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The club is packed. Loud music vibrates through the space, and the strobing lights give it a surrealistic feeling that allows Ilya to detach from life. It smells of alcohol, and the floor is sticky more than not. There are bodies everywhere, stumbling into Ilya, brushing past him, touching him with intent as he orders a drink. Time always seem to move differently in places like this, like they exist in a pocket dimension, untouched by reality.
Of course, all of it falls away when his eyes land on Shane fucking Hollander and refuse to budge in a self-loathing act of punishment. He is sandwiched between Rose Landry and her costar, Miles, swaying clumsily to the music as the two actors dance and grind against him. Rose’s hands are under Shane’s shirt, fingers dragging over firm muscle, and Miles’ lips are on Shane’s neck. Ilya is motionless in the throng of people, every muscle in his body held taut as he tries to conquer the roiling emotion within him. His stomach lurches violently the longer he watches. Bile floods the back of his mouth, burning.
He should get the hell out of there. He wants to. But his feet won’t fucking cooperate. He is exposing far too much, he thinks. All it would take would be someone looking his way to know the turmoil in him, to figure out the cause of it. But...it is Shane that looks at him. Ilya watches him turn to the crowd on his left, sees how he freezes for a moment before his gaze starts searching the crowd frantically. It doesn’t take him long to locate Ilya, wide, brown eyes boring into him. Ilya feels his own face fall and hates that he can’t do anything to stop it.
The solution to his immobility, as it turns out, is Shane bending his neck to say something to Rose and detaching himself from the two bodies clinging to him. He walks a few paces away from them, never taking his eyes off Ilya. It isn’t until he takes a step towards Ilya that Ilya is finally released from whatever had taken hold of him. He clenches his jaw and turns, walking out the way he’d come in. He doesn’t bother letting his teammates know. It’s fine. They’ll probably just assume he went home with the first willing woman.
He stalks out of the club. Cold air hits his heated face refreshingly, but it does nothing to slow his reeling mind. There are clusters of people outside, and he deliberately maintains as much distance from them as he can. The streets of Montreal aren’t exactly familiar enough for him to navigate his way around, but he chooses a direction and starts walking anyway.
He makes it about a hundred meters before a hand wraps around his elbow and drags him into an alley. It doesn’t even cross his mind that it could be anyone but Shane. He shakes free from his hold as soon as they are mostly out of view from the streets. Fire burns in his eyes when he turns and meets Shane’s gaze. He’ll kiss Rose for thousands to see; he’ll allow Miles to put his lips on him in public, but Ilya gets dragged into a dark alleyway.
“What the fuck do you want?” he snaps angrily, undeterred by the lost expression on Shane’s face.
Shane’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound leaves him. Shaking his head, Ilya huffs unimpressed and goes to leave, only to be stopped by Shane’s spread palm pressing against his abdomen. Ilya’s gaze falls to the touch, his chest heaving with effort.
“Please,” Shane breaks. The heat of his heavy gaze burns brightly against Ilya’s face.
It’s one word. One fucking word. It shouldn’t have any impact on his resolve. And yet, at best it scratches at Ilya’s protective armor. At worst, it’s a fucking wrecking ball to his defenses. He doesn’t have to look up to know what expression is on Shane’s face. Still, his eyes lift from the hand on his stomach and travel up to the glossy, red-rimmed eyes, the furrowed brow and the slightly perched bottom lip.
Ilya’s gaze rakes over that face. The one he’d been avoiding during the game, the same one that has been haunting him since that day in his apartment. Since he first fucking saw it in Regina, Saskatchewan nearly a decade ago. He is suddenly struck by a bone-deep exhaustion. It’s been so long. His shoulders sag under the weight of it.
“What do you want, Hollander?” The words are as drained as he feels.
Shane grits his teeth and glances away before he looks back at Ilya, a desperate plea in his eyes. Ilya doesn’t know what Shane wants from him, and the silence stretches between them. Shane’s hand is still on him, searing the skin under his shirt. The sounds of traffic and milling nightlife mix with the syncopated rhythm of their shared breathing.
“Can you come to my apartment?” Shane’s voice is shaky, small.
