Chapter Text
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
Shane hesitated by the door, his hand unable to curl around the handle.
Rozanov was probably still sitting in bed, towel lazily draped around his waist, cigarette resting precariously between his plush lips. The picture of ease. Completely unbothered. Insanely beautiful. So opposite of what Shane was feeling right now, which was haphazardly thrown together, clutching his suit jacket with white-knuckled fingers and balancing on unsteady legs.
He pressed his forehead to the door, letting his eyes close and willing the growing pit in his stomach to go away. His mouth was dry despite finishing off his glass of vodka just moments before. He thought alcohol was supposed to burn, make him feel warm and floaty. Sure, maybe he drank maybe more of it than he intended to, being the lightweight he was, but this wasn’t an ‘unexpectedly buzzed’ he was feeling, it was something deeper.
Something cold and wrong. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and curl up in bed next to Ilya, to tell him that he wanted to stay, to fucking ask him for a kiss--
No. He didn’t need a kiss. He didn’t get to want Rozanov like that.
It wasn’t like they were together. And even if Shane wanted to be, it’s not like the Russian would ever want him back. It’s not like they’d ever be allowed to do this in the daylight. This was a matter of convenience, a way to blow off steam. Strictly business, partaking behind closed doors in the dead of night. If Shane read too much into the soft touches to his collarbones and the sweet kisses to his inner thighs, he was only going to get hurt. That much he knew.
Shane was just a good mouth, after all.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Shane tried to compose himself. He had to make his way back to the seventh floor, where any of his teammates could run into him and strike up a conversation. And while he was able to muster up friendly banter most days, he knew he just didn’t have anything left in the tank for tonight.
Plus, his stupid hands were still shaking, the tremors traveling up his arms and knocking something loose in his chest. He felt ridiculous, needy. Probably still coming down from the adrenaline high of getting fucked by Ilya Rozanov.
“Hollander? You are still here?” Rozanov called, breaking the TV static silence filling Shane’s head. He blinked.
“Uh. Yeah, just leaving,” he answered, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. Good, that was good. He knew he couldn’t show Rozanov any weakness if he wanted to keep coming back.
But did he want to come back if it made him feel like this?
“Door is too heavy? Or I fuck you too good, you cannot move legs,” came Rozanov’s taunting response. Shane could practically see the tilted smirk on his face, cigarette smoke wafting around his freshly-showered curls.
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane muttered. Not wanting to face the other hockey player, he found the strength to push down on the door handle and slip out into the hall. He let the door close softly behind him, his hand resting on the cool metal.
Right. Get himself back to his hotel room. Easy.
Shane looked to his left toward where he thought the elevators were. The hallway was tastefully decorated, artfully boring, and suddenly very, very long. His vision blurred as he stared and he took a step forward unintentionally -- well, staggered, really. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the floaters from his eyes to no avail. Lifting his right arm, he pressed his hand against the wall and took careful steps toward the elevators.
For as light and airy as Shane’s head felt, he moved like his shoes were full of lead. He could feel every muscle in his body creaking and groaning, resisting his determined march forward. Distantly, he realized he could feel the carpet texture on his feet and looked down to find that he wasn’t wearing his shoes, only his dress socks.
Fuck.
He must have left his shoes in Rozanov’s room, how embarrassing could he possibly be? How is he gonna ask for those back without Rozanov making fun of him, saying he fucked him so good he forgot to put his own shoes on? How would he explain to Rozanov that yes, he did fuck him insanely good, but he also couldn’t think through the cotton in his head and the fog glazing over his eyes and the heavy, achey feeling settling into his chest?
These thoughts swirled in his head, threatening to consume him as he made his way to the elevators. Except when he got to the end of the hall, he found that he was not actually at the elevators at all and was instead at the stairwell entry.
“Fuck me,” Shane cursed under his breath. His body was growing heavier and he felt a pressure build up behind his eyes, threatening to spill over. It was either take the trek back down the hall or stumble his way down the seven flights of stairs to his hotel room, and both sounded like pretty bad options.
He instead leaned heavily against the wall, chest heaving.
