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Winter, 2017
It was easy, this thing they had. Casual, sporadic, distant. Easy.
Ilya had not seen Shane since the All Stars Game in Tampa, though neither confirmed outright that they would reunite the next time their teams played one another. It was, at this point in time, a given that time spent in the same city would be time spent together, if they could spare it. Easy.
When Ilya’s plane landed in Montreal he called out a barrage of insults mixed with the occasional compliment to each of his teammates as they deboarded, curving his left hand around his mouth to carry his voice down the jet bridge. They ignored him for the most part, a few jostling him as they passed by or offering a chirp of their own, but his bright smile remained as he followed the last man out. His other hand held his phone, the usual Your place? typed and sent without even looking at the screen. Casual.
Ilya adjusted the duffel strap on his shoulder, meandering through the airport with the phone pressed hard against his palm. He had been bouncing around North America for over a month since they last played Montreal, since he last saw Hollander. They had gone months without so much as a text in the past, let alone a meet up. Sporadic.
The rest of the team debated their most frequented bars as they trekked through the airport, the ones that wouldn’t mind hosting the arch-rivals of Montreal’s own team, but Ilya listened only enough to supply his usual snark. His phone dinged, the ringer on maximum volume, earning him a glance from Marlow. Shane confirmed, as usual, that they would meet at the vacant building he had been “renovating” for the last few years instead of his actual apartment. Distant.
“Surprised you’re even making the trip to the hotel with us, Rozanov,” Marlow called over his shoulder, “Aren’t you wasting precious time with your Montreal girl?”
“You always thinking about where I put my dick, Marlow?” he shot back, earning a cackle from his other teammates.
The men piled into the shuttle reserved to bring them to their hotel. Ilya kept his phone tucked away in his pocket for their entire trip. He thought about the messages he would be sending Shane if he didn’t have to worry about nosy teammates spying over his shoulder for a glimpse at his conversation with the person he always disappeared to see when they were in town. By the time they made it to the hotel he had ripped the stitching on the left side of his joggers from fussing with a loose string.
He hung around at the back of the group to let the others check in before him, cognizant of the way some of his teammates watched him. Still, he couldn’t help but impatiently tug at the crucifix around his neck as he waited in an attempt to soothe himself. When his phone vibrated again he fumbled with the passcode, hands shaking as he prepared himself for the cancellation, the rejection, that he always worried would come next.
Jane: Hurry up.
He locked his phone, jamming it back into his pocket and taking a deep breath to settle his nerves.
Ilya Rozanov was cool, collected, calm and confident when he knew there were eyes on him. A part of him recognized that he was being too obvious now, too obvious every time they came to Montreal really. Two years ago he would have taken more care to cover up his anticipation, but after their time together in Tampa Ilya found himself too eager to show the same restraint.
He adjusted the weight of his bag, using it as an excuse to angle himself away from anyone close enough to see his messages. Shane told him more than once to purchase a privacy screen to keep anyone unwanted from reading over his shoulder, but Ilya knew that would only draw more attention to what he did his best to keep hidden.
Lily: Rude boy.
Lily: Be nice or I will stay in hotel tonight.
The front desk staff checked the group in quickly, clearly having been warned about the rowdy hockey team’s impending arrival while they were still in transit. Ilya tapped his foot, graciously offering to wait for the next elevator when a family of five approached from behind. It was as if he couldn’t admit even to himself how excited he felt at the promise of seeing Shane again, like playing it cool would override the erratic thump in his chest when his phone dinged again.
Jane: You’re terrible.
Jane: Maybe even evil.
Ilya’s sly grin faltered, feeling the words like shivers down his spine. He did his best to imagine the goofy smile on Shane’s face as he teased him. But deep down he wondered just how much truth was behind the taunting. They had fun together, Shane was one of the few people that Ilya allowed behind the carefully constructed wall he built around himself, but he knew he could take it too far.