The question has a flare of anger shooting through Ilya. Though he is pretty sure it is masking the sting of hurt. “I’m not going to fuck you just because your girlfriend doesn’t do it for you,” he spits. He isn’t convinced that it’s true. That he wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to lay a last claim on Shane Hollander before he slips from his grasp forever. Even if it would kill him.
Shane shakes his head emphatically. “No. I- I want to talk to you. I just–” He sighs. “Please?”
Whether it’s dignity or genuine consideration, Ilya doesn’t know, but he takes a minute all the same. With every bated second that passes, Shane’s face crumbles a little more.
Ilya would like to pretend that it doesn’t factor into his decision.
He nods tersely, and Shane’s lips part around a relieved exhale. His fingers twitch on Ilya, curling into him before flattening once again.
Their eyes meet, and whatever box Ilya has shoved all of his emotions into disintegrates. Unprocessed anguish floods him, cascading through him until it crashes against the edges of his body. He draws in a shaky breath and forces his gaze downward.
Lingering for a moment, Shane turns, his hand dragging slowly over Ilya as he pulls away. Ilya’s abs ripple with the sensation, his breath catching in his throat. He rolls his neck and tries to compose himself as he looks to Shane.
Eight years of paying attention has fine-tuned his senses to Shane Hollander, and he immediately notes the shift in the man beside him as they stare down the path that will lead them back to the main-street. He works his mouth angrily as he realizes what’s bothering Shane. Refusing to soften under his apologetic, conflicted gaze, Ilya keeps his face impassive. It’s not like he wants the world to know the power Shane Hollander holds over him – it’s bad enough that Shane knows – but if Shane wants them to go to his place separately, he has to fucking say it.
“Can you meet me there?” Shane does ask after a tense beat, voice meek and timid like he’s scared to voice it. Not scared enough not to, though, Ilya thinks bitterly.
He purses his lips and nods. He doesn’t look at Shane. The movement of Shane’s answering nod is blurry and unfocused at the edge of his vision. Ilya stays where he is as Shane walks ahead. Walks away. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should just tell the cab to take him back to the hotel.
He knows he won’t.
Whatever Shane may inflict on him, Ilya will be there to receive it. At least he could be the one to walk away this time if things went south.
∞
It’s almost painful being back in this place. He nearly changes his mind as Shane holds the door to the stairwell open for him. He keeps a careful distance between them as he enters. Images of the first time he'd been here; of being pushed up against the wall by a frustrated Shane; of Shane's tender expression as he'd cradled Ilya's jacket against his chest; of the soft, parting press of lips they'd shared before he'd left, flash through his mind's eye. By the unhappy curl of his lips, Ilya can only assume Shane is remembering the same moments. Ilya forcibly pushes it all away.
His efforts are in vain.
The second they step into the apartment, he is bombarded with new memories. He wonders if Rose Landry has ever been here. If she even knows this place exists. Probably not. Ilya swallows around that knowledge, bitterly, and doesn’t allow them to dawdle by the entrance.
The chair makes a screeching sound as he pulls it out and takes a seat. He expects Shane to sit on the other side of the table. Instead, he follows after Ilya, pulling out the chair beside him. His eyes are on Ilya the whole time as if waiting for him to reject the closeness.
He probably should.
Ilya sits with his legs stretched under the dining table, but Shane turns his chair so he is facing Ilya, perpendicular to him. The kitchen island opposite Ilya taunts him with memories of kissing Shane against it. The hallway leading to the master bedroom isn’t much kinder.
He clenches his jaw shut, the hinge of it aching under the force. Before the emotion can overwhelm him, it gives way to a self-preserving numbness. It doesn’t matter that he can’t feel the pain. It’s there, and so are the memories and the lingering want.
He feels Shane’s gaze on him like a physical touch. He wants to veer away from and lean into it simultaneously. Like he has wanted all night. Usually a thrilling match-up, playing against Montreal had been a nightmare tonight. He’d been distracted and off-kilter. Being in Shane’s proximity again, in the aftermath of Rose, was hard on his lungs. On his heart. He’d played like shit and his team had suffered for it. It was a small consolation that Shane had also been awful.
