Chapter Text
2016
“Hollander-”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to… I’m sorry.”
Shane turned and left, the image of Ily- Rozanov on the couch with his arm outstretched towards him burned in the back of his eyelids. He raced to the door, grabbing his phone and wallet off the kitchen island before shutting it behind him and almost literally running away. He made it two and a half blocks before he realized he wasn’t wearing his own clothes, Rozanov’s t-shirt sitting a little too baggy on his shoulders.
Fuck.
He stopped, managing to catch himself on a garden wall before his legs gave out from under him. What the hell was he doing? He was alone, in the middle of Boston, wearing his… God, he didn’t even know what Rozanov was to him anymore. Their relationship wasn’t exactly clear before today, but after everything that happened in that house? Shane had no idea.
He had come over expecting more of the same routine. He would walk in and they would trade insults before the tension got to be too much and they would fall into bed… if they made it that far. Rozanov would take him apart, and he would come at least twice. Then they’d clean up, maybe shower, and lie down together for at most thirty minutes, Shane breathing in the scent of Rozanov’s skin or twirling his fingers through his golden curls, before one of them would make a weak excuse and Shane would get up to go. Rozanov would walk him out, and they would slip back into easy insults and teasing before Shane would walk out the door and back into the world where Ilya Rozanov was nothing but his rival. It left a funny feeling in his chest every time that he couldn’t put a name to, but more and more he found himself thinking about those thirty minutes where they held each other more than the mind-blowing, athletic, multiple-orgasm sex. He tried to tamp that feeling down as much as possible, reminding himself that they had a routine, and they had that routine for a reason. Today would be no exception, but at least Shane would be in Rozanov’s house, and he could see a little deeper into the other man’s life, maybe find something endearing about him to keep close to his chest, right next to that funny feeling.
Except today, Rozanov didn’t follow routine.
Shane had tried to savor every bit of the feeling of Rozanov’s arms around him, and when he thought he had taken enough time, he made a weak excuse to leave. It always stung a little less when he suggested it first, but that turned it into a balancing act between getting enough time in the Russian’s arms and not letting him call time first. But this time was different. Rozanov was insisting he stay. And Shane knew he shouldn’t. He knew that he should stick to the routine, but here was Rozanov, breaking it. On top of that were the pet names. ‘Sweetheart’ right before he came, and now, something in Russian that Shane couldn’t understand.
“Stay, котенок.”
He recognized that one at least, had heard it before, but then it was sarcastic, teasing. Now, it almost… sweet? Shane found himself agreeing despite his better judgement. And then came the tuna melts, and the ginger ale, and the girl talk, and the cuddling, and then Shane was on top of Rozanov, watching his eyes roll back in his head as he said his name, his first name. He was never Shane to him, only Hollander. It was too much. Too many elements of the routine had been broken.
And so now Shane found himself alone, in a random neighborhood in Boston, wearing someone else’s clothes, with no clue what to do with himself. He couldn’t just waltz back into the the hotel room he shared with Hayden, he’d have too many questions about his attire and his attitude. He could always call a car and stop somewhere to buy something that actually fit him, but he found that he didn’t really want to stop wearing Rozanov’s clothes or worse, have to abandon them somewhere. Plus, Shane felt a suspicious hot prickling sensation in his eyes, and he thought if Hayden asked him what was wrong he might burst into tears. So the hotel was out. He slid further down the wall he was leaning on until he was fully sitting on the ground, head in his hands, trying to do the deep breathing calming exercises that his mom had taught him when he started playing junior hockey.
He could turn around. He could walk right back into Rozanov’s house and say… what? “Sorry I freaked out and ran away, can I please have my clothes back?” What would the other man say to that? Probably something rude, and they might fight, or yell, but that was familiar territory for the two and at least Shane would be in his own clothes. Or. Or he would ask him to stay again, break the routine another time, and making Shane even more confused.
And worse, Shane had liked it. He liked being Shane, liked saying Ilya. He liked that Ilya asked him to stay, and he liked Ilya cooking for him, and the two sharing a meal. He might say yes if he asked again, and he might like waking up in the morning in Ilya’s arms. And that was maybe the most dangerous part. The routine was there to protect him, and to protect Rozanov too. Whatever they had between them was just good sex, and it was imperative that that it stay that way, and that it stay private. So no, going back was not an option.
Shane sighed to himself. He didn’t really have anywhere to be, but it was November in Boston, and he was only wearing a t-shirt. He pushed himself up off the ground and fished his phone out of the unfamiliar pocket. A small part of him flickered with hope at the sight of an unread message, thinking maybe Rozanov was asking him to come back, but it withered and died when he saw it was just the Voyageurs group chat joking about some stupid clown sighting or something. Pushing down the urge to laugh, or cry, or run back into someone dangerous’ arms, he called a car.