There was a reason why some hockey fans referred to him as ‘Evil-ya Rozanov’. And though he deemed it to be good natured for the most part, and frankly lame for an attempt at an insult, he couldn’t deny the anguish that occasionally came with confronting his villainous reputation head on.
Sometimes, especially when they played an away game with none of their own fans to balance the jeering, the animosity settled deep in his gut and clawed at his insides.
Jane: Please hurry.
Jane: Okay?
Ilya stared at the screen, the slow smile creeping across his face again. He traced his top lip with two fingers in an attempt to smother it, but when he saw the 3 dots on the bottom of the screen signaling Shane’s continued typing he relinquished all control. Shane was there, right on the other side of the screen, closer than they had been in weeks.
Jane: Please come to my apartment and fuck me.
Jane: I can’t wait any longer. Need you here.
Ilya glanced up at the elevator and saw it was still 10 floors away from the lobby. The group waiting for the next ride grew by the minute, and he lost his patience all at once. Turning to his left, he was relieved to see Marlow a few feet away chatting with Carmichael about the karaoke bar a few doors down from the hotel. Ilya approached them hurriedly, running a hand through his hair to seem less flustered than Shane’s text had made him.
“Marlow-”
“Yes, I can bring your bag to the room,” Marlow responded easily, as though he had been anticipating the request, “I’m not covering for you if you miss curfew though.”
“I would do for you,” Ilya said, unzipping the heavy duffel to retrieve a small pouch within it containing his phone charger, wallet, and a few toiletries.
“Aw, he’s even got an essentials bag ready to go,” Carmichael teased, “I don’t remember seeing one of those when we shared a room in Ottawa. It took you twenty minutes to find your toothbrush.”
“Every minute counts when Rozy visits Montreal,” Marlow smirked.
Perhaps Ilya was not as subtle as he liked to believe.
________________
There was a part of Ilya, however quiet, that wanted this more than he had wanted anything since he started playing for the league.
Shane stood at the bottom of the stairs with his hands clasped together, a shy smile on his face and his hair still damp from the shower. Ilya jumped when he opened the door and saw him less than a foot from the entrance, shaking his head and mumbling a string of Russian expletives to seem less giddy than he was. Shane narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to translate the cursing in his head, and Ilya was hit with a rush of fondness that he looked away to tamper down.
“What is point in sending code if you wait by door?” he asked, eyes glued to the cracked concrete wall beside him.
“Maybe I changed my mind and came down to lock you out,” Shane countered.
Ilya was acutely aware that Shane’s eyes still had not left his face, searching him for something he was not doing a good enough job of hiding.
“Perhaps I leave then,” Ilya made a big show of grabbing the door handle, “The whole team texts over and over begging me to come karaoke with them. So if you do not want me, Hollander-”
Ilya felt hands on his arms, spinning him around and pinning his back to the door. He didn’t have a chance to breathe before Shane’s lips were on his, somehow equally eager and taunting at the same time. All of his reservations regarding their meet up melted away. The only thing he could think of was Shane, and where he was planning to put his hands next.
“I want you,” Shane murmured against his mouth.
They continued kissing as they climbed the stairs between Shane’s protests about the danger of falling, tumbling into the apartment halfway through a joint effort at unbuttoning Ilya’s coat. Instead of throwing it to the ground as he might have in the past, Ilya kept one hand on Shane’s jaw and used the other to hang his jacket on the coat rack beside the front door.
Ilya felt Shane’s shoulders shake, and he pulled back to get a better look at him.
“You laugh at me?” he asked incredulously, tangling his fingers in Shane’s hair at the nape of his neck.
“It’s sweet,” Shane nodded to the rack, “You hung it this time without me having to ask.”
“Is expensive coat,” Ilya’s cheeks flushed.
In an attempt to tamper down the intimacy of the moment he yanked Shane forward by his hair and bit down on the base of his throat, right above his collarbone. Shane yelped in a way that reminded Ilya of a startled animal, so he ran his tongue over the mark slowly to soothe him.