The looming sense of dread and anxiety should have motivated him, should have pushed him into action to get to a secure location where he could break down in privacy. Where he could wrap himself up in unfamiliar bedsheets and shut his brain off until the morning -- and if he pretended it was Ilya holding him instead, that was none of anyone’s business. A small, delusional kindness he could grant himself.
This overwhelming wave of emotion was unlike any Shane had encountered before and he felt it wipe out his senses entirely. There was a faint ringing in his ears that hadn’t gone away since he closed the hotel room door. Between the noise and the tears in his eyes making everything look shiny and distorted, he knew getting back to his room was going to be a challenge.
Maybe if he could just make it back to Ilya’s room, he could knock and ask for a few more minutes of his time. Ask Ilya to cup his face, press his forehead against his and lick into his mouth. Run his strong hands up and down Shane’s arms and force life back into him. Make him feel warm again. Make him feel like he was worth something.
Sliding down the wall to the floor, he clumsily pulled his phone out of his pocket and tried his best to type out a message to Lily. Something that wasn’t so whiney or pathetic, that would maybe make Ilya think twice about kicking him out so early. Something so witty and charming that he’d sweep Shane back into his arms and kiss him behind his ear, in the hollow of his throat, down the side of his neck. Shane let out a small whine just thinking about his touch.
Through his unfallen tears, Shane looked down at the carefully worded message he crafted.
Jane: Forgot my shoes ☹️
Fuck me.
He deleted the message. Tried again.
Jane: We didn’t even kiss
No. No fucking way he can send that. It’d have Rozanov howling with laughter, for sure. If it even got a response out of him at all.
Jane: Ilya I need you
In between Shane’s typing and deleting and typing again, a message came in. From Lily.
Lily: You forgot shoes. You are okay?
Shane let out a wet laugh. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he watched as more messages came in.
Lily: Where are you? I will bring.
Lily: I know you are awake. Tell me room number.
Shifting the phone from one hand to the other, Shane felt his thumb slip across the screen.
Jane: Ilya I need you
Oh fuck. Oh fucking fuck he fucking sent it. Holy fuck, he sent it.
Shane’s chest started to rise, fast and stilted. A chill ran through his entire body as all of the blood rerouted to his face, and suddenly he felt like he was both on fire and frozen in a matter of seconds. His phone dropped from his fingers, and then he realized he couldn’t feel his fingers, couldn’t feel much of anything, really.
Where was he? Why was he on the floor? He was -- he was, at the end of the hall on the penthouse floor. And where were his legs? They felt so cold. Shane tried to pull them up toward his body but was largely unsuccessful. They stayed splayed out in front of him, shoeless, just his black socks on his feet. Why didn’t he grab his shoes? Then he wouldn’t be in this mess. God, why did everything feel like he was under water?
Somehow, over the ringing in his ears came a faint buzzing noise to his left. Shane swam to the surface, rallying at the sound. He made a desperate grab for his phone; it landed face up on the ground when it fell. He could just make out the incoming call signal with ‘Lily’ written across the top.
No, Shane thought, he can’t be calling. Why is he calling?
Because you sent a pathetic little message begging for his attention.
He’s probably calling to end things.
You scared him off again, maybe for good this time. Great job, Shane.
Embarrassing.
Shane let the phone ring. Let it go to voicemail. Watched his screen return to the slew of messages that had arrived during his sweeping panic.
Lily: Hollander. What is wrong?
Lily: Where are you? Tell me you are okay.
Lily: Hollander answer me.
Lily: Tell me room number. I am coming.
Lily: Pick up phone Hollander
Lily: Shane. Pick up
By the time he finished reading his messages, his entire body was shaking. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t reign himself in or calm the panic rising in his throat. Tears were welling in his eyes again, making it impossible to type an answer back in reply -- hell, he could barely even hit the call button to do as Rozanov asked. He felt useless, his body disobeying him, his brain unable to think. He wiped at his runny nose again and watched his screen flash with another incoming call from Lily.
If he knew Ilya, he knew he’d call until Shane picked up. He was nothing if not determined. So, using a great amount of effort, Shane picked up on the last ring.
Holding the phone in both trembling hands, he raised it to his ear.
