notices that his hands are shaking. He waits for the elevator, his lungs expanding fast and heavy, it feels just a bit like he’dying– but that’s dramatic.
Shane fumbles for his phone, opening it to see he and Rozanov’s text thread. The screen is blurry– Ah, no, those are just tears. That’s pathetic, Shane isn’t a teenager, he usually doesn’t cry over people like this. Then again, Shane usually doesn’t feel the sort of panic that's currently making his legs unstable and his breath fast and erratic.
When did that start happening? When did he go from floating to falling? How had he been so high and then so low within a matter of minutes. Maybe it's good that Rozanov doesn’t want to do this anymore, because he’s the only one who can make Shane’s emotions go so haywire.
The elevator beeps.
Shane walks slowly into the elevator, trying to calm his head. It’s not that big of a deal, what did he expect? Rozanov spent six months ignoring him and only texted him this time around because he’d wanted sex, they’d had sex, and now here they were. Here is where they always were.
He presses the ground floor button, stumbling back against the back wall of the elevator, still staring at Rozanov’s contact.
His shaky thumbs are flying over the keypad before he can think about it.
Jane: See you next season :)
Shane deletes it.
Jane: We didn’t even kiss.
He feels himself sinking to the floor of the elevator.
Shane deletes it.