Ilya drums his fingers against the tabletop, the rhythm quickening as the silence stretches. Finally, when he feels like the quiet will bury into his skin and tear him apart from the inside, he turns to Shane. The numbness in Ilya’s soul has spread into his eyes, settled over his expression. Shane looks at him with pity, or sympathy. Traces of regret, perhaps. Maybe it's remorse. None of it does Ilya any good.
"Speak, Hollander.”
Shane's mouth twitches, and his eyes flick between Ilya's, searching for something. Like he wants to share in the joke with Ilya. "I'm not a dog," he mumbles softly.
Instinctively, Ilya wants to respond with but you always come when I call, but he bites his tongue at the last moment. It isn't true anyway. Shane had left plenty of his ‘calls’ unacknowledged. It had taken them two years before everything had aligned for them to actually fuck. Maybe if it hadn't, Ilya wouldn't be here right now. Maybe the obsession with Shane Hollander wouldn't have taken hold the way it did if he'd had him earlier, and he’d be a free man, unburdened by the cleaving emotions in his chest.
He highly doubts it.
The faint shape of the smile that lifts Shane’s mouth turns sad around the edges, his eyes dulling minutely in disappointment when Ilya doesn’t play along. Ilya’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he lowers his gaze, focusing on the white of Shane’s shirt. There’s a smudge of color by his collar. Makeup. It feels like a claim. Loud and obtrusive. He licks his teeth and the skin around his eyes tightens. Shane frowns and follows his gaze.
“Oh,” he says softly.
Ilya turns his attention to his hands. He rubs the knuckle of his forefinger with his thumb. Silently, Shane pushes off the chair and walks off. Ilya doesn’t watch him, but he sees the shape of him head down towards the bedroom. He returns a few moments later, his footfalls slower, more hesitant. Ilya doesn’t have to turn to see that the color white is gone, replaced with black. It isn’t until Shane is back in his chair that Ilya looks at him. He feels a little ridiculous. Getting so worked up over evidence of Rose’s existence as if she hasn’t plagued his thoughts for weeks, as if he hasn’t obsessively tried to avoid any coverage of her and Shane while also seeking it out helplessly.
He opens his mouth, to say what he doesn’t know, but a choked-off sound leaves him instead. The black shirt Shane is wearing is Ilya’s. It’s the one Ilya had handed him the only time they’d woken in each other’s arms. A contradicting swirl of emotions storm through him. It feels like a slap to the face. It feels like a warm embrace. It feels like Shane has just erased Rose’s claim on him with Ilya’s. The thought, though naive and baseless, is heady. The fabric is a bit loose on his frame, and that does something to Ilya. He wants to rip it off Shane. He wants to fuck him while he wears it.
He tears his gaze away, trying to regain control of his erratic breathing, of his mind before it can run amok.
“I, uh...I sleep in it sometimes,” Shane admits softly. He snorts quietly to himself. “A lot.”
Fuck. Ilya shifts, settling his face into the palm of his hand, elbow resting against the expensive wood beneath him. “What are you doing, Hollander?” he says lowly, carefully detached.
It isn’t fair. Shane had told him he couldn’t do this anymore. So why is he tormenting Ilya?
A hand reaches out to him and fingers immediately start tracing random patterns into the skin of his forearm, sometimes sliding up to the bunched up sleeves of his shirt and dragging back down again. Pleasure trickles down Ilya’s spine, and he breathes heavily. The movement of Shane’s throat as he swallows is loud in the quiet. He keeps his gaze on his fingers as he whispers, “Don’t call me that.”
Ilya’s heart stumbles in its rhythm. He turns his head in his hand and stares at Shane’s tilted face with cautious surprise. His mouth dries out as he follows the line of his jaw, the shape of his lips, the ridge of his nose up to his eyes. Shane’s eyes drag to his in increments, staggeringly moving closer and closer until they lock onto Ilya’s.
Shane has always been beautiful, but there is something breathtaking about him when he allows the vulnerability he’s feeling to show on his face. The last time he’d thought this, Shane had been in his lap, and Ilya had felt a peace he’s never known.
