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Shane didn’t know how long he had been huddled in the corner of this elevator. He didn’t know how long he had been crying.
What he did know, however, was that his brain had gotten fuzzy - in the wrong, uncomfortable way. He wasn’t drunk or tired, but hollowed out. It felt like someone had scooped him clean and left nothing solid behind.
Plus, the lights hummed too loud and shone bright. The mirrored walls reflected him back at wrong angles.
It was all too intense.
And cold.
The fact that it felt like the room was shrinking wasn’t helping things either.
He had physically tucked himself into the corner, trying to take up the least amount of space. He sat with his arms wrapped around his knees.
A cold dark sea. That’s what this felt like. Like he’d sunk to the bottom of something deep and airless, where the only thing left was pressure.
He wondered if it were possible for him to sink into the metal and disappear forever.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
His skin felt wrong. Hypersensitive. It was like every brush of fabric was too much. The collar of his shirt scraped. Even his own breathing sounded intrusive.
But more than that, he felt dirty, used, and discarded.
He wanted to take a shower. To scrub his skin raw. To peel it all off, even. However, he couldn't bring himself to get up. The very idea felt impossible. It was like his limbs didn’t even belong to him anymore.
He didn’t even have the energy to check or even glance at his phone.
We didn’t even kiss…
The thought played over and over in his head. It wouldn’t let go.
Oh my god. We didn’t even kiss.
He should have known that Ilya wouldn’t have been kind or caring their first time together after four months apart. After four months of Ilya being sharp and distant.
Near-radio silence. Since Sochi.
He hated it.
Shane shouldn’t have dared to even hope anything else was possible, not even a deep conversation.
Of course the only thing that man would have wanted from him was sex.
His throat tightened. He pressed his forehead to his knees.
What did he do wrong?
The elevator dinged.
Shane barely registered it happening until the doors slid open and the sound of footsteps approached but then… stopped?
“Hollander?”
Shane didn’t look up. That voice sounded familiar, but he didn’t want to believe what was happening. There was no way Rozanov was here-
“Have you been in this elevator since you left the penthouse?” Ilya asked with a slight frown.
Shane let out a humorless huff as he finally lifted his head, revealing an empty expression.
“What’s it to you?” He questioned, weakly.
Rozanov fully stepped inside the elevator. Shane couldn’t help but notice the man’s change of clothes, as if he was going out.
Or… was he not anymore? Did Shane fuck that up too?
He hated that his situationship was seeing him like this.
“Hollander, please,” Ilya said as he knelt down. “Look at me.”
He didn’t. In fact, he was sure it would physically hurt to do so.
“You are shaking.”
Was he really?
“Ffffuck off,” Shane managed to tell him, holding his hands together and squeezing, trying to focus on anything else right now.
Rozanov did not relent. “What is your room number?”
He tried not to look at him. “Why would I tell you that?” His voice sounded so small and strained.
“Because you look like you fucking dropped, I-“
Shane’s face scrunched as he finally looked at him. “I what? What does that even-“
“You are overstimulated. Overwhelmed. Came out of high too quickly. Feeling low. Unsteady. Whichever.”
All of these were true. He just didn’t quite know how to respond to this.
“Room number. Now, please, solnyshko.”
The dark-haired man blinked at the (soft) order. He took a moment to really study Ilya’s face. It wasn’t cold or detached. It was worried.
Ilya Rozanov was worried about him.
Shane felt tiny when he gave the answer. “…847.”
Shane didn’t remember standing. He didn’t remember walking.
He barely remembered Ilya’s hand at his elbow, firmly, not forcefully, steering him down this endless hallway. He remembered the clicks of the keycard and the lock, and the door shutting behind them.
The world muffled slightly.
However, Shane was still on edge. He broke free, stepping deeper into his room. Then, he looked around and turned back toward Rozanov.
He should probably be lying down or something, but Ilya Rozanov (the man who hurt him) was in his fucking room.
A smorgasbord of emotions crossed his face. He passed all of them by before anger took over, and he lost all patience for any kind of filter.
“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Shane demanded. “Leave.”
Ilya shifted his weight and gave him a puzzled expression. “Hollander, what-“
He gestured towards him. “You said it yourself. We're nothing to each other. You wanted me gone, so I’m gone. You don’t get to just follow me back here like - like-“
Like you didn’t just wreck me.