He had asked the driver to take him somewhere he could buy a nice jacket. Shane wasn’t really into flashy fashion or designer brands, but he was in a weird funk and and felt like doing something a little irresponsible. Fuck, was dropping a couple of hundred bucks on a winter coat the craziest Shane could get? Maybe he really was boring.
Getting out of the car, he found himself in a luxury shopping center. He could see a couple of designer stores he recognized, as well as some others he didn’t. Fortunately, he could see a lot of clothing stores around, so surely he could find something warm and kill some time until he felt well enough to head back to the hotel. Unfortunately, the shopping center seemed to be organized around a luxury dealership, and he could see rows of bright and flashy ostentatious sports cars lined up in the parking lot, which just reminded him of whose house he just left and whose clothes he was wearing. Annoyed, he shook his head and shoulders violently, as if he was trying to shake off the scent that still clung to him, and set off to look for a jacket.
He ambled up and down the sidewalks of the shopping center, which was pretty dead. At least he ran a lesser risk of getting recognized. Boston fans hated him. He looked in shop windows, but didn’t really find anything that he wanted. This only made him more annoyed. It was getting pretty fucking cold, and he couldn’t even find a stupidly expensive jacket to splurge on. He turned down a side street of shops, only to sigh when he found a dead end. He was about to turn around when something caught his eye. Tucked next to the brick wall that blocked the street was a small shop that seemed a little out of place in this fancy outdoor mall. It looked warmly lit and packed with… well he couldn’t actually tell what it was packed with, it just looked like a lot of random stuff. He was moving towards the door when his eyes flicked up to read the sign above it and he stopped dead in his tracks.
Fuck. Of course.
Of course the sign was in Russian. Shane couldn’t read it, but he recognized the Cyrillic alphabet. He was actually getting kind of pissed now. It seemed like literally everything around him reminded him of Rozanov. The thought had no sooner entered his head when he literally heard the name behind him.
“Dude, no way, Rozanov is definitely going to fuck up the Voyageurs tomorrow! Hollander doesn’t know what’s fucking coming to him.” Two men came into the little dead end cul-de-sac, both wearing Boston Bears merch, and the speaker holding a cigarette.
“Man I fucking wish. That dick is so freakishly good sometimes. Like a hockey robot.”
Shane’s eyes widened. They were leaning against a wall as they sparked up, and they were still deep in conversation (mostly about how they wanted Rozanov to cream him so bad he can’t show his stupid face in Boston anymore) but they were bound to notice him soon. Fuck. They’d probably recognize him and then what? At best he’d have to suffer through an awkward and tense conversation and at worst… Fuck it. Before he could talk himself out of it he opened the door and ducked inside the store.
Shane’s initial assessment was correct. The shop was absolutely chock-full of… stuff. It was an absolutely random assortment of options, from clothes to toys, to… home improvement supples? Everything carried a patina of age and was just a little bit unfamiliar. There was a faint smell of incense and something sour in the air, and everywhere he looked he saw bears. There were wood carvings, teddy bears, bears woven into blankets. It seemed like the kind of place Shane might like to explore on a day where everything hadn’t gone to shit. Seeing as this was one of those days, the dust and smell just irritated his nose and the overflowing shelves just made him feel a little claustrophobic and overwhelmed. He was cold and emotional and at this point just angry and he just wanted to go home. It didn’t help that every time he turned his head and saw another bear an image of Rozanov’s bare chest, bear tattoo snarling, popped into his head. He turned to peer out the window to look at the guys taking a smoke break, wishing they would hurry up and finish so he could go back out and call the car service back to take him to the hotel. Fuck the jacket, and he was pissed enough at this point that there was no shot he’d cry in front of Hayden. He saw one of them spark up another and rocked back on his heels and sighed.
“У тебя есть секрет, которым ты хочешь поделиться.”
Shane jumped a full foot in the air. He swung around to find the speaker behind him, but forgot he was a giant hockey player in a tiny and overstuffed shop and knocked over a small end shelf. He caught it (hockey reflexes) but some things spilled to the floor anyway, jostled by the movement. The words bull and china shop popped into his head as he reached down to pick up what he knocked over. Of course it was a bear figurine, or wait, maybe it was one of those nesting dolls shaped like a bear?
He got back to his feet and faced the speaker, bear doll still in hand. An old woman stood in front of him, wearing a knitted shawl over a flower patterned long dress. A headscarf sat in her thin gray hair, and the wrinkles on her face formed deep lines across her brow and down her cheeks. Her eyes though, were shockingly bright, and focused on Shane with a knowing, maybe suspicious expression.
“S- sorry, sorry, you ah, scared me…” Shane stammered out. “I uh, I don’t speak Russian.”
The woman hummed and snapped her fingers.
“What is it that you’re looking for?” She asked, not unkindly but somewhat harshly, in (heavily accented) perfect English.
“Oh!” Shane started, “Oh I think I’m just… looking around.” He could ask about a jacket but the thought of putting something from this store on his body without washing it made him want to peel his skin off a little bit.