It had all come crashing down around him. In seconds. He’d gotten whiplash from the quick turnaround.
He leans back in his chair, slowly pulling his arm away from Shane’s touch. Disappointment and hurt flicker across his face, but it is quickly replaced by self-deprecating understanding and remorseful patience.
“You have to say something,” Ilya croaks out, hating how affected his voice is, his own inability to keep it even.
Shane looks at Ilya with big eyes, practically begging him to read all the things he can’t say on his face. Ilya does see it, but he isn’t sure he trusts what he sees. Frustration builds the longer Shane doesn’t speak. He remembers feeling like he was cracking himself open with every gesture he’d made for Shane in Boston, but doing it because he wanted to. Because he wanted Shane to know that he wanted to without making it too obvious. He recalls going to the store to buy everything he might need to keep Shane around for a day. God, he felt pathetic. He hadn’t even been able to make Shane stick around for a day. He had fucking bought ginger ale. The remaining cans were still hidden in the back of his fridge. He’d thrown the rest of the ingredients for the tuna melts out. Tupperware and all.
Maybe before it would have been enough to just guess what Shane’s face was telling him. But not now.
He gives up hope.
And then he still waits another two minutes.
Shane doesn’t speak.
Ilya sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Pushing away from the table, he stands. He doesn’t look to Shane when he does the same, just heads for the door. The sound of Shane’s hurried movements catch up to him before he does. Shane rounds him and blocks Ilya’s path to the door, palms raised in front of his chest. “Okay, okay, just–”
The expression on his face is helpless and a little wild. Ilya hates that everything in him urges him to soothe, to drag a thumb over Shane’s frown gently until the skin there smoothens.
“This isn’t easy for me,” Shane confesses, lowering his head as if it kills him to admit.
“It isn’t easy for anyone, Hollan–” Ilya cuts himself off when Shane winces. “It’s never easy.”
“Of course not, but you don’t under– there’s a lot of pressure for me to be a certain way, to be a role model, and then you…” Shane shakes his head, gesturing vaguely with one hand. Ilya knows he’s referring to the day in Boston.
Hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, Ilya responds, “I wasn’t asking anything of you.”
Big brown eyes find him again. “That’s not true. You know that. It would have changed things.”
“...maybe,” Ilya concedes. He is split between just saying fuck it and leaving, and staying to see where this conversation might take them. “But only in private.”
Shane’s face crumbles. “I can’t…”
A scoff forces itself out of Ilya’s throat, and he has to look away. He fixes his gaze to the wall by the door. “Then what do you want from me?”
He is not sure he wants to hear the answer. There isn’t anything Shane is willing to give him, it seems. It’s not that Ilya doesn’t understand. Shane feels the need to represent people like him in the league. It’s not quite the same, he knows, but Ilya feels the same kind of responsibility. Despite its heavy and suffocating presence, if Shane was receptive to giving this, them, a chance, Ilya would do it. In a heartbeat.
“I- I don’t know,” comes the small answer, and it breaks something in Ilya.
He licks his lips, eyes flicking back to Shane, and tries to bite down his reaction, his response.
“You freak out because I–” said your name. It’s so small, almost insignificant, and yet, it has caused so much ruin. “...but Miles was practically humping you in public, and that’s fine.”
“It’s different,” Shane stresses like Ilya should understand. That’s the problem, Ilya realizes, because he does understand. But that doesn’t make it any easier.
“Why, because you were making out with Rose Landry when it happened?”
Shane doesn’t acknowledge the words. He shakes his head again and straightens his back as he meets Ilya’s eyes, resolutely.
“Things between us can’t change,” he says.
“They already have. Hollander.”
With that, Ilya pushes past him and leaves. Controlled by the heaviness of the moment, he doesn’t slam the door behind him. He guides it shut instead, letting it fall into place with a soft click.
It’s deafening.
∞
Ilya had rung in the new year by getting drunk enough to forget his own name. It was a bitter pill to swallow to realize that he never did quite manage to forget Hollander’s. He hadn’t gone out. Instead, he’d planted himself on his couch and filled his body with a plethora of alcoholic beverages, taking a swig every time Hollander had crossed his mind. His home had become a fucking shrine to Hollander all of a sudden. His kitchen island, his couch, his bedroom, all seemed to scream out his name.
