Chapter Text
By the time he had toweled himself dry, the world was rushing back at him.
Ilya Rozanov, The Russian menace, had not only seen him steal glances at him in the shower but actually seen how hard he got, unable to tear his eyes away from the slick bed of golden curls cradled by his strong thighs.
He had watched on like a pervert even after Ilya raised his eyebrows at him. He looked away and mumbled, “Fuck off”.
Then, almost against his will, his eyes found their way back to Ilya, who fully turned to face him, His hand moving against his rapidly hardening dick.
“Not here” had left his mouth before he fully remembered he could actually speak.
He had run out of the shower after that.
Breath heaving, pleading his boner to go away.
He wondered if he was having a very strange dream as he pulled on his clothes.
He sat next to a locker, begging his mind to form coherent thoughts when Ilya walked up to him.
A towel hung precariously low around his hips, somehow making him look more indecent than if he'd been naked.
Shane swallowed.
His fingers suddenly forgot how shoes worked.
The sneaker slipped from his hands and hit the floor with an embarrassingly loud thud.
Normally, there would have been commentary.
He had spent his whole life with a tiny voice in his head almost providing commentary about what he needed to do and say to appear normal, but that voice was suspiciously absent.
Before he knew what had truly happened, he had given out his room number, and Ilya, in his smug voice, announced that he might knock.
Shane stared at him. It was such an absurd thing to say.
Casual.
Offhand.
As though people regularly exchanged hotel room numbers with their biggest rival after making spectacularly reckless decisions.
"Right," Shane heard himself say.
Right?
Right?
He walked out before his body could betray him further.
The voice finally found him when he caught his reflection in the hotel room mirror, one hand clutching the tie of his game-day suit.
"What are you doing, dude?" There it was. “What are you doing, dude?!’ He was finally able to vocalize the traitorous voice in his head that had abandoned him in the locker room.
He hurriedly shrugged off his suit.
A surge of panic rose like bile in his throat.
Was there a social script for this? Surely someone had written one. When Your Biggest Rival Might Visit Your Hotel Room Under Extremely Confusing Circumstances: A Practical Guide.
For one horrifying moment, he considered calling his mother.
She would know what to do. She always knew what to do.
Thankfully, he rationalized against it and found the TV remote instead.
Turning it on,
switching to ESPN,
Muting,
Unmuting- should he be putting on music?
An ex-girlfriend had told him Jazz was romantic music.
Should he put on jazz?
He didn’t know any jazz songs.
‘This is not a romantic encounter,’ the voice supplied helpfully.
What was the opposite of jazz then?
Rock?
A morunful balled?
Heavy Metal?
He should’ve paid more attention to music.
Surely there were rules for these situations. There had to be.
He heard a knock before he could tie himself up in tighter knots.
Ilya walked in, eyes dark with the same thing that coiled tight at the bottom of Shane’s stomach.
‘I thought you might chicken out.’
‘I am not a chicken.’ What the fuck??!! ‘But I think we should talk,’ Shane croaked.
‘Do you want to sit?’
Ilya crowded him against the door.
His personal space dissolved against Ilya’s calloused, certain fingers.
Alarm bells should have been ringing in his head.
The voice should have been reminding him to step aside.
Instead, Shane felt himself smiling as Ilya's hands settled against his waist.
His entire life, every conversation had unfolded twice. Once with his mouth. Once inside his head.
One Shane lived the conversations while another hovered along the edges. Reminding him to correct his stance, manage his timing, sanding away his inherent awkwardness till only polished perfection remained.
Now there was only one Shane.
Devoid of commentary and corrections.
Just him and Ilya and the impossibility of their situation coursing through their blood.
Curiously, it was just him in his head.