“Just leave.” Shane could feel the strain in his voice from trying not to cry and sob. “Leave me alone.”
Ilya took one step forward. “Shane-“
“No!” His chest tightens again, but this time it’s heat, not numbness. “I FEEL LIKE SHIT!! Because of you! I HAVE BEEN feeling like shit, because of you. From-“
He swallowed. Then, the words spilled out now just as easily as his eyes welled up with tears.
“From Sochi up until now, you’ve been so confusing. You brush me aside, ignore me and then all of a sudden you want me like nothing happened?” His hands were still shaking. He balled them into fists. “And then what?” His hands unfurled and he moved his arms and head as he spoke. “I thought maybe we were back to normal. Maybe I could talk to you, but you were just going to use and discard me because, why? Oh, that’s right, we aren’t anything!”
His throat burned.
“We didn’t even kiss,” Shane added, his hands falling to his sides. He immediately wanted to swallow that sentence back into his mouth. The feeling of being small returned again. “Did I do something wrong?”
The room went quiet. The words landed between them like something fragile and ugly.
Then, after a minute, Ilya approached him.
Shane backed away instinctively. “W-what are you doing?”
“Fixing the problem,” Ilya said softly. “Giving you a kiss.”
Shane backed away again, giving him a look. “That is so far from what you should be doing right now.”
“But you want one?”
“Maybe?” The admission was humiliating. “No. A-after you explain this all to me, since you’re so keen on sticking around.”
For once, Ilya doesn’t deflect.
He dragged a hand down his face, looking suddenly less composed; less untouchable.
“… I am sorry,” he admitted.
Shane didn’t answer.
“I am sorry thousand times over.” His voice was rougher now. “You did nothing wrong, Shane. Okay? I-“ he averted his eyes for a moment. “Blyat,” the blond man exhaled. “Russia is not something I like talking about. Is… hard topic. Give me a second.”
He shifted, hands behind his back, eyes moving toward the floor as though he was thinking of what he wanted to say.
“It makes me-” He searched for the word. “Small.”
Shane blinked.
“Russia is home. But it is hard. Is not good place for people like us, yes? Not safe.”
Shane nodded along.
“If we were found out- I did not ignore you because you meant nothing,” Ilya explained. “I ignored you because you meant too much, solnyshko. And I did not know how to handle that. But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to handle being ripped away from you. And that scared me.”
The air of the room felt different now. Thinner, but not suffocating.
“And tonight,” Rozanov continued quietly. “I thought if I kept it physical, it would not become something bigger. I thought that would protect us.”
“It didn’t,” Shane whispers.
“I know.”
They went silent again. It somehow felt heavier than the last time.
Ilya wandered closer, but his steps were slower this time, giving Shane space to retreat if he wanted.
He didn’t.
“I was so wrong. I should have kissed you,” Ilya said.
“Yeah,” Shane exhaled.
“I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because kissing is not casual,” Ilya answered. “And I was lying to myself that we were.”
That’s it.
That’s the thing.
Shane’s shoulders sagged like something heavy dissolved inside him. “I thought you just-” He swallowed. “Didn’t care.”
Ilya’s expression softened in a way Shane has only ever seen in flashes.
“I care too much,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “That is problem.”
”I- I care too,” Shane replied automatically.
Slowly and delicately, Rozanov reached up and cupped Shane’s jaw. His hands felt steadying.
“Can I kiss you now?” He murmured. “Will not fix everything, but is start, yes?”
Hollander’s breath trembled as he said, “…Yeah.”
This time, when their mouths met, it was gentle. Soft. Intentional. Unrushed. Careful.
The same notions applied when he kissed Shane’s cheeks. Kissed the still-wet tear marks. And then he kissed his nose, his temples, his jawline, until finally he pecked him once more on the lips. Each one was somehow more tender than the last. It was as though he was memorizing every inch of his face.
When they parted, they rested their foreheads against each other’s, for a brief moment; sharing air.
Shane actually felt a little clearer. He was far from being perfect at the moment, but he wasn’t drowning - not anymore.
But then, the icky uncomfortable feelings he had earlier reminded Shane of their existence and he wanted to be free of them.