His body had barely recovered from the hangover of a life-time before he was expected in Tampa Bay, Florida for the all-stars game. Where he’d be playing with Hollander for the first time. It had been a whole thing in the press, Hollander and Rozanov, archrivals, finally playing on the same team after six years. A game for the ages.
Ilya dreaded it. A fact that only embittered his soul more. Playing against Hollander had always been his favorite thing; he’d often wondered what they’d be like together. Their combined talents would be a force to be reckoned with, for sure. Now, he couldn’t even enjoy it.
Ilya is instantly aware of it when Hollander enters the bar. The air in the space seems to shift as every head turns to him, their captain. Some of the guys even stand, and Ilya tries not to allow what little respect he has for them to vanish entirely.
For a few moments, he follows Hollander with his eyes as he walks around the room, greeting everyone. He looks different, dressed up to the nines. Ilya hates it. Hates that it feels like another claim of Rose’s. There is also a certainty in the way Hollander carries himself now that was absent before. His shoulders seem laxer, the muscles of his face looser. Like he’s become settled. Found peace. He smiles easily as he converses with their temporary team.
Ilya has to look away.
He turns to the bartender and orders a drink. Hollander’s voice travels to him, still, seemingly standing out from the din of the scattered conversations and shuffling of the people present.
It isn’t long before someone joins him. Ilya doesn’t have to look to know it’s Hollander.
“Hey, teammate,” Hollander says softly in greeting. His fingers tab nervously against the bar.
Ilya turns to him slowly, eyes dragging from his drink. “Captain,” he says evenly.
Shane tilts his head to the side and back in a small acknowledgment of the title then orders his own drink after flagging down the bartender.
The silence between them stretches, interrupted by the bartender handing Hollander his beer before leaving them to their stilted interaction. Ilya doesn’t watch as Hollander puts the bottle neck against his lips and takes a drink, instead choosing to focus on the ring of condensation left by his own bottle.
“So this should be fun, huh?” Hollander asks, forced cheer and ease in his voice. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team.”
Ilya frowns at the strained attempt at conversation. He nods curtly, but doesn’t say anything.
“Nice that it’s in Florida this year, eh?” Hollander continues, undeterred by Ilya’s lack of response. “Did you...did you bring anyone?”
Ilya turns his quizzical look on Hollander.
Hollander shrugs exaggeratedly. “My parents thought about coming with me, but they ended up deciding against it...so I’m here alone.”
Ah. Ilya had wondered if Rose Landry would be joining Hollander for the All-Stars weekend. Had feared that Hollander might try to introduce her to Ilya. But she must be busy elsewhere.
Hollander stares at him expectantly for a moment. His eyes darkening with disappointment the longer Ilya doesn’t engage. His gaze flicks to Ilya’s shirt and his mouth twitches. “Nice shirt. Of course even that hideous thing would look good on you.”
Ilya tries not to react to the compliment, or the way Hollander drags his eyes over Ilya and licks his lips distractedly. He quickly refocuses onto Ilya’s carefully blank face, his own falling a bit. Leaning in and lowering his voice, he asks, “Can we please talk?”
“What are we doing now?” Ilya asks pointedly.
Hollander sighs, his mouth tightening with frustration, but it doesn’t bleed through to his voice when he responds. “I’ve been talking, all you’ve said is captain. I’d like us both to talk, somewhere private.”
“That would change things between us, no? People might talk.” Ilya stands, the feet of his chair dragging across the floor with an aggravating screech.
He feels Hollander’s eyes on him as he stalks out of the bar, searing into him and making his skin crawl. His hotel room feels smaller than when he’d first seen it, like the walls are closing in on him. That’s fine. He’s used to a certain level of discomfort, knows exactly how to push past it and force himself to breathe through the crippling tightness of his body.
It’s only about thirty minutes later when a knock sounds out through the small space. He stares at the door blankly for a moment, a sudden stillness in his chest. Another knock, softer this time. With a sigh, he rises from the bed and goes to answer it.
Hollander.