“Hollander, where are you? What has happened?” Rozanov barked, obviously angry. His tone was clipped, his Russian accent dominating his speech.
Shane whimpered. He couldn’t speak, whatever signal his brain usually sent to his mouth just wasn’t happening.
“Answer me, Hollander. You need me. I need room number.”
He opened and closed his jaw a few times, willing anything to come out. The phone was dead silent, Rozanov waiting on the other side for an answer. A number. A sign of life. And Shane couldn’t even give him that.
“Shane,” he heard Ilya say, softer this time, “please tell me where you are. I am… worried. You are not acting like yourself.”
And he was asking so sweetly, so calmly. It was nothing like the tone he just had moments ago, sharp and hurried and demanding. This was nicer, encouraging. Shane could try again, for him.
Opening his mouth again, Shane creaked out something that resembled a reply. “Ilya. ‘m sorry. Didn’t mean to - worry you. Sorry.”
He heard Ilya gasp over the line, hot and wet. Like his throat was clogged with emotion, or something close to it. Shane cringed, knowing he caused that fear.
“No, Shane. No sorries. Is okay. Just tell me your location, dorogoy. Is okay, I promise.”
Shane felt a pang in his chest at the pet name -- what it meant he had no idea, but he knew from Ilya’s voice that it was something soft, sweet. “Down the hall. By the stairwell. Ilya, please-”
Ilya whined at that, cutting Shane off. “Good job, Shane. I am coming now, do not move.”
Shane huffed out a laugh. As if he could move if he wanted to.
He’d spent so much of his life waiting for Ilya Rozanov. He could wait for a few more minutes.
* * *
Much like Shane, Ilya forwent his shoes when he left the penthouse suite, opting instead to wear only his open dress shirt and wrinkled tuxedo pants. They were the closest clothes to him as he got dressed, and it wasn’t like he had much time to agonize over his outfit.
Hollander was on the phone, whimpering and wheezing like he was hurt. And maybe he was hurt, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with any helpful information. The sounds pulled at Ilya’s heartstrings in a way he hadn’t thought was possible; he knew he had to find him and get him somewhere safe, somewhere he could calm down.
He could hear the guy hyperventilating through the tinny speaker on his phone, for Christ’s sake.
Finally, with some coaxing, he got Shane to share with him his location. “Down the hall. By the stairwell. Ilya, please-”
Relief swept over Ilya. While he did whine at the thought of Shane somehow lost and confused in the stairwell, he did take comfort in knowing he was close by, still on the same floor.
Ilya buttoned his pants and praised Shane for answering his question, “Good job, Shane. I am coming now, do not move.”
And then the Russian was running out the door, away from the elevators and toward the hotel’s emergency exit stairwell. He turned a corner, then another, and then spied a small, collapsed figure at the very end of the hallway. They were huddled on the floor, silent. Well, not totally silent. If Ilya paused, he could hear faint sniffling and hiccuping.
Shane.
Ilya ran faster, coming up on the end of the hall quickly. Once he reached it, he slowed, not wanting to spook him. He had no idea what had happened, why Shane was in such a state, but he did not want to make it worse. Hanging up the phone, he approached cautiously.
The smaller man was resting up against the wall, his strong legs laid out in front of him. His phone was still open to Ilya’s texts. His whole body appeared to be shaking and he showed no emotion on his face besides the gathering tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Ilya felt panic rise in his chest but he pushed it back down. He could handle this, he had to.
For Shane.
Gently, Ilya crouched next to him. “Hollander,” he tried, but the other man did not respond. He took Shane’s face in his hands and tilted it toward him, noting that his eyes were glazed over and red-rimmed. What the fuck?
The other man reacted instantly to the touch, flinching away. Ilya cursed under his breath, watching Shane’s chest speed up as he began to hyperventilate again. Those tears that were brimming before finally started to fall, fat and relentlessly down Shane’s cheeks. They landed on his dress shirt, darkening the fabric. His shoulders shook violently.
Before his very eyes, Shane Hollander was falling apart.
