Chapter Text
The first time it happens, Shane is too caught up in the moment to say anything besides a flushed “Oh my god!”
The second time, he’s too horny to complain about it.
The third and the fourth time… Ok, he’s also too horny and too caught up in the moment, ok?
But he’s thinking about it. And the more he thinks, the more he feels that he’s against it. Maybe. He should be, right?
1. When Ilya sees Shane behind his hotel door he just grabs him. Hard. Mouth to mouth. Both hands behind his tights, hoisting him onto the first available surface (the back of the couch).
Shane pushes at his shoulders. Once. Twice. He pulls back from the kiss.
“Let go…”
It’s like a slap on the face. Ilya let’s go so fast, that Shane almost tumbles back on the couch.
“Shane…” His voice wavers.
“Not like this. I’m not a sack of potatoes.”
“Not a… What?”
“Don’t manhandle me.”
Ilya looks so devastated that Shane feels something break on his chest.
“Ok…”
“Ok…” Shane exhales. “Now, come here…”
Ilya hesitates a second. His Adam’s apple bobs. He accesses.
“You come here, then…”
Shane goes.
Ilya wonders.
2. Time passes. It always passes. Week by week. Month by month. The calendar just keeps going.
Ilya wins the Stanley Cup. He hauled it so hard and so many times that he almost pulled his shoulder. He screamed so hard that he’s sure his Mama heard him. He screamed for her. He won for her.
Shane watches. His friends booed. He doesn’t hear them. His eyes swim. He doesn’t let the tears fall. He smiles. He doesn't duel too much on this. He can’t.
They met one last time before the summer. A NHL function in Montreal. Murder condo.
They race up the stairs. They always do. Shoes discarded by the door. Clothes on the floor. Shane doesn’t seem to notice.
They stumble to the room. Soft lights on the way, overhead lights turned off. Shane kicks the door close. Ilya pushes him on it.
They kiss, they touch, hands wander, tongues explore. South and north and in and out.
One last time before God knows how long. Thirsty and hunger and needy and desperate. They don’t think too much about all of this.
Ilya pulls him to his chest and pulls him up.
Shane huffs.
Ilya throws him on the bed, pillows flying.
“Rozanov, no!”
“No, what?”
“I told you. Don’t pick me up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Ok…”
Ilya crawls to him. Stops on top of him, mouth almost touching. “Like this, yes?”
“Yes” Shane breaths.
“It’s ok?”
“It’s ok.” He kisses him. Hard and messy.
Ilya’s mouth feels slack and compliant. Submissive. Shane knows.
Ilya’s brain is heeling. Shane says no, but Shane feels like yes.
They go on.
3. Ilya forgot about it. Life happened. Weeks go by. Months. Games. Roadies. Texting and sexting (badly). Face offs. Wins. Losses.
Shane wins the Stanley Cup for the first time. Ilya watches. Ilya smiles. He catches himself smiling. He doesn’t school his face. He’s alone after all.
The summer comes and goes. The roadies starts again.
He’s in Shane’s hotel room this time. Boston skyline twinkles outside the window.
Shane is on the floor and unbuckling his pants as soon as the door closes. His mouth is on him above his boxers. He feels like he has the world at his feet. He puts the thought aside.
Shane knows what he’s doing. Pretty well. Too well. Ilya inhales sharply and pulls him up. Not this soon. He wants more.
He kisses him hard. Shane tastes like toothpaste and both of them. He can taste himself on his tongue. He’s throbbing with need, the fabric covering his length feels too much.
Ilya deepens the kiss. His hands on Shane’s hair, Shane’s face, Shane’s back. All over and no where at the same time.
He pulls him closer, impossible close. He hoist him up.
Shane mumbles against his mouth. He just kisses him harder.
Shane pulls back. Cheeks red, pupils blow, lips swollen.
“Put. Me. Dow. Rozanov.”
He sounds angry.
Ilya looks sad.
Shane almost falters.
He doesn’t understand, but he complies. He always complies.
Shane is on him again as soon as his feet hit the ground.
Ilya doesn’t ask anything. Again.
4. Tuna melted crise happened. Rose happened.
Ilya pretends it’s ok. He’s not. The Raiders know. Svetlana knows. Ilya knows, but he pretends. He’s good at pretending.
Tampa is hot and sunny. Ilya feels his head cloudy.
Shane hesitates. He feels Ilya far away. Shane approaches.
“Not compatible.” A personal stylist. Ilya laughs for the first time in weeks.
Ilya passes. Shane scores. Ilya kisses his helmet. Shane smiles bright and wide. Ilya wants to kiss his freckles. He skates away.
They met at the hotel room. They kiss. Ilya picks him up. Shane shoves him. He puts him down.