“Hmm? No, I think that there is something very specific that you want.”
The woman eyed him with a shrewd look, and Shane felt his hands grow a little clammy.
“No really, I think I might just-”
“Do you like matryoshkas?” The woman cut him off, gesturing to the bear in his hand. “I have others, but I have a feeling you have a special connection to the bear. This one has a special surprise at the end.”
Shane frowned down at the bear figurine in his hand. Looking at it more closely, he could see the seam down the middle, and recognized the bowling pin shape. He moved to open it, and then glanced up to look at the woman. Seeing her nod and shoo him back to it, he started to open the layers, one after the other, balancing the empty halves on a shelf nearby. As the dolls grew smaller, he saw the woman leaning in to watch, as if she didn’t know what the surprise was either. That puzzled him briefly, but he kept going.
He revealed the last doll and it was another bear. Wait, no… A cat?
The woman gasped and clapped her hands together. “A kitten! How exciting.”
Shane frowned again, something about the word bothering him. He guessed it looked pretty young, but the sound of it hit his ears and picked at his brain. Of course he knew the word kitten, but something about it sounded familiar in a way that made him a little nostalgic and kind of uneasy.
“Uh, yeah. Cool.” Shane started to put the dolls back, and tried to ignore as the old lady watched him with interest. When he was done he moved to put it back on the shelf, but she stopped him, holding out a withered hand.
“No! It’s yours now. Take it, I insist.” She smiled at Shane, but that same shrewd expression stayed in her eyes. “I have a feeling that it will bring you exactly what you need. Here, let me wrap it up for you.”
She snatched it from his hand and hobbled toward the back of the shop, disappearing into the overflowing shelves. Shane stared after her for a second, jaw agape. He snapped it shut. Most of his anger had evaporated, replaced instead by confusion. He shook his head to clear it, and then, making sure the guys were gone, moved to the door. Then he stopped. She was coming back out, and it would be kind of rude to just vanish. He sighed again, and ran his fingers through his hair. He pulled out his phone and arranged for a car to pick him up by the dealership. He didn’t really want to go look at the candy colored fancy cars anymore, but he didn’t actually know the name of this shop, and couldn’t remember any other landmark in the shopping center.
By the time he finished, he looked up and jumped again, the woman having seemingly appeared right in front of him.
“Jesus! Oh my god, you’re so quiet,” Shane hissed, his hand coming up to cover his heart.
The woman just cocked her head at him and smiled that same knowing smile. Okay, it was getting a little creepy at this point.
“All done! And here, don’t you know it’s cold outside?”
She handed him a brown paper shopping bag, the kind with the thin handles that Shane never liked because they dug into his fingers. But in her other hand she held out a soft grey coat. It looked wool, and remarkably familiar. Shane realized that it was a dead ringer for the peacoat that he had lost in high school. That was his favorite coat, it always fit him so well and the texture never grated on him like other wool coats.
Shane swallowed dryly and accepted both items.
“How much do I owe you?” He asked, shifting the coat over his arm and reaching for his wallet.
The woman just waved him away. “For you Shane Hollander? No charge. I think you’ll soon find that you got more than you bargained for.”
Ah. So she was a fan. That was odd, since she was obviously Russian and in the same city as Ilya “The Russian Goddamn Terror” Rozanov, but she looked like she would not take no for an answer.
“Well… Thank you. Really. I appreciate it.”
He didn’t really, but what else was he supposed to say?
She chuckled at a private joke to herself, and started to shoo him out the door. “Go, go, your car is almost here.”
Shane frowned again. “How did you…” But then he was outside and he heard the door lock behind him, and the lights inside blink out. Oh, she was closing and he was taking up too much of her time. That was probably it. What a strange encounter.
The cold shocked him, and as much as he didn’t want to put on the coat, thinking about scratchy wool and germs, he found himself forced to shrug it on before too long. He was surprised to find that it fit really well, that style usually pinched at his shoulders. The wool was shockingly soft as well.
He made his way back to the dealership, and as he approached the parking lot of fancy cars he found himself feeling… off. His head started to ache, and he felt a bit dizzy, but he chalked it up to an emotional day filled with weirdness and no schedule. The sky was rapidly approaching dark, and he could see employees moving through the showroom to lock up. His head swam, and he reached out, leaning on a Porsche to steady himself. Shit, where was that car? He needed a hot shower and sleep, like bad. As the thought crossed his mind, suddenly he was the most tired he’d ever been. Still leaning on the car, he lowered himself down to the ground. He could take a little nap, the driver would find him when the car showed up. The shopping bag entered his vision and he grabbed the matryoshka out of the paper, suddenly wanting to see the bears again. A piece of paper fluttered down from his hand where he had accidentally picked it up. A receipt? He frowned groggily at it, trying to bring it into focus. It was a scrap, with elegant script scrawled across it.
‘Do not fret kitten, soon your wish will come true.’
Shane fell asleep.