“Shh, Hollander, you cry like kicked puppy,” Ilya murmured between kisses.
“Mean,” Shane whined, “You’re always so mean to me.”
Ilya paused, his grip on Shane’s hair loosening for a beat. Shane took the opportunity to nudge him in the direction of the bedroom, seemingly unaware of the hesitation. The throw pillows were already stacked in a neat pile in front of the closet, the duvet tugged down to expose the bright white sheets Ilya knew would be deposited into the washing machine within ten minutes of his departure that night.
His stomach twisted when he thought about falling asleep next to Marlow’s heavy snores instead of Shane’s soft breathing.
“Hey,” Shane’s hand cupped his cheek, “You okay?”
Ilya hated the sound of sympathy, of concern that Shane didn’t bother concealing. Instead of confronting the deep seated ache in his gut that made him question everything he’d ever said, everything he’d ever done, he scooped Shane up and threw him onto the bed. The delighted laughter soothed him enough to push the contempt he felt for himself down and focus on the moment he was in instead.
“You let me focus now, yes?” Ilya hummed as he climbed on top of him, covering Shane’s body with his own as if it would shield him from the rest of the world.
“Yes,” Shane said breathlessly, his eyelids already fluttering.
“You will be good boy?” Ilya continued, slipping one hand under Shane’s shirt to trace his bare skin.
“I-” Shane squeezed his eyes closed, embarrassed, “Yes.”
“Tell me,” Ilya commanded, fingers trailing along his waistband.
Shane turned away, his face bright red even in the low light of the room. Ilya had demanded he purchase an additional lamp when they first started using the apartment, claiming it was to get a better view of Shane’s body. Truthfully, he spent most of their time face to face admiring the smattering of freckles dominating his cheeks. Sometimes, when he was close to finishing but desperate to last, he counted the individual flecks.
“I’ll be good,” Shane whispered finally, “I’ll be… I’ll be a good boy. For you.”
Ilya lost all control after that.
He pinned Shane down, hastily shoving his track pants down and wrapping a hand around his hardening cock. Shane cried out again, somewhere between a wail and a whimper as he rutted upward into Ilya’s grip. This was the part of their time together that cleared his head, when they were too wrapped up into chasing their release to consider the implications of their relationship. If they could only have this, then Ilya would make sure it was enough.
“You are very good boy, yes,” Ilya practically cooed, “So pretty too.”
Ilya sat back on his heels. As he helped Shane remove his t-shirt he gathered as much saliva as possible in his mouth. When his own clothes had been dealt with, he leaned forward again and released a long string of spit directly onto Shane’s cock. He gave no further warning before he went to work with his mouth, the skin already slippery from his own drool.
Ilya relaxed his throat, nearly chuckling when Shane began trembling beneath him. It took so little to get him into a state of pure bliss. He looked up and saw how intermittently Shane’s chest rose and fell, the man clearly holding his breath to keep himself as quiet as possible. Ilya rolled his eyes, even with Shane’s cock heavy on his tongue, and pinched his hip hard to get his attention.
“That hurt,” Shane whined, but the deep breath he pulled in left him shuddering even harder than before.
Ilya hummed in response, keeping careful watch of Shane’s breathing. He wanted nothing more than to push Shane to the brink of ecstasy over and over again, but that couldn’t happen if he was trapped in his own head. He bought this strange, isolated building for a reason, and that reason was for Ilya to fuck him until he screamed.
“You will be thanking me soon enough,” Ilya grinned, tongue moving slowly from the base of Shane’s cock to nuzzle at his balls.
Shane gasped, his body going rigid. Ilya continued mouthing at him, alternating back and forth while he braced Shane’s hips with his forearm to keep him from flying off the bed. After a few minutes he stilled his head and focused on the pulse of Shane’s cock against his hollowed cheeks, delicately sliding his tongue side to side to tease him. Shane babbled above him, his pleas scattered and disjointed as he begged Ilya to continue.
