Work Text:
Shane needed some air. He couldn't get Ilya’s intense hazel stare out of his head. There had been a hunger, almost a possession to his gaze—piercing even across the club—as he drank Shane in. It made Shane want to run to Ilya, drop to his knees right there on the sticky dance floor. It simultaneously made Shane want to press harder into the lithe toned muscles of Miles behind him, clutch Rose tighter to his front. He could really put on a show and see what it brought out in Ilya.
The conflicting emotions were too much, building in his chest until he felt he might burst, so he had fled. He thought he might have yelled something over the music about finding a bathroom, but he wasn't sure Rose heard. She hadn't followed him, at least.
Shane stopped in the hallway leading to the bathroom, bending double with his hands on his knees and gulping in deep breaths. He was sure some real fresh air would have been better, but there would be fewer fans inside the club and he didn't want to risk this moment being caught on a phone camera and posted to someone's socials. It was embarrassing enough without the whole world seeing.
Shane could feel his chest expanding and contracting, but the oxygen didn't seem to be working. His fingers still tingled and his head swirled. He'd only had a few shots, and he normally wasn't such a lightweight.
He hadn't been expecting Ilya. He wasn't sure why– Ilya was known for partying and this was his hometown. He would know all the best bars and clubs. He probably had been here before. He'd probably brought home countless women from this club before.
Shit. Shane pushed the thought from his head.
Ilya could sleep with whomever the fuck he wanted. It was none of Shane's business and it didn't bother him. He had Rose now.
Sweet, kind Rose. Smart and funny and talented. And for some reason she seemed to want to go out with Shane. He couldn't have found a more perfect girlfriend if he'd custom-made her in a lab.
But when she had pressed closer to his body, her soft ass pushing into his thigh, not quite meeting his groin, his stomach had clenched unpleasantly. He’d had to force himself not to pull away.
Shane pushed those thoughts away, too. It was all fucking Rozanov’s fault. If he hadn't shown up and started glaring at Shane with those intense, hooded eyes, Shane would be just fine. He would be out there dancing with his beautiful girlfriend and he wouldn't be one breath from a panic attack in a dingy club hallway.
“Hey, I was hoping to run into you.”
Shane straightened abruptly, so fast that the world swung around him. He blinked fast, hoping to force the dizziness down.
“Er, hi?” Shane couldn't keep the question out of his voice, although saying ‘do I know you?’ seemed a bit rude.
The man in front of him was unfamiliar, tall and broad. Bigger than Shane. Almost as big as Ilya– Shane forced the comparison out of his head. He did not have to compare every man he came across to fucking Rozanov.
The man had a tan complexion and light eyes. His hair was cropped short to his head and bleached a light blonde. Shane found his eyes catching on the glint of a piercing sparkling against the man's eyebrow. His lips were tilted into a confident smile.
“You looked good out there. I couldn't stop watching you,” the man said smoothly, not deterred in the slightest by Shane's awkwardness. He leaned forward, crowding close and holding out a hand to Shane. “I'm Eli.”
“Oh, hi,” Shane said lamely. “I'm Shane.”
Eli's hand was warm and broad under his, and after they shook, Eli didn't let go. Instead, he used their joined hands to pull Shane even closer. Their bodies were almost touching now. Shane wasn't sure he liked the feeling.
“I know,” Eli whispered, his head leaned close enough that Shane could feel his warm, slightly moist breath against his ear. It made him shudder and he took a step back, trying to reclaim some distance.
Eli just laughed softly and prowled closer until Shane's back hit the tacky wall behind him. The sensation of dirty, unfamiliar plaster on his back and this strange, predatory man in front of him made Shane feel claustrophobic. Caged in, no escape. His skin was crawling and any calm he had regained since fleeing the dance floor had vanished. His panic had returned, tenfold.
“I need to go,” Shane said, attempting to force some steel into his voice. “My girlfriend will be looking for me.”
Shane tried to duck away. He was sure he would be fine if he could just get out of this hellish club. Rose would understand. With her endless patience, Rose wouldn't mind Shane cutting their night short. She would probably even take him home, make sure he was okay. He would handle the humiliation of being babied if he could just force some real air into his lungs and get the hell out of this place.
“Whoa.” Eli's hands came down on either side of Shane's head, his body pressing closer still so they were now touching. His chest brushing against Shane's, making him squirm. “Where are you off to? We're having so much fun.”
Shane let out an embarrassing squeak before Eli's mouth was covering his. It was hot, and wet. And so, so unbelievably unpleasant.
It was strange, because this was what he should feel like when he kissed Ilya. What he should feel like kissing any man, but especially the man he supposedly hated. He had wished for so many years to feel like this when Ilya crowded him up against a wall. When Ilya licked against his lips and forced his tongue inside. When Ilya's hands roamed over his body.
Oh, God. Shane might throw up. He might throw up into this horrible man's mouth. He wanted to push him away, but every time he got his arms up between them, Eli knocked them down. It was almost too easy for him.
