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Shane stared blankly at the four words on his screen.
We didn't even kiss.
His head hit the elevator wall with a thud. Slowly, letter by letter, he deleted the text. He squeezed his eyes tight and knocked his head against the wall one more time. He hovered his thumb over the keypad until the screen went dark. What was the point? Rozanov didn't want to hear from him. Maybe Rozanov wouldn't ever want to hear from him again. Shane could feel a sick feeling rising in his throat.
We didn't even kiss.
He didn't realise the doors were open until they had almost closed again. His foot felt unnaturally heavy as he shoved it into the gap. He staggered out into the hallway and towards his room, his phone clutched loosely in clumsy fingers. The walk to his room felt like it took hours, and his legs were trembling by the time he careened into the door. He let himself stay slumped against it for a moment, his head swimming. Why was he feeling this way? He’d barely had two sips of Rozanov’s vodka, surely it couldn’t be affecting him this badly? He fumbled in his right trouser pocket, then his left, then his jacket pockets increasingly frantically, checking them all a second time in case he had somehow missed the thin piece of plastic he needed.
It wasn’t there.
Shane had a horrible suspicion he knew where it was.
He thought back to draping his jacket over the back of the couch in Rozanov’s hotel room, folding his shirt and trousers and putting them in the same spot. His keycard must still be in Rozanov’s room.
He briefly considered just sleeping in the hallway.
The thought of turning up back at Rozanov’s door made the sick feeling crawl further up his throat. He wasn’t sure he could bear it, another cold, impersonal interaction.
The next breath he drew shuddered in his chest.
He unlocked his phone with trembling fingers, trying desperately to think of something casual sounding.
Can I come back?
No. Stupid. Delete.
I need to come up to your room.
Too desperate. Delete.
I think I left my keycard in your room. Can I come grab it?
Shane stared at his screen until his eyes burned. He pressed send. He waited, watching the minutes tick over, but still no typing bubble, not even a read receipt. Nausea sank to the pit of his stomach. Maybe Rozanov would never speak to him again. Maybe he’d messed things up so badly that it was all over between them. He tried to sort through the evening in his mind, dredging up each moment and turning it over to see where he’d misstepped.
It was like wading through mud.
Was it when he’d refused to undress in front of the windows? He hadn’t followed Rozanov’s instructions, even though he’d won MVP, they’d made a deal.
Then he’d thrown his underwear at Rozanov. Shane shuddered at the thought. He’d been trying to be funny, cute, even. He pictured the contemptuous way Rozanov had dropped them on the floor and had to swallow down bile.
He’d been too needy, asked too many questions, tried to talk about Russia. He’d pushed and pushed and Rozanov had kicked him out. Hadn’t even walked him to the door.
He jumped when his phone buzzed in his hand.
Lily: fine
Shane swallowed hard. That was it? He let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. But so what? Rozanov didn't owe him anything. He lurched back to the elevator, missing the button several times before his fingers finally made contact. He felt his breathing pick up with every floor that crept past.
Rozanov had barely looked at him tonight. Well, no, he’d done plenty of looking at first. But … after. After, he had stared straight ahead, cigarette hanging from his lips. After, he had dismissed Shane with a thin excuse. After, he hadn’t touched Shane at all. Hadn’t held him, hadn’t – hadn’t kissed him.
It had to be Shane’s fault.
Every other time they’d been together Rozanov had been teasing, gentle, affectionate. Shane must have done something to make him so different.
It almost felt like too soon when the elevator doors parted smoothly. He hadn’t had enough time, he hadn’t pinpointed the exact mistake he’d made. Maybe Rozanov would tell him?
His knock on Rozanov’s door was so weak that he was surprised when Rozanov opened. His eyes flew to Rozanov’s face involuntarily, half-terrified of what he’d see there. He met a blank look that almost knocked him off his feet. It was as if he barely even registered to Rozanov.
Rozanov stepped to the side wordlessly, an unlit cigarette still hanging from his lips, his chest still bare. Shane tried to squeeze past as close to the doorframe as possible, but his elbow brushed against Rozanov’s stomach. Even through the fabric he felt the heat of him. He dropped down to the floor next to the couch and slid his hand along underneath it, trying not to picture how he must look to Rozanov, down on his knees. His fingers met smooth plastic and he scrabbled it towards him, scooping it up clumsily. He held it up as if to prove to Rozanov that he wasn’t making it up, that he had come back for a legitimate reason, but when he lifted his head Rozanov wasn't even looking at him; he was staring out the window, his back against the door. Shane flushed and scrambled to his feet, faster than he meant to; his vision went spotty and the floor suddenly tilted, sending him staggering. A firm hand gripped his arm, holding him steady.