Ilya once again let the saliva gather in his mouth, this time dripping it onto his hands. Shane’s eyes shot open when he felt the press of his index finger to his rim, but before he could sit up to retrieve the lube from the bedside drawer Ilya shushed him and pushed inside. Shane whimpered, his eyes squeezed close again and body tense.
“Hurts?” Ilya asked gently, finger still inside of him, “Breathe, Hollander.”
“Yes, but…” Shane followed Ilya’s instructions and inhaled slowly, “S’good.”
Ilya watched his expression relax. He wiggled the tip of his finger, testing the resistance, and couldn’t help but smile when Shane angled his hips to push it deeper. Ilya liked to be rough, he liked to push Shane to his very limits, but the last thing that he wanted was to hurt him in a way that would follow them out of the bedroom and into the real world.
Because this, he knew, was not the real world. This was a piece of paradise that he could not get used to, could not fall into fully, because it could never last.
So Ilya savored his time between Shane’s thighs, lapping up every last second that they had together before they would face another month of separation. He reminded himself, amidst Shane’s writhing and pleading, that there was no guarantee that this would happen again. The thrill of the danger could wear off at any moment, the weight of the consequences could finally set in for real.
But Ilya’s deepest worry, his greatest shame, was that Shane would find someone else. Someone nice.
He pulled himself from the brink of panic, centering himself on Shane’s cock and swallowing deeper than before. Ilya managed to work another finger inside of him, the fit tighter than usual but good enough to leave Shane begging for more. The pleading turned to incomprehensible whines when Ilya crooked his fingers, stretching them and spreading them apart as he massaged Shane’s prostate.
“You have to stop,” Shane gasped.
“Hurts?” Ilya paused again, looking up with lidded eyes.
“Too good,” Shane laughed breathlessly, “If you keep going, I’ll-”
Ilya ignored the warning and went back to work, head bobbing faster than before and fingers moving to match the rhythm. Shane’s legs thrashed, so Ilya pinned them down with his own and continued sucking until he felt Shane’s cock twitch and his cum hit the back of his throat. He kept it in his mouth for a moment, letting Shane catch his breath. Gently, he rolled Shane onto his stomach and propped his hips up with one of the pillows still remaining on the bed.
“What’re you doin’?” Shane asked drowsily, hand reaching out aimlessly for Ilya to return the favor.
Ilya rubbed his fingers up and down Shane’s bare back, the cum still sour on his tongue. His own cock ached, somehow forgotten until Shane’s hand brushed against it and sent a jolt of pleasure through his body. Ilya maintained his composure, though difficult, and bent over. He carefully spread Shane’s ass and opened his mouth enough to let the mixture of cum and spit dribble drip onto his rim.
Shane gasped in surprise, but Ilya kept him pinned down by the shoulders. He had to close his eyes for a moment, so overwhelmed at the sight before him. Ilya spent the next minute pressing wet, open mouthed kisses from the base of his spine to his hairline. By the time he spoke next, he leveled himself out enough that his voice didn’t tremble.
“You tell me if it is too much, yes?” he instructed.
“I… yes,” Shane said softly.
When Ilya looked up he found that Shane’s eyes were on him, his expression open and wanting. He held his gaze as he dipped his fingers into Shane’s own mess and coated his cock, spitting directly onto his rim for good measure. Ilya felt like they were in a bubble together, or rather plastic bound tightly against their skin. If they broke apart for a second, even just to open the bedside drawer, he was sure they would lose this moment.
So he murmured praise as he entered Shane from behind, draping himself over his back and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He moved slowly, far slower than he had ever done before, even that first night together. Shane exhaled shakily, the high pitched wincing sound soon warped into a moan of pleasure.
“Speak, Hollander,” Ilya’s voice wobbled, the ecstasy quickly becoming more than he could handle.