“No, no. Hollander, is okay. I am… here to help you. Please, let me help,” he all but begged, his voice cracking. Shane was scaring him, and he knew if either of them were caught out in this hallway they’d never explain their way out of it. Their careers would be over, and while Ilya never really cared much about his own, he knew that losing hockey would absolutely crush Shane.
At the sound of Ilya’s voice, the other man made a concerted effort to relax. It was as if he noticed his presence for the first time -- maybe he was. The heaving of his chest slowed slightly, though his shoulders still shook. “Rozanov?” Shane asked, his gaze sliding slowly toward Ilya’s direction. Although he did not make eye contact, he did appear more lucid than a few moments ago.
“Ah, Hollander. Yes, is Rozanov. You know, famous hockey player? More famous lover? Big, strong, handsome?”
Shane raised one side of his mouth into a smile lazily. “Modest, too.”
Ilya laughed. A little too enthusiastically, yes, but he was just happy to see Shane responding to some stimuli. “Can you walk, Hollander?”
Shane’s eyebrows knitted together at the question, his bottom lip wobbling. Ilya desperately wanted to lean forward and kiss it, to pull his lip gently into his own mouth and suck. Remembering how touch-adverse Shane seemed to be right now, though, he thought otherwise. A pang of longing hit him squarely in the chest. This was an entirely different man than he had seen only an hour ago. Had it already been an hour?
After a moment, Shane made a weak attempt to stand but it was like none of his limbs were cooperating. His arms were practically useless at his sides, shaking too hard to support weight. He slumped back against the wall, defeated. His head lolled to look at Ilya, tear tracks still evident on his pale face. His black hair stuck up in all sorts of odd directions from both of them repeatedly running their hands through it earlier.
It was almost too endearing a sight for Ilya. Big, brown, pleading eyes stared up at him and he felt his heart break.
“Ah, ah, I see, Hollander. I have you,” Ilya tutted, “Is okay to touch?” His hands hovered over Shane’s body, desperate to hold him.
“Please,” Shane groaned, and it was all Ilya needed.
Placing Shane’s left arm over his own shoulders, he slotted himself right up under his armpit and clamped his other hand just above Shane’s hip. “Up we go,” he muttered, mainly to himself, but it got a small grunt of acknowledgement out of the other hockey player.
They slowly meandered back to Ilya’s room, Ilya’s grip tight on Shane’s hand and waist. The man’s skin was unnaturally cold and clammy. I need to get him warm, under the covers. He is too cold. Maybe something hot to drink? He made a mental note to check the room for tea. Did Hollander even drink tea? It seemed like a Hollander thing to do, but he had never witnessed it.
It took them some time, with Shane’s legs largely uncooperative and buckling under his own weight, but they made it back inside and safely away from any onlooker’s eyes. Ilya breathed a sigh of relief as he deposited the other man on the now clean bed, the covers still rumpled from his abrupt departure.
Shane sat at the edge of the bed, his shoulder hunched. He looked like he was barely able to keep himself upright. There was a deep-seated exhaustion in his eyes that Ilya had not noticed before. It hurt him to see his rival like this -- it hurt him to see Shane struggling in any capacity, but this was something new entirely.
A sickening guilt settled in his gut, knowing he must have caused this but not knowing why. His cold skin, his hazy eyes, his full-body tremors.
Ilya knew that he and Hollander could never be anything, meant almost nothing to each other, but he could not help but feel like he needed to take care of the man. To gather Shane to his chest and comfort him until… this passed, whatever this was.
Ilya crouched down in front of him, his hands planted firmly on Shane’s knees. He rubbed his thumbs in small circles on the inside of the joints, hoping it was soothing.
“We will take clothes off now. Not for sex. Just to warm you,” Ilya informed him. Shane didn’t make any noise, just brought his fingers to his chest and started to clumsily unbutton his dress shirt. It was a pitiful sight -- his fingers kept missing the top button, struggling to hold something so small.
Gently, Ilya covered Shane’s hands with his own and lowered them to the other man’s lap. Shane lifted his head and stared at him in confusion. Tentatively, the Russian smiled. “Let me, Hollander. I have you.”
Within a few seconds the buttons were unfastened and the larger man was carefully pushing the shirt down and off Shane’s shoulders, freeing him of the stiff fabric. He practically moaned in response, rolling his shoulders experimentally. Ilya planted a soft kiss on each one, then got to work on removing his pants.