“I need a shower,” he muttered.
Ilya simply nodded and replied, “Okay. Let me take care of you?”
After Shane nodded, he was guided to the bathroom. Rozanov turned the water on for him, and helped him out of his clothes. He lingered, checking every minute until the water was hot enough.
Then, Ilya turned to leave, saying, “I can give privacy-“
But Shane caught his wrist. “Stay, please?”
The man didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” He took off his own clothes and joined him.
The water hit Shane’s shoulders and he flinched at first. It was too loud, too much. Then, Ilya adjusted the pressure lower. They relaxed.
They stood under the spray together.
Warmth replaced cold.
After a minute, Ilya pressed his palm flat between Shane’s shoulder blades.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
Shane inhaled.
Exhaled.
The buzzing in his head dulled to something manageable.
The sea receded.
Later, the two were laying on the hotel room’s bed, wrapped in each other’s arms with towels tied around their waist. One of Ilya’s hands wove its way through Shane’s hair.
“You have early flight, tomorrow, yes?” Rozanov inquired.
Hollander gave an affirmative hum.
“You haven’t packed.”
He groaned at the realization, and sank deeper into the mattress, burrowing against Ilya’s chest.
Hours prior, Shane had meant to pack. He even laid out and folded all (most) of his clothes with the intent of putting them back in his suitcase. Unfortunately, he got distracted.
Rozanov chuckled, bending down to kiss his hair. “Let’s make deal. I order us room service, then I help you pack.”
Shane stared up at him. “Room service?”
“You need salt.”
“This room has a snack bar, you know.”
Ilya gave a small shrug and nod with his lips pressed together before asking, “Do you want anything from the snack bar?”
Shane shifted, lowering his gaze again. “Not really.”
“Exactly.” Ilya’s thumb brushed lazily through his hair again. “Room service is better. You get served nice, hot, fresh, French fries.”
The dark-haired man huffed out a small, soft laugh, the first one of the night.
“And what, you’re my emotional support French fry supplier now?” He joked.
“If necessary,” Ilya played along. “Maybe also supplier of orange juice.”
Shane’s face scrunched again. “What?”
“Orange is good for your stomach.”
He used his shoulders to make a minimal shrug. “I don’t think French fries and orange juice are a good combination.”
“Water then.”
Ilya got up, much to Shane’s dismay. Hollander held onto him until he was out of reach. Then he turned and watched as Rozanov took a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the mini fridge.
“What happened to room service?” Shane inquired.
“What?” Ilya asked as he wandered back to the bed. “I am in your room. I am doing service.”
“You asshole. You know what I meant.”
“I did.” The man nodded as he reclaimed his spot. “And I do not mind.” He handed Shane the glass. “Drink.”
Hollander took it and drank a few sips. When it started to look idle in his hands. Ilya took it back and placed it on the nightstand.
Shane got himself resituated into a similar position as before. He reached out and Ilya took his hand.
He tilted his dark head of hair back enough to look at him one more time before quietly asking, “You’re staying until I leave?”
“Yes,” Rozanov confirmed.
Something in his chest unclenched completely at that.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Ilya leaned down and pressed one more kiss to his forehead.
“Next time,” he said softly. “We kiss first, solnyshko.”
Shane closed his eyes.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “We do.”
Room service came and went. The fries were hot, salty, and grounding. Ilya made him drink more water. Made him eat more than he thought he could.
Packing happened slowly, half-lazy, half-efficient. Shane folded what needed folding from the comfort of the bed and Ilya put the items in the suitcase, walking the minimal two steps to do so each way.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
Shane’s breathing evened out gradually, sleep pulling him under.
Ilya stayed awake.
He watched the way Shane’s face softened. The tension disappeared from his jaw. The faint crease between his brows finally smoothed out.
His mind circled back to finding Shane in that elevator, drowning. If he hadn’t gotten on that elevator, Shane would have sunk, alone.
Ilya found himself sorry all over again. Sorry for the way he acted, for not communicating properly, for failing to notice his partner was dropping.
He hoped Shane would forgive him.
The Canadian probably already did.
Ilya brushed his thumb lightly along Shane’s temple.
“I will not make those mistakes again,” he whispered, lowering to lightly kiss his temple one last time. “I promise.”