Shane wanted to scream, but some small part of his brain still was coherent enough to understand that this was not a moment he wanted interrupted by a fan. The only thing more incriminating than someone finding Shane Hollander having a panic attack outside a club bathroom, was someone finding Shane Hollander being sexually assaulted by a man outside a club bathroom.
Fuck. Shane didn't know what to do, and he felt impossibly more helpless.
He slumped, boneless against the wall, and Eli took it as an invitation. Shane was practically being held up by strong arms and the muscular body pressing into his chest. He could feel Eli's firm erection digging into his hip, and Shane cooked out a whimper.
He couldn't believe this was happening. After all the careful sneaking around, trying to will away any non-straight thoughts he had. How could this be happening?
Suddenly the weight lifted. Shane slumped to the ground, his legs practically noodles, unable to support him. He blinked up, his vision blurring with tears.
“Whoa, what the fu–” Eli was cut off by a string of Russian profanity.
Russian. Shane blinked harder, sure he was mistaken.
But no, that was Ilya. Ilya Rozanov was looming high above Shane, using his considerable size to force Eli into the wall. The same wall Shane had just been trapped against moments ago.
“Get off me! What the–”
There was a dull thud, and Shane reeled away from the spray of blood that spurted from Eli's nose when Ilya's fist connected.
It's not that he hadn't seen Ilya get riled up before. Hockey was a violent sport and Ilya was not one to shy away from a scuffle. Shane had even seen him throw a punch here and there in their early years.
No, it wasn't the physicality that made Shane gape, it was Ilya.
Ilya was seething, practically vibrating with anger. Shane could see the strain of his muscles underneath his thin shirt. His arm pressed Eli into the wall so hard that Shane was sure he would leave bruises, his arm a firm line across Eli's throat.
Shane could only see Ilya's profile, but it was enough. Shane thought he had seen Ilya angry before, but this was something he didn't recognize. Pure, unfettered loathing. Ilya practically bared his teeth, wild in his hatred as he leaned close and hissed something in Russian.
Neither Shane, nor Eli could understand what Ilya was saying, but he seemed to get his point across just fine without English. Ilya pulled back, using the lapels of Eli's shirt to drag him along and then Ilya practically threw the huge man, flinging him back down the hallway towards the dance floor.
Eli stumbled, and gave them both one last wide eyed look. His shirt was rumpled and the skin on the front of his neck was a rosy red, but otherwise he was unharmed. Ilya hadn't cooled off any, still standing threateningly in the middle of the hallway, fists clenched and chest heaving, in front of Shane. Shane wished he could see Ilya's face.
Eli took the chance and fled, disappearing around the corner. Shane felt his breath rush out of him in one huge sigh.
Ilya was suddenly there, crouching before Shane. His eyes were still wild, and he was buzzing with a frantic energy. Ilya reached forward, the slightest tremor shaking his hand, but paused just before he made contact with Shane's cheek.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut, causing his tears to finally spill over. “Please,” he whispered.
It seemed to break a dam in Ilya. Shane felt steady hands cup his face, tilting it forward until their foreheads made contact. Ilya's comforting scent surrounded him, making Shane whine and reach out. He wasn't even sure what he needed, but when his hands clutched onto Ilya's shirt and tugged, Ilya seemed to know what he needed.
Ilya's arms moved, coming to wrap around Shane, one on his back and one under his knees. And then Shane was being lifted, pulled into Ilya's lap as Ilya shifted so he was leaning against the wall where Shane had been sitting. Ilya wasted no time settling Shane in his lap, and Shane pressed closer. He molded himself to Ilya's chest, greedy for more of this. More contact, more comfort.
Ilya started murmuring into Shane's hair, his voice barely more than a whisper. He was still speaking Russian, and Shane couldn't tell if he even realized. Maybe Ilya was so shaken that he was reaching for the only words he knew. English being too complicated when his emotions were in control.
Either way, it soothed Shane. The smooth lilt of Ilya's voice, so silky and even in Russian, like flowing water. Shane wished he knew what it all meant, but just the sound of Ilya's voice was enough to slow his pulse, deepen his breaths. Until finally, Shane was slumped, exhausted and drained but no longer tense, against Ilya's chest.
Ilya brought up a hand to comb through Shane's hair. “Moya lyubov,” he whispered, achingly tender. “Let me take you home.”
Shane stiffened, pulling back to meet Ilya's eyes. He must have read the hurt there, because Ilya rushed to clarify.
“No, Shane, no. Not for sex.” And Ilya looked so heartbroken, so devastated that Shane had even thought he might be suggesting it, that Shane knew it had to be true. He relaxed again. “I want to make sure you are okay. I want to keep you safe.”
It was ridiculous, because he didn't even know what Ilya was to Shane. His ex-fuck buddy? They weren't together. They weren't even sleeping together. They had never really been friends, in fact, they were rivals.
Shane had come here with Rose. Shane was with Rose now.