“You like to keep socks, yes? Yes, I think so,” he murmured, sliding the trousers down his strong, muscled legs, now all soft and compliant.
With Shane stripped down to just his socks and briefs, Ilya made quick work of removing his own clothes and climbed into the bed, pulling Shane with him.
He resituated both of them underneath the covers, taking care to tuck the duvet tightly around the shivering man in particular. Ilya pushed Shane lightly onto his side so that the two men were facing each other. He noted that those brown eyes looked a little less vacant, a little less bottomless. Maybe this was working.
The other man was still trembling, but not as violently as he had out in the hall. Ilya wrapped his strong arms around Shane and threw a leg over his hip, tangling their legs together. Their mouths were so close that their breaths mingled together with each exhale, warming the skin on their faces. Almost on instinct, Ilya reached up the hand that wasn’t wrapped around a broad set of shoulders and cupped Shane’s face, lightly passing his thumb over his freckles.
“Tak krasivo,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the smattering on each cheek.
Shane's eyelids fluttered close in response, and Ilya felt the panic that had consumed him earlier start to melt away. The tension was fading from his frame, finally registering to him that he was safe.
Looking at him head on, Ilya finally had the time to study the fine features of Shane’s face. His most notable favorites were his freckles, but up close he could see the soft, dark lashes that fanned over his cheekbones and the plushness of his full bottom lip. He fell into an easy rhythm of admiring a section, then leaning in to kiss said section once he felt he had mapped it. Within no time, he’d have Shane’s entire face memorized.
Not that that meant anything. What was the saying, keep your friends close and your secret friends-with-benefits arch rivals closer?
It struck him as he went in to brush his lips against Shane’s brow bone that they had not kissed at all that night. Not at the door, not when Ilya was slamming into Shane from behind like a wild animal, not even afterwards when they shared a drink and a cigarette -- well, they didn’t share the cigarette, that was all Ilya. Shane would never, this he knew. Usually they couldn’t keep their mouths off of each other, but Ilya realized he had made the unconscious effort to pull back. Withhold.
He grimaced, kicking himself. This breakdown was most definitely his fault.
Ilya was not stupid -- he knew when feelings were starting to get involved. Feelings were messy, burdensome, feelings got people in trouble. Hurt. It was not safe for him to bring these feelings into fancy hotel rooms and dark stairwells, it was not fair to Hollander.
So after thinking about it, he decided to pull back. Text Hollander less and less, if at all. Only fucking, no kissing now. He couldn’t deny himself the hockey player completely, but he could deny himself the parts he loved the most. It was brutal, sure, but it would be better for both of them in the end.
Except apparently it hadn’t been. Not for Shane.
After a half an hour, he felt Shane’s body twitch as he came back to himself. He paused his next kiss, aimed for Shane’s chin. Watched his eyes flutter open, more alert as they took in his surroundings. Confusion overtook his features almost instantly.
Delicately, so as not to spook him, Ilya spoke. “Is okay, malysh. You are safe. How do you feel?” he asked, his voice so soft even he did not immediately recognize it.
Shane stared back in response. Then, “Better.”
Thank fucking god.
Instant relief. Ilya felt his own eyes pricking with tears for a moment. He offered Shane a tight smile in response, hoping his face did not give the depth of his concern away. “Good, very good. You need hydration. Water?”
Shane nodded. He whined slightly at the loss as Ilya untangled himself from the bed, but Ilya was quick to grab a water bottle from the minifridge and return to his side. He perched on his side of the bed, angled to face the melty mass of Hollander twisted up in the sheets.
“Sit up,” Ilya instructed. On weak arms, Shane pulled himself up and rested heavily on the pillows behind him.
Uncapping the bottle, Ilya raised it to Shane’s lips. It was an intimate gesture, something they hadn’t done before and usually wouldn’t be too comfortable doing. It came almost naturally tonight. The other man accepted the water willingly, taking a few long sips as Ilya carefully held and tilted the bottle to maintain a constant, but not overwhelming, flow.