“Ilya,” Shane gasped out, “It’s… I want you to, I-”
Ilya’s mind went white at the sound of his name coming from Shane’s mouth. He thought it would be agony to keep from drilling into him as usual, but the slow drag of his cock felt better than anything they had done through their years of rough, casual sex. He wanted to draw it out, to spend every minute until their next game as deep inside of Shane as he could be.
“More,” Shane whimpered, hips rutting against the pillow.
“Greedy boy,” Ilya smirked, dropping a hand to Shane’s hard cock, still damp from his mouth.
Later, Ilya would not remember who finished first. It seemed, at the time, that they came simultaneously and without clear warning on either end. They may have screamed, they may have laughed, he would never know for sure. Ilya could not see through the fog of his orgasm, collapsing on top of Shane instead when his energy depleted.
After a few seconds of heavy panting, Shane made a noise of discontentment beneath him.
“Yes, Hollander, good job,” Ilya encouraged, one hand tangling in Shane’s hair to lift his head.
He moved him to get a better look at his expression, to make sure that there was no hidden pain, but the second Shane’s head rose from the pillow he dazedly chased after Ilya’s lips. That was what broke him, what caused the black vignettes creeping at the corner of Ilya’s mind to shroud him in darkness.
Shane muttered something of his own as Ilya gently pulled out and rolled off of him. He felt the walls closing in on him, the weight of the world now back in full force and threatening to smother him beneath it. Ilya stood quickly, forcing himself across the room to retrieve a cloth for Shane as he always did. The urge to care for Shane was both alarming and a relief. He knew his feelings ran too deep, but they gave him a sense of purpose as he staggered out of the bedroom.
He came to what must have been minutes later in the middle of Shane’s bathroom, the sink running water so hot that the steam had begun to fog the mirror in front of him. Ilya looked at himself, not quite recognizing his own face staring back. Maybe this was the Ilya that the world saw, the Ilya that they burned effigies of and jeered from the stands. He reached out, swiping the condensation with the heel of his hand to get a better look, but felt no more connected to his reflection than before.
“Ты плохой,” he muttered into the mirror, dipping his hand beneath the scalding water to wet a cloth Shane already left out beside the faucet.
Ilya wrung it out, so delayed in feeling the burn that he was nearly out the door before it registered. He frowned, pressing it to his cheek to make sure that it wouldn’t hurt Shane the same way. He floated back into the bedroom, relieved to see Shane still sprawled across the bed and breathing softly. Of course he wouldn’t have just left, but Ilya found himself swallowing dread at the thought of being alone.
“Took you long enough, Rozy,” Shane huffed when he heard him approaching.
Ilya faltered, face burning hot with shame. He glanced around the room helplessly, unsure of how to determine how long he had been gone for. It felt like mere seconds, but the fluids left on Shane’s back had mostly dried. The drapes were closed tight over the windows so he had no way of looking at the moon’s position in the sky, and Shane didn’t keep a clock in his fake bedroom.
Ilya approached the bed and set to work, silently pleading for the chance to make up for his shortcomings in this one small way. When the warm cloth touched Shane he jumped, voicing his discontentment with a few short grunts. Ilya’s embarrassment worsened, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he replayed a loop of his own faults in his head.
Casual, sporadic, distant, he reminded himself, Easy, easy, easy.
“God, Rozanov, what are you doing back there?” Shane grunted, pushing himself up on his elbows to get a better look.
Ilya kept his focus hazy, instead watching his hands jerkily push the wet cloth at the base of Shane’s spine in an attempt to be useful. He couldn’t tell if he was being too rough, especially when he saw how red Shane’s skin was left from the brief scrubbing. Ilya ignored Shane’s inquisitive stare, thinking only about how horrible it would be to spend the rest of his night alone in an unfamiliar hotel room.
“What happened to your hand?”
Ilya blinked, looking down at the hand holding the cloth. It was much redder than his left, his fingers slightly swollen from the heat of the water in the sink. He could have sworn he only passed it under the water for a second or two, but Ilya struggled to place the time.