But… he didn't want anyone else. He couldn't explain it, but he felt safe with Ilya. Shane wasn't sure he could peel himself off of Ilya's chest at this point, let alone refuse the offer to go home together. When did this happen? When had Ilya Rozanov become the person that Shane felt safest with? He had no idea, but something awful had just happened to him, and all he wanted was this massive Russian to hold him through it.
Shane's throat felt too tight to get words out, but he nodded, squeezing his eyes shut and tucking his face into Ilya's neck. Ilya's only response was to tighten his arms.
In an impressive display of strength, he stood, effortlessly lifting Shane.
Shane could only press his face further into Ilya's skin. He wasn't sure he could handle seeing anyone right now. Even the lights and the music of the club felt overwhelming.
A thought occurred to Shane. He pulled back just far enough that he could see Ilya's face. “Rose?” he asked softly.
Shane couldn't just ditch his girlfriend. It wouldn't be right for him to vanish. Especially with an ex, although even if Rose spotted Ilya carrying Shane out, he was sure she would never guess they had ever been an item.
Ilya's jaw tightened when he heard her name, and he rolled his eyes. “I will text Rose Landry when we are in car.”
Shane chewed on his lip, then decided that was satisfactory and nodded. Rose really deserved more than a text, but Shane wasn't in the right headspace to do anything else. He certainly wouldn't be pushing his way through the sea of dancing bodies to find her and explain. Not when fucking Eli was probably one of those dancing bodies.
Ilya hummed approvingly and shifted Shane again, encouraging him to nestle close once more. Shane went easily, letting his forehead press to Ilya's neck and closing his eyes.
It felt decadent, having Ilya like this after so long apart. To be surrounded by this stoic Russian, feeling safe and cared for. So rough and harsh with everyone else, but soft with Shane. Only with Shane. And only in glimpses until right now. Shane felt starved for Ilya's affection and he wanted to gorge himself while he had the chance.
Ilya murmured something else, so soft, in Russian, and then they were moving. Not towards the dance floor, which Shane had been bracing himself for, but the other way. Further into the darkness, past the bathrooms, until Ilya pushed through a door Shane never would have noticed, and they were suddenly outside.
Of course Rozanov would know where the back entrance to the club was.
The cool air was a balm to Shane's face, sticky where the tears had dried. Shane let himself drift.
Ilya fumbled for a moment, struggling to reach into his pocket with his arms full of Shane. There were two beeps, and then Ilya was bundling Shane into the passenger seat of an absurd, bright orange sports car.
Shane wanted to make a quip about how ridiculous the car was, but his throat still felt thick. Joking was too much of an effort for his heavy tongue and his heavy heart. Their normal back and forth felt out of reach. That had been a different Shane. He didn't know who he was now, but he didn't feel like the same man he had been that morning. He felt small and pathetic and vulnerable. Stripped of his confidence and joy.
Shane didn't realize he was crying again until Ilya reached over from the driver's seat and brushed a gentle thumb across Shane's cheek.
“Oh, Shane,” Ilya whispered. When Shane looked up, Ilya's eyes were so intense, and so deeply sad. It just made Shane cry harder, tipping forward across the center console and dropping his head back into Ilya's neck.
Ilya took it all in stride, his arms circling Shane's shoulders and squeezing tight. Tight enough to hold him together, or that was what Shane was hoping. He still felt a bit fractured, but with Ilya there he could at least see where the pieces were supposed to go. If Ilya let go, Shane knew he would shatter completely.
They sat there for a long time, long enough for Shane's eyes to dry and his back to cramp uncomfortably from the way he was turned.
Shane was the first one to pull away, and Ilya offered him a sweet smile. Ilya cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Shane's heart throbbed.
“I'm sorry,” Shane whispered. Ilya's face darkened.
“No, Hollander. No sorry.” His fingers skimmed over Shane's jaw delicately. His jaw worked and his eyes unfocused in the way they used to when he was still learning English. Shane wondered if Ilya was having trouble articulating what he wanted to say. Finally, Ilya just repeated. “You should not be sorry.”
Shane would not start crying again. He turned to face forward and focused on his breathing. And not crying.
Ilya hummed. “Okay, this is what we do.” He lifted his hand and started counting his points on long, elegant fingers. “I take you home. I text Rose from your phone and say you got headache so she does not worry. I make sure you get to bed okay. Then we figure out rest of the plan tomorrow.” His voice was so steady, so sure. This, Shane could do. He had been listening to this moody Russian for years, and all those steps sounded manageable.
Shane gave a jerky nod. He didn't trust himself to speak, still, but Ilya must have understood because the car turned on.
They drove in silence. Shane felt himself drifting, floating in and out of his body. It was as though he was seeing the road through someone else's eyes. As though his body was not his own.
But then Ilya's warm hand covered his, and it was like he was jolted back into himself. Oh. That was his hand.
Ilya gave a squeeze, and Shane managed a weak squeeze in return.
He wasn't alone, and he thought, maybe, he would get through this.