When he was finished, Shane pulled his head backwards slightly. Ilya nodded, capped the bottle, and placed it within reach on the nightstand.
“Thank you,” Shane whispered. Ilya nodded again as if it was nothing and rejoined him under the covers. He cradled the smaller man close, wrapping him back up in his arms. They slotted together comfortably, like it was easy. It was.
He felt Shane’s eyes darting everywhere on his face, trying to read him. It was quiet for a few more moments. Ilya moved his hand from Shane’s cheek to smooth down his tousled hair, trailing his palm down to rest on the other man’s nape.
“You scared me, Hollander. Tell me, what happened?”
And that seemed to be a tougher question than he initially thought. Hollander was always so well-spoken in interviews. It was intriguing to watch him flounder now, so close, Ilya’s warm body pressed tightly to his. A softness overtook Shane’s features as he opened and closed his mouth -- no, a defeatedness? Whatever it was, it did not sit right in Ilya’s gut, heavy and rolling like a bowling ball loose in the alley.
“I’m not sure. When I left I felt… cold, and alone. I lost all sense, I couldn’t remember anything,” he tried, “and then I got lost going to the elevators. It’s like my brain and body disconnected.”
Ilya made a noise of interest. “Like concussion?”
Shane shook his head. “No, like… a panic attack, but sad instead. I felt like I was falling even when I was standing up.”
Now that sounded familiar to Ilya. He felt his face heat in shame. “Hollander, ah. I am sorry, this is my fault. I make you feel… sick. Floaty?”
“Floaty, yes. That’s it. Felt like I was underwater. It was… I was really scared.”
You scared him. You were selfish and you scared him. Ilya felt like he was going to throw up.
He grimaced. “Yes, that is called, ah, subdrop. Can happen when we are together and it is… intense. You go from too high emotion to too low, no inbetween. No care,” he bit, anger bleeding into his voice. This should have never happened. Shane had been hurting for hours and it was all his own fault. How could he be so careless with someone who trusts him so blindly and sweetly? A knife to the stomach would hurt less.
“No care?” Shane asked innocently.
“Yes, as in, I did not care for you properly after. Kick you out, hurt you. Let you drop alone, vulnerable, very scary. I apologize, Hollander, I did not intend to do this to you,” he spoke slowly, deliberately. He tried to squeeze every drop of sincerity into his voice to convey to Shane how sorry he was.
“It’s okay, Rozanov. I don’t think it’s the first time it’s happened, just the first time it’s been this bad,” Shane supplied, snuggling down into the blankets.
Ilya’s heart dropped.
He sat up in bed, his back to the headboard. Shane followed him, jostled by the sudden movement. Their bubble of safety just popped.
“What?” Ilya asked, incredulous. Had this happened--
"What?"
"You have felt this way before?"
Shane nodded slowly, eyes clouded with confusion. Like it was obvious, like this was normal.
This was most definitely not normal.
Ilya's stomach twisted in painful knots. His fingers twitched where they rested in his lap. He wanted to comfort Hollander, but he hadn't felt he earned the right.
"Tell me. Please," Ilya begged, not knowing if he could handle it. He begged anyway.
“Sometimes," Shane started, choosing his words carefully, "when we’re done, I feel cold and... shaky. It doesn’t last long. I’m usually fine, I can get myself back to bed no problem. But this time was... really bad."
Quietly, so quiet Ilya could barely hear it, Shane whispered, "I didn't know what to do.”
The self-hatred Ilya was feeling before increased by tenfold. He felt his skin prickle, hot and painful, knowing that he had not just hurt Shane once, but over and over and over again. And he hadn’t even noticed -- his precious, forgiving, listful Shane Hollander, coming back every time just to leave raw, emotionally splayed open. Just for a few short hours of fun with someone who couldn’t even kiss him goodbye properly or hold him for a few minutes? The Canadian must be more of a masochist than he thought.
Desperately he tried to reign in his emotions so that Shane did not think he was angry at him, but it was difficult. Everything felt too tight, too real, too warm. He blinked rapidly, trying to process. His eyes shifted back and forth as if sifting through his memories visually, one by one, looking for the signs he previously missed.
