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As Shane sat there in Rozanov's bed, he felt something twisting in his stomach. He didn't voice it, partly because he expected Rozanov to turn it into some kind of innuendo, but also because they never really did that. The closest they had come to having something resembling a conversation about their emotions was earlier that day, in the bathroom, where Shane had felt more naked in his vulnerability than he ever did when him and Rozanov were in bed together. Now, as the two of them lie parallel, he felt the tension hiding with the silence. He had try to breach it, asking about Rozanov's return to Russia. There was something hidden in the questions, something he had only begun to think about after Sochi, but either Rozanov didn't pick up on it or he didn't want to talk about it. That line of conversation had been shut down by Rozanov, and Shane honestly didn't know what else he could bring up. Maybe he should-
"I have early flight tomorrow," Ilya interrupted, cutting through whatever thoughts could've followed.
Right. The quiet part about Shane overstaying his welcome didn't need to be said. "Yeah, right, I gotta go too," he replied, desperate to get rid of whatever was consuming him from the inside. He pushed the bedsheets off himself, not too hastily, because he didn't want to leave even more of a mess, but he didn't exactly bother to straighten them out either. He went out of the bedroom to gather his clothes, not bothering to make himself look all too presentable. That was, perhaps, one of the only good things about being in Vegas. No one was going to question his appearance, assuming he had just gone off to hook up with some girl or something. He glanced back towards the bedroom, where Rozanov was still smoking, from the smell of it. Or something, indeed.
Still, he swallowed down whatever was making residence in his throat, and called out one last time. "Um, I'm heading out now, goodnight." When he was met with no response after a few seconds, he understood. He wasn't getting anything more from Rozanov. He left, closing the door softly behind himself, making for the elevator immediately. He got in, and he couldn't help but feel even worse. He took his phone out of his pocket, hoping for a distraction, but he was opening up his texts before he could even think about it. It wouldn't be too much to send a message, right? This wasn't weird for them? He tapped out 'See you next season :)' before deleting it immediately.
Who was he kidding. Nothing about tonight was normal, not between them. And while Shane had pushed his feelings aside, letting himself get swept up in his desire and whatever Rozanov was telling him to do, they were coming crashing back down on him. The weight of all this felt too real, and Shane found himself resting his head against the elevator doors to hold him up.
His fingers returned to the keyboard without even thinking, slowly tapping out a different message.
'We didn't even kiss tonight.'
This one, he stared at for a little bit longer. He hadn't thought about it too much initially, too eager to do what Rozanov said. But he had felt it in the aftermath, as they sat in bed, and he had really felt it when he left the room completely unimpeded. Still, there was no way he could admit that to Rozanov. He clicked the backspace button until the message was deleted, leaving him staring at the messages between him and Rozanov.
Between them was an overstatement. The only thing Shane could see was the few times he had reached out after Russia, all left on read. Sporadic messages when their schedules lined up, left unacknowledged.
"Fuck." He let out softly, almost without thinking.
And he wasn't an idiot. He knew what the feeling clawing at his chest was. He recognized what had been eating at him in Rozanov's bed. He had spent enough sessions with the team-endorsed therapist to call it what it was. Anxiety at losing control of the situation, of things not going the way he had wanted them to. He had learned how to leave that on the ice after a bad game long before he had words for it- knew how to take only the parts that pushed him forward to become a better player for the next day. But everything else, he was still learning. He had spent his draft day in a haze, only semi-present in the world. Exiting the playoffs for the first time had done something similar to him- he made it through speaking with his team and media with an ease that he had had to rehearse, but that crumbled away when he was alone. He spent a few days going through the motions of his workouts and not much more before he could resurface, finally able to watch the rest of the playoffs.
He had felt this when Rozanov won the cup, as he watched on a television surrounded by his teammates. He had been so, so, proud, but the feeling that Shane should have been able to do it first had made its nasty presence known as he watched Rozanov lifting the cup.
And now, leaning drunkenly against the elevator, waiting for it to hit his floor, he felt it because he was-
Because he wanted something more from their relationship. And he wasn't brave enough to even think about what he wanted, let alone say it to Rozanov.
Fuck. He was so, royally, fucked.