“Hollander.”
Shane tried desperately to focus, to respond, but his body wasn’t cooperating.
“Hollander.”
Gentle fingers grasped his chin, tilting his head up.
“Hollander, you’re okay?”
Shane blinked dazedly, finally managing to look at Rozanov. He looked … Shane wasn’t sure. His brows were drawn together and his mouth was a tight line. Was he angry?
“S-sorry,” Shane managed to choke out. To his dismay, this only made Rozanov’s brows furrow deeper.
“What are you sorry for?”
Shane attempted a shrug, but this only served to unbalance him further, and Rozanov had to quickly let go of his chin in order to grab his other arm.
“What is the matter, Hollander? Are you sick?”
“No,” Shane mumbled. He didn't think he was. Although that would explain how lethargic and low he’d felt since leaving Rozanov’s hotel room.
“Then what is the matter?” Rozanov peered into his eyes with what almost looked like concern. “Is everything alright?”
Shane didn’t even realise he was crying until he tasted the salt on his lips.
“Hollander!” There was definite worry in Rozanov’s tone now, and he started to tug Shane over towards the couch. “Here, sit, tell me what is the matter. Did someone hurt you? Someone say something to you after you go?”
Shane couldn’t focus on that many questions. He allowed himself to be sat down on the couch, but when Rozanov knelt in front of him he started back, a sudden awareness of where he was cutting through the fog that had filled his brain.
“No, I … no one hurt me, I have to – I have to go, I shouldn’t –”
“Hollander,” Rozanov said, but Shane was too caught up in his panic to hear him.
“I shouldn’t be here, I’m sorry, you told me to go-”
“Hollander-”
“Sorry, Rozanov, I’m sorry –”
“Shane.”
Shane shut his mouth with a snap. Rozanov’s hand was back on Shane’s jaw and his eyes were flicking between Shane’s urgently.
“It is okay, I want you here, yes? I am not angry.”
Shane was breathing shakily, trying to swallow back the hitching sobs that were bursting from his chest. Without making the conscious decision to do so he tilted forward slowly until his forehead was pressed against Rozanov’s bare shoulder. Rozanov seemed to hesitate, then one hand came up and gently stroked down the back of Shane’s head. For a moment there was no sound in the room other than their breathing, then Rozanov said carefully, “no one hurt you?”
Shane shook his head, using the movement to press his face even further against Rozanov’s neck.
“Then … was it me?”
Shane didn't understand the question.
“Hollander.”
He had obviously taken too long to reply. Rozanov’s hands grasped his shoulders and leaned him back, despite the whimper Shane let out at being dragged from his hiding spot. Rozanov leaned back to look Shane in the eye, a slightly hollow look on his face.
“Did…” Rozanov hesitated uncharacteristically. “Did I hurt you?”
Shane was shaking his head before he even got the words out.
“No, no, you never hurt me, you're always so good to me, too good,” Shane babbled, his fingers curling desperately into Rozanov’s shirt like he was afraid he’d get up and walk away. He felt Rozanov relax beneath his hands and Shane relaxed with him.
“Not possible,” Rozanov smiled, his thumb coming up to swipe across Shane’s bottom lip. “Couldn’t be too good to you, Hollander, when you are always so good for me.”
Shane felt the guilt hit him like a physical punch to the gut. How could Rozanov say that when Shane had disappointed him so badly that he hadn't wanted to kiss him or even look at him barely half an hour ago? Shane didn't deserve to be sitting here with Rozanov’s hand so gentle on his face, calling him good when he hadn't earned that descriptor by any stretch of the imagination. He shrank back against the couch, but Rozanov wouldn't let him escape so easily.
“Hey, hey, Hollander, what is happening now? What did I say?”
Rozanov was looking at him so earnestly and with so much concern that the words slipped out before Shane could swallow them down.
“I’m not good,” he whispered, blinking hard to hold back the tears he could feel threatening to fall.
Rozanov scoffed at this, a disbelieving expression on his face.
“What are you talking about, Hollander? You are talking … ерунда. Nonsense. Why do you think you are not good for me, hm?” Rozanov was up on his knees, now, his big hands on either side of Shane’s face. “Is crazy that you think this.”
Shane tried to turn away but Rozanov wouldn't let him, his grip unyielding.
“Tell me,” Rozanov said, almost pleading. “I will fix.”
“I – I did something wrong,” Shane said miserably, his voice breaking.
“What, родной? What did you do wrong?”
