Work Text:
2017
“This is worst Christmas gift you have ever given me, Hollander.”
Shane rolled his eyes at the deep voice, tucking his chin into the neck of his jacket. Their breaths were visible under the streetlights, white puffs of air dancing around in the gentle breeze. It was cold, though much more pleasant than it had been in Montréal. It was dark, the few people who were out just minding their business. He’d parked his — sensible — rental SUV across the street, perfectly aligned with the lines painted onto the concrete, exactly in the middle.
“I’ve never gotten you anything for Christmas before, Rozanov,” he replied. Any other time he would have been horrified at the fondness in his voice, but the town was still littered with Christmas lights, and they were almost all alone under the twinkle of them. Rozanov’s curls were bouncy, soft-looking and neither of them were wearing disguises because the chances of getting recognized in fucking Lansdale, after ten o’clock at night, were so low even Shane couldn’t find it in himself to be anxious. He silently thanked the Philadelphia Flyers for being such a bad team and gestured toward the building on the other side of the road.
The Scent & Sip had been something he’d found one night late into one of his Googling spirals. At the time, it had seemed like a fun date idea to do with Rose where he didn’t have to convince himself that he was attracted to her sexually, because he’d have something else to do with his hands.
Then, the next day, Rose had gently coaxed him into admitting he was gay, making him boyfriend number twenty-one to have done this to. With. Shane was still not sure of the proper phrasing. He could be grateful now, though, especially when he saw the small crunch of Rozanov’s nose.
“You will murder me.” Rozanov echoed the words he’d told him in front of the hook-up building as he’d taken to calling Shane’s real estate investment.
“Come on,” Shane said, choosing to ignore Rozanov’s wary glance as he started walking toward the building.
Initially, he had felt bad about booking an appointment at such an outlandish time. The owner had been hesitant to accept it, but Shane had shamelessly thrown around some of that NHL money he worked so hard for, and he’d immediately brightened. Shane made a mental note to leave a huge tip for the poor employee who would have to deal with the beast that was Ilya Rozanov in an enclosed space, but for now, he was too busy being giddy. Doing something just the two of them, outside, not in one of their apartments or at a hotel was entirely new territory, especially so soon after their non-talk about their feelings. He hadn’t even seen Rozanov since admitting to breaking up with Rose; the only witness to his shaky confessions of ‘I like you’ had been his phone.
He walked to the back entrance and knocked. His correspondence with the owner had assured him that they would get full privacy and he tried to calm his shaking hands. Rozanov still looked suspicious.
A moment later, the door swung open, and they were met with a tall, beautiful man. Shane gulped— he wasn’t sure why, but he’d assumed their ‘guide’ would be a woman. He should have looked at the Employees page on the website more closely, he decided, chancing a glance at Rozanov. However, Rozanov was already looking at him, a glint in his eye that Shane could not quite place.
“Welcome,” the man grinned, ushering them inside. “My name is Cam, and I will be your Scentologist today!”
“Is that not cult?” Rozanov asked in a whisper, leaning down to breathe into his ear. Anyone else and the shiver running up Shane’s spine would have been out of disgust, but this was Rozanov. Shane loved the idea of them being out together, but in that moment, he regretted leaving the hotel. He curled his hand into a fist so he wouldn’t reach out to touch Rozanov’s stupid bouncy curls.
“No, that’s Scientology,” he whispered back, then plastered a smile onto his face as Cam returned from locking the door.
The lights were low in the cozy space, Christmas decorations still up. The smell of the different perfumes and lotions was clinging to his nose hairs, but he tried to ignore it. Cam directed them toward some hooks on the wall where they could put their coats, and he stood awkwardly as Rozanov brushed up against his back to hook his next to Shane’s jacket. He could have sworn the man smoothed a hand down his sweater while he was at it, though it might have been just wishful thinking. One thing Shane had not anticipated was the raw desire to touch Rozanov, to be close to him and how that would pose a problem in this public setting he’d forced them into. Too late, now, he thought and cleared his throat to get rid of the weird lump residing there.