Ilya wonders again. He doesn't ask. He never does. They keep going.
They stop. They talk. Shane says he might be gay. Ilya scoffs. He wants to hug him. He wants to promise him the world. He wants to change the rules. He can’t.
They might be something more than casual. Ilya thinks about his father. About Russia. They can’t be something more. It’s not allowed. His father will hate him. He won’t be able to come back.
Shane’s eyes shine under the lights. Ilya thinks about his mother. She would let him love whoever he wants. She would let him love Shane. She would love Shane.
Ilya looks away. Tears blurring his vision. He feels Shane pulling him. He feels him grabbing his face. He pulls away.
Shane acts before his head starts to think. He straddles him. He pulls him as close as possible. It’s not close enough. Ilya needs more. Shane wants more.
Ilya hides on his neck. Shane kisses him all over. One hand holding his head. The other on his back. Grabbing his shirt. Like a life line. Whose life?
Ilya’s head is swarming. Shane doesn’t like this. But Shane is doing it. For him.
Shane wonders a bit. Ilya refuses to think.
5. His father is dead. He’s lost. Shane calls. He talks in Russian and Shane listens. He tells him how much he loves him. Shane doesn’t understand. At least, he thinks so. He hopes so. Maybe.
There is nothing left to go back in Russia. Boston doesn’t feel the same, but it’s home.
He feels too much. He’s scared. This can’t happen. This is wrong. Loving him is wrong. His mother’s voice sounds in his head. She always said there isn’t too much love. His father’s voice screams at him. He needs to put an end on this. Whatever this is.
Shane is on the ice. Hurt. Shane doesn’t move. He sees his mother. The way she was so, so still. He wants to pick Shane up, to kiss him, to hear his voice.
Shane is on a stretcher. He’s talking. He’s alive. He’ll be ok. Right?
Shane is on a hospital bed. He smiles. He’s happy to see him. “Will you come to my cottage this summer?”. Rushed. Mumble. Drugged. Barely there.
He can’t end this. No now. Not here. Shane will be ok. He shushes him. He hopes the nurse doesn’t make assumptions. He leaves. Again.
Scott Hunter is kissing a guy on tv. On the lips. Long. Passionate. Happy. There is a maybe. Maybe a possibility. Maybe a future. Maybe an “us”.
He calls Shane. “I’m coming to the cottage”.
He’s on a plain. He’s on Shane’s boring car. He’s at his cottage.
Shane carries his bags. Rambles about the house, the well, the water. Shane is nervous. He’s too.
His heart flutters with happiness. Shane is happy and carefree and smiling so bright.
He can’t stop himself. He hoists him on the kitchen’s counter. Shane huffs and slaps his shoulders.
Shane doesn’t say no. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t shove him. He kisses him. Shane smiles against his mouth. Arms hugging his neck.
Maybe this is ok.
Just maybe.
He smiles back.
They don't ask.
+1. They are together for the first time in six weeks. The roadies have been brutal for both of them.
Ottawa’s winning strike seems to be on hold. Again.
Tonight they lost at home.
Ilya is pissed. He feels guilty. And angry. And raging.
The other team played dirty. Too many board checks. Too many gloves off fist fights. Too many penalties.
They tried to check Hayes, for fucks sake!!! Who tries to check the goalie??
He’s angry. He’s disappointed. He needs Shane. He needs to kiss him. He needs to hold him until he doesn’t know where his body stops and Shane’s begin.
He hoists him up. All the way up.
Shane huffs. Shane pushes half-heartedly at his shoulders. Shane pulls away from his mouth.
“Ilya…”
“What?” He bites back.
“Don’t manhandle me… I keep saying this…”
“I’m not…”
“No?” Shane gestures between them, wiggles to be put down. Ilya holds tighter.
“No. I’m holding you, carrying you.”
“I can walk, Ilya!”
“I know”
“Then put me down.”
“No.”
“No?” Shane brow goes up. Ilya never says no. Never pushes. Never forces.
“No. I like carry you, you like me carry you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do. Mouth says no, body says yes.”
“Body?”
“Body. Legs are tight. Arms are on my shoulders. Body says yes, body is boss”
“Body is boss” Shane cocks his head.
“Yes. Mouth shuts up and kisses.”
Shane laughs. Open. Head thrown back. Legs tighten at his waist. Arms cross behind his neck. He kisses him.
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Mouth says yes, too”
The first time it happens, Shane is too caught up in the moment to say anything besides a flushed “Oh my god!”
The second time, he’s too horny to complain about it.
The third and the fourth time… Ok, he’s also too horny and too caught up in the moment, ok?
The other times, they just don't talk about it.
He always thinks about it. And the more he thinks, the more he feels that he’s ok with it. Maybe. He should be, right?