Shane popped up, twisting around to get a better look at Ilya. Ilya tried to follow him with the cloth to finish. He knew that Shane hated being dirty, hated laying in their filth for any longer than absolutely necessary when they finished. Shane caught his uninjured wrist, guiding Ilya to look at him head on.
“What were you doing in the bathroom?” he asked, voice softer than Ilya believed he deserved.
Ilya raised the wash cloth in his hand in response, pointing then to Shane’s back. For the first time he found himself speechless with Shane, unable to fire back a snarky quip to cut the tension. It was as if his heart had been scooped out of his chest, leaving him hollow inside and colder than he ever thought possible. After all of these years he had grown used to the expectation of separation after their time together ended, but now he struggled to swallow down the loneliness that came with it.
“Hey, look at me,” Shane stood to get a better look at him, hands coming up to cradle either side of his face.
Ilya shuddered, suddenly so starved for physical touch and affection that he felt the black hole in the center of his chest double. Shane stepped closer and brushed his fingers over Ilya’s cheekbones as he tried to catch his eye. Ilya couldn’t look directly at him without his eyes welling with tears, so he kept his gaze on a dime sized cum stain on the bedspread, admonishing himself again for his lengthy trip to the bathroom. Shane tried to keep everything clean, and yet again Ilya made a mess of it.
“Sit down,” Shane spoke softly, guiding Ilya to the edge of the bed.
He was happy to receive such simple instructions. His body flooded with relief at the thought of someone else making the decisions, someone else taking the responsibility. Ilya sat next to the stain, his eyes still focused on it like it was bright red paint on a stark white wall. He wanted to tell Shane that he could clean it up himself, could fix everything himself, but the words wouldn’t come.
“Alright, there you go,” Shane nodded, “How about you wait right here while I go grab…”
His voice drifted off, the concern on his face worsening. Ilya realized that his own expression must have betrayed him, must have revealed exactly how devastated he would be to be alone for even a minute without Shane in the room. Shane took his hand, running his fingers across Ilya’s knuckles until his trembling lessened enough to help him to his feet.
“Let’s get you dressed first, okay? You’re shivering pretty bad, must be freezing.”
They both knew that the cold was only partially responsible for the harsh shudders ripping through Ilya, but he appreciated Shane’s attempt at lessening the emotional weight of his reaction. Usually Ilya took the driver’s seat when it came to aftercare, peppering Shane’s body with kisses and muttering quiet praise in his ear. Now he let himself be dressed, soaking up the feeling of Shane helping him into his clothes rather than ripping them off of him.
Ilya’s body drooped when the contact stopped to allow for Shane to dress himself, but before he could dip too far into the empty abyss within him he felt fingers loop between his own. Shane led him out of the bedroom, slowly making their way down the narrow hall and into the living room. It was in far better shape than when he invited Ilya over for the first time years prior, but still oddly devoid of warmth. Ilya followed Shane like a puppy on a leash, watching him grab a throw blanket with bleary eyes before they continued to the kitchen.
Shane opened a closet to reveal in-unit laundry, quickly tossing the throw into the dryer. Ilya frowned, not sure if he should tell him about the stain on the duvet cover. He opened his mouth to speak but found his throat too hoarse to choke out the confession. Perhaps it was for the best, as his thoughts were so jumbled that he worried he would reveal the wrong thing.
Ilya kept his eyes on their joined hands as Shane poured two tall glasses of water. The kitchen was stocked with more dishware than expected for a secret hookup hideout, and Ilya wondered yet again if he was truly the only visitor, if Shane didn’t have a number of men he brought to the secluded building during their months spent separated. The thought sickened him, imagining Shane calling out someone else’s name while he fell apart beneath them.
“Come on, Rozy, one sip,” Shane encouraged gently, lifting his own glass easily.