He realized very quickly that he was out of his element. Cam started explaining the art of cologne-making, throwing around words such as ‘solvent’ and ‘maturation’ and ‘isolates’. For a moment, the thought that they should have just stayed inside and fucked crossed his mind, but then he looked at Rozanov and the rapt attention he was paying to the ins and outs of making cologne from scratch and he filed it away. Nobody else would ever take Rozanov on this kind of date.
Not that this was a date.
He tugged at the collar of his sweater, neck sweating profusely. He couldn’t remember the material being quite so scratchy at the hotel or even in the car, but now it was as if he could feel the threads of the yarn rubbing against his flush skin individually.
“So, we will start with a base scent,” Cam said as he took them further into some kind of workshop-looking space. There were bottles lined up on a wooden counter, labeled with aesthetic stickers, the kind that would be on the Pinterest pictures Rose had always shown Shane. “What do you guys usually wear?” He blinked at them, eyelashes fanning his pretty blue eyes. Something curdled low in Shane’s stomach— what if Rozanov was making his fuck-me-eyes at this poor Scent & Sip employee with the bright smile despite having to work at night? Shane was going to throw up.
“I use Hermès Concentré d’Orange Vert,” Rozanov said, completely butchering the pronunciation. It made Shane want to cry and kiss him, maybe.
“Oh, sexy,” Cam nodded and Shane couldn’t help but agree with him wholeheartedly.
“I— uh,” he stammered, blanking on the name. He rarely bought anything, usually just sticking to the ones he got as gifts from brands he worked together with. “It might be, uhm, Dior?”
“Da,” Rozanov nodded. “Boring perfume for boring man.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane retorted automatically, ignoring the pounding of his heart as he thought about Rozanov knowing him so well that he knew the brand of cologne he wore when even Shane himself didn’t. It made something ache in the back of his throat, the sharp need to touch Rozanov burning an inferno in his chest. When Cam turned around to survey the bottles on the counter, humming, he brushed his pinky against Rozanov’s.
The taller man turned toward him, infuriating smirk playing at the edge of his lips, kicking Shane’s heart rate to a painful degree. His blue eyes were set ablaze with the familiar want, setting Shane’s skin on fire. It had been a bad idea to not just stay at the hotel.
Cam broke the tense moment between them. “I think you both would like to start with this base.” Shane tried to put space between himself and Rozanov inconspicuously, his cheeks red with a blush he would deny if anyone asked him.
“Woodsy. I like it,” Rozanov hummed after he’d taken the bottle from Cam and sniffed at it.
“Who on Earth taught you that word?” Shane asked him incredulously, taking the bottle from Rozanov, allowing their fingers to touch.
“I spend long time in locker room, Hollander.”
“You want me to believe Marleau taught you the word ‘woodsy’?” he asked, eyebrows cocked, scent base completely forgotten.
“Yes, Marly is very good English teacher,” Rozanov nodded, shit-eating grin spread across his face. “He teach me words like ‘cocksucker’ and ‘tits’. Very useful.”
“Oh my God, you’re the fucking worst,” Shane muttered, averting his gaze from Rozanov’s full lips and bringing the bottle up to his nose. He had to admit, Cam had had good instincts about what they would like. “It is nice,” he conceded, handing it back to a beaming Cam.
“Great, this is the next one,” he said, voice bright as he thrust another bottle at them.
He continued babbling excitedly about each of the scents he showed them, talking about base, heart and top notes. Shane honestly could not say that he was following everything the man was telling them; he spent most of the time burning the sounds of Rozanov’s pleased little hums into his mind when he was handed something he particularly liked.