Ilya had known it would be him, but it’s still surprising to see him on the other side of his door.
Usually, Hollander would push his way into Ilya’s room, always in a hurry to be out of view, to never be seen interacting with Ilya. He doesn’t now, but Ilya sees the tautness of his shoulders, notes how his eyes dart up and down the long hall, making sure no one is around. Holding back another sigh, Ilya steps away from the door, leaving it open behind him. A silent, somewhat reluctant invitation.
The sound of Hollander’s steps follows him in, the soft click of the door as it falls shut. Ilya turns to him. Hollander is tense, his posture rigid and the muscles of his face set firmly. His thumbs are hooked into the pockets of his pants, the rest of his fingers digging into the material from the outside.
There’s not a knot beneath Ilya’s ribcage, urging him to ease Hollander’s discomfort.
“I didn’t tell you what room I am in,” Ilya says, because, damn it, Hollander’s unease is bothering him, manifests like a lump in his throat. Almost imperceptibly, Hollander’s shoulders dip. Just a fraction, but now he meets Ilya’s eyes.
He shrugs. “I asked for everyone’s rooms, you know, for official captain-y reasons.”
“Captain-y reasons?” Ilya repeats, unimpressed but entirely amused. Perhaps even a little endeared.
Hollander’s eyes darken with an intensity that makes Ilya’s mouth go dry. “I wanted to see you.”
Ilya swallows, his heart pounding. “Why, because your girlfriend was too busy to join you this weekend?”
“No, I–” Hollander shakes his head, eyebrows drawing nearer. “Rose isn’t my girlfriend.”
It takes all of Ilya’s might to not allow relief to wash over him at those words.
It does not matter. It doesn’t change a thing between them whether or not Hollander is fucking Rose Landry. Whether he loves her.
The queasy feeling that has been so constant for months that Ilya has become desensitized to its sickening, ever-present swirl recedes. He feels almost light-headed with the respite.
He doesn’t say anything, and it quickly becomes clear that Hollander had expected him to, his eyes wide and vulnerable with anticipation. Just like at the bar, Ilya doesn’t and Hollander hurries to fill the silence.
“She hasn’t been for a while, and even then, I mean...we were dating, but I’m not sure that we ever really got to the point of–” Hollander moves his head listlessly, looking for words. “Defining it.”
Ilya isn’t sure he is blinking. Something like fear tinged with hope grabs hold of him, and that’s not...allowed. He can’t afford to be hopeful. He’s spent the last two months rationalizing why it’s good, for the best, that Hollander had bolted out of his home on that horrible day. He forces his gaze to the window behind Hollander. The sun is high in the sky. There’s still a novelty in speaking with Hollander when the world isn’t plunged in darkness, when the noises of traffic and everyday life travel to them, reminding them that they are not alone, reminding them of every reason why even talking is a bad idea.
“The point is that– no, Rose is not my girlfriend. She hasn’t been since–” a sharp inhale “–since you were at my place.”
Of their own volition, his eyes snap back to Hollander. His lips part, but he has no intention of speaking. Isn’t sure he could with how his heart is blocking his airways.
“I know I fucked up in Boston. And I know that I fucked up when you came to my place. And I’m sorry. You even gave me a chance to fix things, but I wasn’t–” His voice cracks, and his gaze dips, going distant where it rests on Ilya’s chest. “I wasn’t ready. It felt like everything just...changed. So suddenly. But I’ve been thinking, remembering a lot of things, and it– I don’t think it was sudden...Do you?”
When he asks the question, his gaze clears and he meets Ilya’s eyes, boring into him.
Ilya doesn’t think it had been sudden. Nothing between them ever had been. Except maybe Shane Hollander crashing into his life with flushed cheeks and an outstretched hand. With those damn freckles. Everything else had been excruciatingly slow, eons of waiting for fleeting, stolen moments. As hard as he’d tried to dispel the fluttering feelings that seemed to swarm him at Hollander’s presence, at the mere thought of him, it had been a losing battle. Some part of Ilya had always known that. Had known it in room number 14-10 as he’d watched Shane Hollander fold his clothing as he’d gotten naked. Had known it in 1-2-2-1 as he’d stared up at Ilya with shining brown eyes that evoked something primal and protective in Ilya, even then.
