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Shane is almost back to his hotel room, just feet from the door, when he hears a voice behind him.
“Hey, Hollander.”
He turns, slowly, already sifting through excuses in his mind for why he’s getting back to his room so late. He'd left the after party hours ago; he should have been in his room by now.
Scott Hunter’s face halts any words he’d put together. His eyebrows are furrowed, mouth set into a line, almost a frown. “Are you okay?”
Shane blinks at him. “I...”
“You just...” Scott interrupts before he can say anything else. He reaches a hand up and scratches his head. “Looks like you’ve been crying.”
Shane quickly lifts a hand to his face, expecting to find dried tear tracks, though there are none. But Scott was partially right – he'd definitely been on the verge of tears, back in the elevator, after leaving Ilya. Just the thought of it makes him dip his head again, hiding his face from Scott.
“Sorry, that’s none of my business,” Scott says, and Shane shakes his head.
“No, it’s okay,” he says, because that’s what people say in situations like this, right? “Just, uh, had a rough night.”
“Right,” Scott says, “the awards. Losing to Rozanov’s gotta suck, huh?”
Shane winces at the mention of Ilya, squeezing his eyes shut. He really needed to get a grip. He had no right to be upset about how things had went with Ilya tonight. They met up and fucked and that was all. He shouldn’t expect...
“Sorry, kid,” Scott says, clapping him on the shoulder. Shane didn’t like that, either, but he was used to it, from other guys in the league. “You’ll get him next year.”
A wave of dizziness passes over Shane at the double meaning. Next year. Next season. Who knew if Ilya would still want him then? He can feel the familiar pressure of tears building behind his eyes, threatening to escape.
He needs to get into his room.
Shane digs into his pants pocket for the key card, but...
“Fuck,” he mutters.
It must have fallen out. Back in Ilya’s penthouse.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“You good, Hollander?”
Shane shakes his head. He doesn’t want Scott to see him panicking, but he needs to get into his room and he can’t and...
“I lost my key card,” he mumbles. Only half the truth because he knows where it is, but he can’t exactly tell Scott fucking Hunter it’s in Ilya Rozanov’s penthouse suite.
“Oh. Shit.” The hallway falls silent for a long period and Shane almost thinks Scott’s left, but he wouldn’t do that; he was fucking normal and didn’t abandon people when he didn’t know what to do next. “Maybe you left it when...” He trails off and Shane’s head shoots up, his eyes wide.
“I wasn’t...” he starts to say, in case Scott somehow knows where he’d been, that he’d been with Ilya, getting his brains fucked out.
Scott holds his hands up. “Hey, no judgment here. You're an adult. And you know what they say about Vegas...”
Shane shakes his head. “No, I don’t do that stuff,” he says, though heat floods his cheeks as he said the words. “I need to...” He shoots a glance to the elevators. “I probably dropped it. Downstairs, or something.”
Scott narrows his eyebrows, but nods. “Yeah.” He hesitates, then adds, “Do you need some help, or...”
“No,” Shane responds immediately. He realizes belatedly how that sounded and tries again. “No, I’m good. I can find it on my own. Thank you.”
Scott nods, though his face still looks pinched, concerned. “Well, if you can’t find it, I’m in 730. You won’t have to sleep in the hallway.”
Shane attempts a smile, but he knows it doesn’t look convincing. “Thanks.”
Scott watches as he walks to the elevator and presses the button to recall it.
He presses the up button.
In the elevator, Shane can feel the panic building in his chest, nausea churning in his gut, at the thought of going back to Ilya’s suite. Pathetic, desperate, like a dog.
He needs his key card. That's all this is.
He would be in and out of there in less than a minute. Ilya would barely even notice him, and then he could go back to forgetting about him until the next time he wanted to fuck him.
Shane closes his eyes and lets his head fall against the wall of the elevator.
He doesn’t have long to gather his thoughts because the elevator door opens and he has to get out. He has to. He needs his fucking key card.
He steps out, forcing himself to walk back to Ilya’s penthouse, his limbs heavy.
He knocks and waits.
And waits.
Shane blows out a breath and opens his mouth to say something, when the door opens.
His breath catches in his throat at the sight of Ilya. He can’t help it.
“What do you want, Hollander?”
Shane expects it, the casual cruelty of pretending whatever they had meant nothing, but it still stings.
“I lost my key card. Think it’s in here somewhere.”
Ilya studies him for a moment and Shane feels his skin prickle under the weight of his gaze. He can’t look him in the eye.
But then Ilya steps aside, motioning for Shane to enter the room, then closing the door behind them.
“I won’t be long,” Shane insists, walking over to where he’d left his clothes when he’d been here earlier.
Ilya stands back, leaning against the door, watching, silent.
Shane can’t help but glance back at him, nervous, but tries to focus his attention on the couch his clothes had been on. His card has to be around there somewhere.
He looks between the cushions. Under the couch. Behind it.
Nothing.
Panic bubbles in his chest again, squeezing his lungs. Where is it? He needs to find it. He can’t just stay here, not when Ilya so desperately wanted him gone. He'd made that much obvious.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his hands shaking as he flips over a pillow for a third time, as if the card would magically appear if he tried again.
“Hollander.”
Shane doesn’t even notice Ilya coming closer until he’s right next to him.
“Hollander, stop.”
Shane feels Ilya’s hand on his arm and quickly shakes it off, panic and hurt taking over.
“No, I’m fine. I'm sure it’s here somewhere, I just...”
“Shane.”
Shane looks up at that, right into Ilya’s eyes. His lower lip wobbles and he sucks it between his teeth.
“Is okay,” Ilya assures him, his voice soft. He hesitates, then asks, “What’s wrong?”