After the extensive routine of smelling oils and then coffee beans, it finally came time to build their own colognes. To nobody’s surprise, Shane had agonized over each and every decision for an embarrassingly long time. Rozanov, of course, had bulldozed right into concocting his own with an efficiency Shane reluctantly admired.
When he finally ended up choosing something that resembled the scent of oranges most for the ‘top note’ of his cologne, he refrained from thinking too hard about it, hoping that Cam did not notice the ridiculous blush splashed across his cheeks. If he did, he showed no sign of it, just announced that he would go into the back to mix up their colognes and to make themselves comfortable.
Rozanov immediately plucked down into one of the plush seats with an indecent groan. Judging by the smirk he leveled at Shane, he knew exactly what he was doing. The Montréal captain rolled his eyes, gingerly sitting down onto the chair next to Rozanov’s.
“What, you don’t want to sit in my lap?” he asked, accent curling around the words sinfully, voice low and scratchy. Shane’s mouth went dry as he darted his eyes toward the door Cam disappeared through, anxiety sinking its claws into his chest.
“Shut up,” he hissed, tugging at his collar again. Sweat was beading on his back, why was it so hot in there? “He could hear you, asshole!”
“Is okay, Hollander,” Rozanov said placatingly. “How you find this place?” he asked. Shane was grateful for the topic change, though he was not sure how he would answer.
“I was looking for, um, nice date ideas,” he murmured. “For Rose!” he added hastily, refusing to look at the Russian. A sound escaped Rozanov’s throat, something between a growl and a huff— something in his tone scratching at Shane’s resolve. When he met the other man’s gaze, the blue of his eyes was dark like the ocean beneath the moonlight and in that moment, it was impossible for Shane to look away.
“You were such nice boyfriend, right, Hollander?” he grunted. Why was he pissed off?
“Well, not really, was I?” he answered, croaking around his nerves. He cleared his throat to chase them away. “I’m gay and I still dated her. So. She deserved better.”
“Yes, that is true,” Rozanov agreed, something loosening in his tone and posture. “It’s, how you say here? One man’s trash is another man’s treasure?”
Shane spluttered, heat exploding on his face.
“Marleau taught you that?” he decided to ask, instead of begging Ilya— Rozanov to bend him over these horrible, green chairs.
“No, I learn because I find funny,” Rozanov said with a grin. “I called you trash.”
“Asshole,” Shane muttered back, but he didn’t have the chance to tell Rozanov he’d actually called him a treasure as well — his throat tightened for some reason, thinking about that —, because Cam appeared from the back with two bottles clutched in his hands. They were nondescript but elegant, the glass shiny and tall.
“All done!” he said with a grin. “Now, you choose names and I will print out the stickers,” he continued, thrusting the bottles into their hands.
“Mine is Lily,” Rozanov said without missing a beat. Shane’s heart skipped about eight beats.
“Um, I’ll, uh, call mine Jane,” he muttered, not looking at either of the men, finding the floor way more interesting than it probably was. Nice wood.
“Okay,” Cam said, a bit of a strange tilt to his voice. “I’ll get those labels to you soon.”
This time, when he left them alone, Rozanov reached over a hand to where Shane was still staunchly ignoring his gaze in his chair, and ran a hand through Shane’s hair, teasing the shell of his ear with light fingertips. His body shivered and he barely held back from pressing further into the calloused touch. Rozanov let his hand drop with a pleased, teasing hum. He chanced a look and had to swallow at the impossibly fond look Rozanov sported.
This had been a bad idea.
No words were spoken between them as they waited for Cam to come back, but Shane didn’t avert his gaze and even let a small smile play at the edge of his lips which Rozanov echoed. His heart was beating a strange rhythm behind his ribcage, and he fought the strange urge to call Rozanov by his first name.
“Okay, all done!” Cam exclaimed as he returned to the room. Shane moved a bit further away, even though he really wasn’t leaning that close into Rozanov’s space. He ignored the flash of something in the other man’s eyes and forced himself to smile at Cam.