He knows it now just by the simple fact that he still recalls the exact room numbers, as if they are something to be commemorated, memorialized, for having witnessed the first, foundational moments of this thing that would take over his life, his person, body and soul.
So no, he hadn’t thought it was sudden. He had believed it was a long time coming. Ilya thumbs at his nose. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says and sees frustration flicker across Hollander’s face.
“You’re telling me that it’s...it’s just me? That you don’t feel anything, that you never did?” His voice is strained, each syllable pulled taut, so close to snapping that Ilya feels the stress of them. There’s an accusation in his tone, pointed and biting, and it’s clear he doesn’t believe Ilya’s dismissive and guarded attempt to not agree, to not sink into this eroding thing again.
Because it was. It was fucking caustic.
He’s never tasted this specific strain of misery before, the one that makes him feel so hollow and so fucking breathless at all times, his soul pulling at his body’s edges to abandon everything else and just go find Hollander. For years, he’d been able to push it away, to continue living his life the way he always had, but eventually it got too loud, too persistent, consuming every part of him. He’d thought that, maybe, it had been the same for Hollander, that this gnawing, debilitating feeling was harmonized in Hollander’s chest.
He’d been wrong.
Or so, he’d thought. So, he’d forced himself to believe. Because the alternative was that he wasn’t alone in this, that Hollander felt the same, and had still chosen to walk away. That it hadn’t been worth it to him. That Ilya wasn’t. He wasn’t unique in thinking so, but coming from Hollander...it had been a distinct burn, the flames of it blazing deeper than Ilya had ever allowed anyone to reach.
“What do you want from me, Hollander?” He’s asked Hollander this before, back in Montreal, the last time they’d seen each other. This time the words drip with exhaustion, self-preserving apathy spreading through him.
Hollander’s gaze on him is heavy, and Ilya watches the movement of his throat as he swallows, notes the emotion swirling in his eyes. He is too tired to pinpoint every flicker, every nuance in them. He is tired of guessing, of pretending not to be hurting. Of existing.
He’s just tired. Depleted. He aches for relief, for rest. He wants to draw the curtains and climb into bed, bury himself in the covers and forget everything for a while.
“Do you actually want to hear what I want?”
A vague, imprecise movement of Ilya’s hand is all the response he gets.
Hollander’s mouth twists and he exhales soundly. Nodding, he steps closer to Ilya, hesitant, but determined. “I want you to call me Shane, partly because I really want to call you Ilya without feeling like a hypocritical asshole, partly because it kills me a little bit every time you call me Hollander now.”
A hand moves slowly between them and lands on Ilya’s cheek, warm and delicate. Ilya’s eyes flutter shut.
“I want you to look at me like you did that day.” He swallows thickly. “I– I want you.”
Ilya’s breath hitches, and his heart shakes in his chest. He opens his eyes to find Shane’s shining ones filled with sorrow.
“And it scares me to think that I might have – fuck – that I have destroyed this before we even got a chance to really see it through.”
The hand on Ilya’s face presses firmer against him, sliding past his cheekbone, a thumb resting by his temple, the rest of Shane’s fingers digging into the side of his neck.
“And I’m sorry. Ilya, I am so fucking sorry.” His voice is broken, the syllables fluctuating with the physical strain. Ilya’s throat stings with it. A tear breaks loose from Shane’s eyes and slides down his flushed cheek, over freckled skin.
Fuck.
A shattered, visceral sound leaves Ilya, and with it, the last of his defenses. Suddenly, despite Shane being so close that Ilya can feel the warmth of him, there is too much space between them. Ilya’s hands shoot up and cradle Shane’s face, pulling him close. He crashes their mouth together, moving with a desperate, fervid passion, hoping to pour all these clamoring emotions into the kiss. Shane whines against his mouth, deflating in relief while pushing against Ilya with just as much abandon, with just as much need.
Ilya’s senses are overwhelmed by the sudden proximity after so long. He shakes with it.