Ilya followed the instructions dutifully, surprised at how good the cool water felt running down his throat. Shane watched him as he sipped alongside him, their fingers still interlocked and resting on the granite countertop. Every few seconds Shane squeezed, applying just enough pressure to keep Ilya grounded and present. He wanted more, needed more, but didn’t know how to ask.
Shane moved once again, pulling the blanket from the dryer in the closet. He led Ilya to the plush couch in the living room, using his feet to kick the throw pillows to the floor so that he didn’t have to unlink their hands. Ilya took a seat beside him, still hesitant, but relaxed when Shane draped the warm blanket over them and scooted closer.
“C’mere,” he urged, wrapping his arm around Ilya’s shoulder and pulling him against his chest.
They stayed like that without speaking for a few minutes, Shane’s free hand running gently through Ilya’s hair until his body finally began to relax. The nagging vacancy within him still ached, but the heat and weight of Shane’s body combined with the throw blanket made the dull throb more manageable. Ilya felt lips ghost across his temple and leaned into the affection, too out of it to restrain himself.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Shane asked, “I have… well, not really any food here but there’s a great takeout spot around the corner we can get delivery from if you’re hungry.”
Ilya’s heart twinged, wondering what the other people that Shane brought to his secret apartment liked to order from this mystery restaurant. In all of their time spent here, they had never ate or drank anything apart from water and the occasional coffee. He didn’t even know if Shane kept anything other than cups stored in the kitchen cabinets.
“It’s- I mean, I’ve heard it’s great. Like, from the reviews online,” Shane continued, his chest rumbling against Ilya’s ear, “Haven’t tried it myself, but I thought, you know, if you were ever hungry or something during your visits it would be good to have a few options on hand.”
During your visits. Ilya might have laughed at that, were he in better control of his reactions. Instead it kicked up that lonely feeling again. He thought of Shane scrolling through a food delivery app, reading through the reviews and examining the menu to find something good for Ilya. It reminded him of the afternoon he spent in the store deciding between three ginger ale brands, desperate to make the right choice.
“Not hungry,” Ilya mumbled, shaking his head.
Shane appeared pleased to hear his voice but didn’t push for more. He continued tracing shapes on Ilya’s back and pressing the occasional kiss to the top of his head, never letting go of his hand. They laid in silence for what might have been an hour for all that Ilya could tell before the heavy weight in his chest started to rise.
He sat up enough to get a proper view of Shane, already anticipating the look of pity. Instead Ilya was met with a soft smile, something like pride in Shane’s expression when he noticed the effort. It should have infuriated him to have the bar set so low, but Ilya nearly wept when he realized that nothing more was expected of him tonight. Shane was just happy to see him on the road back to normal.
“Hi,” Shane murmured.
“Hello,” Ilya mumbled back, eyes shifting down to Shane’s lips.
Shane took the hint and leaned in to kiss him, slow and soft and sweet as if it was a reunion between long distance lovers. Ilya supposed that was what they were, really. That was what it felt like when he found his way back to Shane yet again, always feeling that pull to keep him within arm’s reach for as long as possible.
“Feeling better?” Shane traced his cheekbone, fingers sliding down his jaw.
Ilya nodded, his throat still tight. He hated the thought of Shane seeing him so vulnerable yet again, mere weeks after their emotional night together in Tampa. He felt the balance between them shift in Shane’s favor, his steady breathing and encouraging gaze doing more to ground Ilya than anything he could do himself. It was getting dangerous, this thing between them.
But Ilya couldn’t stop himself from wanting more.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Ilya shrugged, averting his gaze momentarily. Shane took the opportunity to cover his face with kisses, drawing their joined hands above the blanket to press his lips to Ilya’s knuckles as well. For once he allowed himself to wholly accept the intimacy, not focused on the stiff white comforter he would pull back in his hotel room within a few hours. He let Shane dote on him instead, reveling in the affection.
“Is fine now,” Ilya assured him, though his voice wavered enough to warrant some disbelief.