“So we fuck,” he began, “you leave, you feel sick, you come back few weeks later for more?”
Shane grumbled. “Well, no.”
“Ah, no? You are liar now?”
“It's not every time. And not as sick as today.”
“But sometimes, da?”
He swallowed, embarrassed. “Sometimes, yes.”
Ilya let out a sharp whine. He hadn’t meant to, but Shane’s honestly pierced his armor in ways no one ever had before. Quickly, he closed his eyes to stop the hot tears from falling.
Within moments, warm kisses were being pressed to his eyelids, his cheeks, his neck, his shoulder. Anywhere Hollander could reach, trying to comfort him as best as he could. Ilya did not feel he deserved the comfort, but accepted it anyway. He was a greedy man, a weak man. Who could deny a merciful Shane Hollander wrapped in their arms?
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m good now. It’s okay."
Ilya barked out a wet laugh as Shane's lips passed over his cheekbone. The absurdity of Shane soothing him while Shane was the one dropping and dropping and dropping was too much for him to fathom.
"Is not okay, Hollander. Fuck, it is not okay."
How could Shane sit here, soft and sweet and not upset with him in the slightest? Where were the cutting words, the anger and roughness he deserved?
Ilya had grown up with an angry man in his house, and then, in his head. And it was fine, he felt safest in the explosion. He knew how to prepare for battle and how to pick up the pieces afterwards.
He did not know how to handle a thumb brushing across his cheek, soft, so soft.
But he wanted to learn.
"I know you didn't mean to," Shane murmured.
Ilya squeezed his eyes shut tighter. "You do not know that."
"I do. It's okay. And I forgive you,” Shane said simply. The finality of his words pulled Rozanov back from the edge, but just barely.
You may forgive me, but I certainly do not.
Opening his eyes, he was met with the kindest face he had ever had the fortune to see. A slightly jutted out bottom lip, big doe-like eyes, brows creased in understanding.
Selfishly, he pulled Shane in for a kiss. The press of his lips against his grounded him a bit, the slide of his tongue into Shane’s mouth. He wanted to eat the other man whole, but this would suffice for now.
“Shane,” Ilya started, “this will never happen again. You have my word. It brings me great pain to know I hurt you in this way. I promise I will take better care.”
All Shane could do was nod dumbly, too scared to speak. The seriousness in his tone was sobering.
“And if I ever do to you again, you have permission to hit me upside head with stick. Hard, Hollander. This, I mean.”
Shane nodded again.
Satisfied, Ilya laid back into the pillows a little. He wasn’t going to be letting this go anytime soon, but he had Hollander here, now, in his arms. Safe and warm, sleepy.
It was nearly 4AM, a quick glance at the clock let him know. Ilya sighed, pulling Shane to his chest again. He went willingly, his head pillowed on Ilya’s pectoral muscle. His hands wove their way around bare torso, the weight grounding.
“Hollander, we must sleep now. We will speak more in the morning. You need rest.”
“Okay.”
“I have set late alarm, you need to sleep in.”
“Okay.”
“No flights until 7PM tomorrow, we have all day. No rushing.”
“Ilya,” Shane interrupted. With a hand on Ilya’s cheek, he tilted his face so their gazes could meet. “It’s okay. I’m okay. We are okay.” He said each sentence with such a finality that there was no room for argument. They would talk more tomorrow, but tonight was done.
Ilya let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “We are okay.”
“We are okay,” Shane echoed. He pressed a kiss to the left of Ilya’s nipple and closed his eyes.
Reaching to the bedside table, Ilya switched the lights off. The room was blanketed in darkness.
Ilya’s mind raced as they settled in, running through the events of tonight. Cornering Shane in the bathroom. Winning MVP. Shane performing so beautifully for him. Ravaging him. Being cowardly. Sending him away. And then almost losing him. Having to warm Shane back to life. Having to warm them both back to life.
But inside the suite that night, it was only Shane and Ilya tangled together. Shane and Ilya, still something, despite the odds. His throat tightened at the thought, looking down at the sleeping man in his arms.
There was no more room in this penthouse for big feelings, they could wait until the morning.
There was only room for Shane and Ilya. And that was enough.