When the brightest urgency wears off, and the blood is not rushing through his ears so loudly, Ilya becomes aware of Shane muttering something against his lips. It takes him another moment to realize Shane is pressing apologies to his mouth, a tattered mantra of I’m sorry tattooed onto his skin over and over.
“Shane,” Ilya breathes, and another broken sound falls from Shane’s lips.
“Fuuck.” The word comes out shaky, a trembling, fragile thing. “I’ve missed you.”
Something grabs hold of Ilya’s insides, a precarious hope that leaves him breathless. “I missed you, too,” he admits softly, only feeling the true weight of it as the words pass his lips. He hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge how empty he’s felt the last couple of months, how hollowed out and wrong, but he feels it now. Feels every ounce of it as it bleeds from him.
Shane’s nose drags across his skin as he slots their mouths back together. Ilya’s eyes drift shut as he sinks into the kiss. He guides them to the bed with gentle, leading hands on Shane’s hips. Never breaking the kiss, he pushes Shane onto the mattress and crawls over him.
It’s achingly sweet when they have sex this time. In a way it has never been allowed to be in the past. Traces of this softness have spilled through before, but it’s nothing compared to this gut-wrenching, uninhibited showing of affection.
Ilya feels undone and remade with every touch, every breathless moan, every call of his name falling from Shane’s mouth.
After, he can’t stop pressing light kisses into whatever part of Shane’s sweat-slick skin his lips can reach, a reverent display of gratitude. For being here. For letting him have this again. For giving him more.
Eventually, they settle against each other, sated and whole.
“I think I’m gay.”
Shane’s voice cuts through the calm silence, and it takes Ilya a moment to register the words.
He snorts. Shane moves with the dip of his chest and tilts his head up to glare at Ilya unimpressed. The smile on Ilya’s face widens. “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”
“Shut up.” Shane rolls his eyes, and the edges of Ilya’s smile lose some of their edge, become softer with fondness. “You’re not gay.”
“No. Not completely.” Ilya hardly thinks it matters. If Shane wanted Ilya all to himself, everyone else could fade from existence and Ilya doesn’t think he’d even notice.
“I think I am.” Shane’s voice is low, considering. His gaze falls to Ilya’s chest, to his own hand where his fingers thrum gently against Ilya’s skin, right by where his crucifix rests. So close, that Ilya suspects he is itching to fiddle with the pendant, but holding back from doing so. “Completely.”
There is a tension in Shane’s body, a slight quake to his voice. Like the prospect of telling Ilya – or anyone, really – frightens him. Ilya’s heart constricts. His hand glides over the smooth skin of Shane’s back and bury into his hair. “Okay,” he says gently. His lips find Shane’s forehead, and Ilya feels Shane go loose against him, the exhale that leaves him warm and chill-inspiring as it travels over Ilya’s skin.
Ilya scratches at Shane’s scalp and breathes in the scent of him, revels in the opportunity to do so. His chest is filled to the brim with an amalgamation of emotions, swirling, blending, until he can’t discern them from one another. Time becomes buoyant. His consciousness sways to the rhythm of their combined heartbeats, and he floats in the liminal space between sleep and waking. Tranquil serenity. His lids grow heavier, slow in their pace.
Then, a blare of sound. His heart nearly jumps out of his chest as a jarring clanging sounds through the room. Shane groans and reaches over Ilya, fumbling for his phone to silence his god-awful alarm. He settles back against Ilya and sighs. “I have to go,” he says reluctantly, but stays where he is. “I should shower before we have to meet the team.”
“Shower here,” Ilya grumbles, still disgruntled by the alarm disrupting his peace. By the idea of Shane leaving this warm haven of their own making. Wait. “You set a timer? You knew you’d be here for so long?”
Shane’s cheeks flush. “No,” he says, shrugging sheepishly. “But I hoped that I would be. That you wouldn’t turn me away.”
If Ilya had ever possessed the power to turn Shane Hollander away, they wouldn’t be here right now. Would have never started to begin with, but...he’s helpless against the innate magnetism of him. It pulls at him, draws Ilya closer without ever giving him a choice in the matter.
“I don’t think I could ever do that.”
Shane’s throat clicks as he swallows, wide, evocative eyes binding Ilya in place. “Me neither.”