“Ilya,” Shane sighed, and that was all that it took to break him.
Ilya bent over, burying his face in his lap. Shane rubbed his back as he shook, doing his best to fight back any burgeoning tears that threatened to give away how deeply fragile his emotional state had truly become over these last few months. For years he swallowed any negative feelings that could not be released through casual sex or hockey, but now he struggled to control himself.
“I am bad,” he croaked finally, eyes still downcast on the floor.
Shane waited for further elaboration. Ilya’s skin crawled at the silence, but when he attempted to pull away Shane held tightly to his hand and wrapped an arm around his back.
“They call me asshole,” Ilya frowned, “Say I am evil guy. No good, except for hockey. Everyone thinks this.”
He wished, not for the first time, that he could express the full breadth of his emotions properly in English. It frustrated him that after so much time he still struggled with his vocabulary, embarrassed him that he was such a different person without the comfort of his first language. It worsened when he was agitated, the thoughts coming in such a rush that he struggled to sort through them when translating.
“I thought you didn’t mind your reputation,” Shane admitted, “Like, you play it up on the ice and for the cameras.”
“Yes, I… this is what people expect of Ilya Rozanov, no?” he looked to Shane with wide eyes, almost pleading with him to deny what they both knew to be the truth.
“Well, yeah, I-I guess,” Shane grimaced.
Ilya averted his gaze to the rug, doing his best to track the pattern as he let the weight of his admission wash over him. It mortified him to have confessed this deep secret, that maybe the harsh reactions to his personality affected him more negatively than he let on. At first it had been fun to fan the flames, but every so often he found himself growing weary of being the NHL’s most frequently targeted villain.
“You could not understand, Hollander,” Ilya continued, “You, they love. Golden boy of hockey. Sweetie-pie. Perfect little angel.”
“Sweetie-pie?” Shane nudged Ilya’s knee with his own, urging him to meet his eyes again.
Ilya chuckled, cheeks warm from the blush spreading down his neck. Shane scooted closer, peppering kisses to the hollow of his throat. He appreciated the reprieve, enjoying the shameless affection as he slowly returned to himself. Their palms were both slick with sweat from having been pressed against each other for so long, but Shane made no attempt to unlink them.
“So what if you’re confident? You have the skills to back it up,” Shane spoke, voice firm, “You’re thoughtful and kind… I envy the way your team looks at you, like they know they can rely on you on and off the ice.”
Ilya muttered something noncommittal under his breath, doing his best to steer the mood back to the light laughter they shared a few moments prior. If he thought too much about who he must be in Shane’s eyes he would fall apart. They kept that hidden, the truth of their relationship held so close to their hearts that it might as well disappear within them. But Shane tightened his grip on Ilya’s hand and forced him to meet his eyes once more.
“You’re wittier in your second language than most of these people are in their first. Who cares if they don’t get your humor? Their opinion doesn’t mean anything. You're Ilya fucking Rozanov.”
“Shane,” Ilya croaked, nearly pleading for him to stop.
“Those people don’t know you,” Shane whispered, cradling his face, “Not like I do.”
Ilya squeezed his eyes closed, too overwhelmed to reply. Shane kissed him gently, gasping when Ilya surged forward to return it in earnest. They only had another hour before he needed to leave to make it to the hotel in time for curfew, and he refused to spend the remainder of their brief time together sulking now that he knew Shane cared for him, the real him, and not the character Ilya hobbled together to hide the depth of his emotions.
“Do not think I am softie now, Hollander,” Ilya warned, the wide grin he reserved for Shane spreading over his face once more, “I will still beat your loser team tomorrow, you will see.”
Shane laughed as Ilya pinned him to the couch, the sound lifting the last of the heaviness in his chest and filling him with a warmth he desperately wanted to stop running from. That night when he fell asleep to the sound of Marlow’s deep snoring he would think of this moment and smile.
Easy.