“What?” The question comes out without thought. “I can’t find my fucking key card, that’s what’s...”
“No,” Ilya interrupts, and Shane nearly whimpers. Ilya stares at him, then asks, “Did I hurt you? When we were having sex?”
Shane can’t hide his horror at the question. “No, oh my God, no. Never.”
But he can’t quite look at Ilya as he says it.
Ilya’s face drops and he takes one step closer, not reaching out, not yet. “But you are hurt.”
The words strike Shane in the chest like a bullet.
He shakes his head, instinctively protecting himself. He has to lie. He can’t tell him the truth. “No, I’m, I’m fine...” he says, taking a step back and stumbling as he runs into the couch.
“Still a bad liar,” Ilya says, and his casual tone sets something off in Shane. He can’t lie anymore.
“Okay, fine,” he says, anger taking over. “I’m hurt. Is that what you want to hear? I don’t hear from you for fucking six months and then, then you fucking kiss me like that and then make me fucking touch myself for you, like, like...” The words trail off into nothing and Ilya jumps in.
“I did not make you do anything, Hollander,” he says. “You’re an adult, yes? You can make your own choices.”
Shane shakes his head, a twisted smile on his face. “You don’t get it, do you? I thought...” He swallows and looks away, vision growing blurry with tears that he refuses to let fall.
“Don’t do this,” Ilya warns, his voice barely audible.
“Oh, God forbid you have to deal with actual emotions from someone,” Shane snaps. A tear races down his cheek and he swears under his breath. He sniffs and continues, though his voice wobbles. “Maybe you should have fucking thought of that before the last time we were together.”
Ilya’s gaze darts around like they have an invisible audience. “What? You knew what this was going into it. I even told you...”
“Yeah, I know,” Shane says, wiping angrily at his face. “And then you had to go and kiss me like...” A choked off sob interrupts his words.
Ilya closes the distance between them, grasping Shane’s chin with a thumb and forefinger, gentle, but demanding. “Like what, Hollander? Like I wanted to fuck you?”
“Fuck off.” Shane yanks away from Ilya’s grasp, but Ilya’s too quick and pulls him back.
“What do you want?” He leans in close to Shane, the words ghosting over his ear.
Shane finds himself collapsing into Ilya, burying his face in his neck, like he’d done in the bathroom earlier. “Don’t make me fucking do this again,” he mumbles into his skin.
“I’m not making you do anything,” Ilya reminds him. “You could leave right now.”
“I don’t have my key card,” Shane says, and Ilya almost laughs, it’s so him.
But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he drags a hand up Shane’s back, the cotton of his dress shirt rippling with the motion. “You want me.”
Shane’s hair tickles Ilya’s neck as he shifts his head, licking his lips. “Thought that was obvious.”
Ilya does laugh at that, though it’s a dark chuckle. The hand on Shane’s back moves up, to his head, and he grabs him by the hair, pulling him back to look him in the face. Shane is slack-jawed, eyes barely open, so delicious a picture that Ilya can’t help himself.
He dives in, sealing his mouth over Shane’s, kissing him like he wants to devour him alive. He had tried to hold back, the entire night, from this exact thing, but now...
He has Shane in his arms, his mouth on his, and he never wants to stop kissing him.
Shane moans into Ilya’s mouth as his hands fly up to Ilya’s head, grabbing at his curls, tugging, desperate to be as close to him as possible. Ilya’s kissing him so hard it fucking hurts, his mouth pressed into his with bruising force, but he doesn’t care.
This is what he wanted. It's all he ever wants, is Ilya’s mouth on his, Ilya’s body pressed against his own, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
He's not sure how he’s going to be able to leave this room tonight, get on a plane, and wait months to see him again.
Shane could crawl inside Ilya’s chest and live there and he’s still not sure that would be enough.
Shane suddenly feels himself being lifted up, Ilya’s hands under his thighs, and then Ilya’s carrying him, their lips never parting as he walks them to the bed he’d fucked him on not even an hour earlier.
He’s expecting to be thrown down on the bed, his clothes torn off in a heated rage, but Ilya doesn’t do that.
Instead, he’s lowered gently on his back, while Ilya crawls over him, never letting their lips part.
Shane finds himself reaching for Ilya’s briefs, wanting to touch him, but Ilya grabs his hand before he can, moving it above his head and holding it there.
“No,” Ilya murmurs against his lips, the first words either of them have spoken in endless minutes. “Just this.”
Shane is pretty sure this is far beyond meeting up to fuck, that kissing and kissing and kissing wasn’t what Ilya had in mind when he originally propositioned him in that locker room, but he doesn’t care.
He stopped pretending this was casual months ago.
Ilya pulls away then, just enough to look Shane in the eyes, and the raw emotion in his eyes startles Shane.
This is clearly far from casual for him, too.
“I don’t want to leave.” The words are out of Shane’s mouth before he can think twice about it.
Ilya stares down at him, his expression unreadable, then dips his head to kiss him again, but this kiss is much gentler than the previous one. Ilya releases his hold on Shane’s hand above his head and drops his hand to Shane’s cheek instead, caressing his face the way his mouth is Shane’s lips.
Shane isn’t sure how long they end up kissing, but he doesn’t want it to stop.
But they both know they can only do this for so long. They have flights in the morning, lives away from here, from each other.
Ilya breaks the kiss, but rests his forehead against Shane’s. This feels entirely different from their moment in the bathroom earlier.
“Maybe...” Ilya starts, “I do not need to fly back to Boston so early after all.”
Shane’s eyes close. “I can’t get back into my room without a key card, anyway.”
Ilya smiles and presses his lips to Shane’s once more.
It's not a confession, an admission, of anything, nothing they can say aloud to each other. But the door has been cracked open and maybe one day, they can step through it.
Together.