“Thank you, these look great,” he said as he got up and took the sticker from the employee’s hand. Jane was written on it in a beautiful calligraphic font, elegant but bold.
“Mhm, sexy, like me,” Rozanov hummed after spraying a puff onto his wrist. “Yes, this was great,” he agreed with Shane, but didn’t look at Cam, just kept staring at the bottle in his palm.
Sensing the unbearable awkward silence descending on them, Shane jumped into action. He dug out his wallet and took out the bills he’d taken from the ATM that morning, handing them to Cam who put them away gracefully without even looking at them.
“Thank you, Mr. Hollander,” he said smoothly, cheeky smile still on his lips.
They walked toward the door to get their jackets, Shane carefully putting his bottle of cologne into his pocket immediately. When Rozanov was also ready — not zipping up his coat —, Cam unlocked the back door for them.
“I hope you had a nice time at Scent & Sip,” he told them. “And good luck tomorrow against Detroit,” he said, looking directly at Shane.
Fuck.
Cam was a hockey fan.
Before he could spiral more about the glint in Cam’s eye, Rozanov interrupted. “Is painful, no? Montréal will lose against team as bad as Detroit,” he said with a sigh. “Anyway, good night,” he said. Shane was not sure he was able to force out a goodbye through his panic, but in the next beat Rozanov was dragging him to the car.
When they reached it, he dug around in Shane’s pocket shamelessly until he found the keys and clicked the lock open, pushing Shane into the passenger’s seat.
“Fuck, this was such a stupid idea,” Shane muttered, barely hearing the sound of the car door on Rozanov’s side closing. He felt a spray on his face and he instinctively closed his eyes, spluttering around the scent. “What the fuck, Rozanov? Did you just spray perfume at me?”
“Is cologne,” the other man responded. “You are like scared kitten, so I sprayed you like kitten,” he added. Shane opened his eyes and glared at him.
“Fuck. You,” he ground out between his clenched teeth.
“You were having panic attack, Hollander,” Rozanov said. He then thrusted the bottle into Shane’s lap. “There you go. This is yours.”
Shane’s brain screeched to a halt.
“What?” he breathed.
“Gift for you,” Rozanov said. “Give me yours.” Shane obeyed on autopilot, dragging his new bottle of cologne out of his pocket and handing it over to a very pleased Rozanov.
“I tried to make mine like shampoo,” Rozanov said next, uncapping Shane’s bottle and inhaling deeply. “I know you have this weird problem. You always sniff my hair.”
“What? No, I don’t!” Shane said indignantly, even though he totally did.
“Is okay,” Rozanov reassured him. He slid raised his palm to rest on the nape of Shane’s neck, knocking their foreheads together. “He will not say anything.”
“How do you know?” Shane whispered, his eyes fluttering closed.
“Just feeling,” Rozanov whispered back before he brushed a kiss across Shane’s cheek, his nose, then finally, his lips.
He chased after him without thought, pressing their mouths together more forcefully, hand letting go of the stupid cologne that smelled exactly like Rozanov’s shampoo so he could grip the curls he’d fantasized about the whole evening.
For the first time ever, they didn’t let it escalate further than that. Rozanov— Ilya kissed him like he was the first breath of air after being underwater, and Shane ignored the burn behind his eyes at the emotion pouring into this simple way of joining. He was reluctant to pull away, but he needed to breathe, their mixed scents dizzying him just as much as Ilya’s lips on his.
“I will spray cologne whenever I miss you,” Ilya said quietly, caressing Shane’s jaw.
“Do you miss me a lot?” he asked him, keeping his eyes closed.
“All the fucking time,” Ilya responded, pressing another kiss to his lips.
The ride back to Boston was silent, the radio playing quietly in the background. Ilya drove them all the way back, and Shane didn’t let go of his hand once, tracing patterns onto the calloused palms.
Maybe it had not been such a bad idea to go out.