“I don't know!” Shane sobbed, his face crumpling. “Tell me, please, I’ll never do it again, please, Ilya, I’m sorry!”
Rozanov – Ilya – looked horrified. His palms started to slip from Shane’s face and Shane grabbed at him in panic, his hands shaking so much that he could barely get a grip on Ilya’s arms.
“Don’t go, don’t go, I’m sorry, Ilya, I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you want, please, please!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind Shane was screaming at himself to back off, to get himself out of Ilya’s hotel room before he damaged what they had irreparably, but the sheer hysteria he was feeling drowned out everything but his need to keep Ilya close. He was sobbing so hard that he could barely breathe, and he was sure that he must be hurting Ilya with the way he was clawing at him, but he couldn’t make himself stop.
“Shane. Shane!” Ilya was calling his name with increasing desperation, but Shane couldn’t drag himself out of the panic that was smothering him. Finally, Ilya grabbed him firmly and dragged him off the couch and into his lap. He trapped Shane’s hands against his chest and pressed Shane’s face into his neck, his strong arms encircling Shane and squeezing him tightly. He pressed his face into Shane’s hair and began to rock him gently, mumbling soothingly in Russian.
Shane sagged against Ilya, still choking out sobs, but he could feel his breathing beginning to even out the longer he stayed crushed against Ilya’s chest. He wasn’t sure how long it took, how much time he spent with his head buried in Ilya’s neck, but eventually his tears began to peter out and his hands stopped shaking so hard where they were trapped between their bodies.
“That’s it, родной, you are doing so well,” Ilya murmured, carding his fingers through Shane’s hair. “Doing just what I wanted, yes? Being so good for me.”
Shane tensed and Ilya’s fingers stilled in his hair.
“You are,” Ilya insisted, his hand coming instead to gently squeeze the back of Shane’s neck. “You have been good for me all night, родная. You did everything I asked you to and more, and now you’re letting me take care of you. You are so good, Shane.”
Shane let out a hiccupping sob.
“Then why –” He cut himself off and pressed his face more firmly into Ilya’s neck.
“Why what?” Ilya asked softly, his lips brushing Shane’s ear in a facsimile of what Shane had been craving all night.
“Why didn’t you kiss me?” he gasped, his words tumbling out in such a jumble he wasn’t sure if Ilya would even understand him. Ilya’s hand tightened ever so slightly on the back of Shane’s neck and Shane cringed, certain he’d overstepped. He’d spent the whole fucking night overstepping; this wasn’t allowed, he wasn’t supposed to be sobbing into Ilya’s arms and begging for more than what he was given. Ilya would kick him out for the second time tonight, now, and he’d be right to; Shane had just stomped over whatever hazy boundaries they had and if he had any self-respect he’d leave now, of his own accord.
Shane very clearly didn't have any self-respect.
“Oh, Shane.”
Ilya sounded soft, sympathetic, and Shane was certain he could hear pity in his voice. Ilya’s grip loosened and he tilted Shane backwards, leaning him against the couch. Shane let himself be maneuvered without complaint. He could feel rationality beginning to creep back in and rational Shane was deeply unimpressed with his behaviour.
Shane couldn’t meet Ilya’s eyes, focusing instead on the crucifix resting on his chest.
“I am sorry, родной. I have been very selfish tonight, yes? I didn’t give you what you needed.”
Before Shane could protest this obvious inaccuracy Ilya was leaning forward and gently sliding his mouth over Shane’s. Shane could’ve sobbed with relief. His hands came up automatically to clutch at Ilya’s waist, and Ilya pressed in further, pushing up from where he was seated on his knees to loom over Shane and tilting Shane’s head back gently against the couch cushions. He cupped Shane’s face in his hands and gently coaxed his mouth open, slipping his tongue in to softly stroke over Shane’s, drawing a moan out of the man beneath him.
“Is that better, родной?” he asked when he finally broke the kiss.
“Yes,” Shane breathed, the anxiety he had been feeling for the past hour finally fading to a hum in the background. “So much better. Thank you.”
Ilya shook his head quickly. “Don’t thank me. You would not have felt this way if I had looked after you properly.”
Shane tried to interject, to tell Ilya how well he always looked after him, but Ilya only kissed him again.
“I will do better next time, yes?”
Next time. The last of Shane’s restlessness finally drained out of him, leaving behind only exhaustion and a quiet, contented feeling. Ilya still wanted him. He hadn’t ruined anything. Ilya was pleased that Shane had told him what was wrong. Shane smiled up at him muzzily, his head still tilted back against the couch. Ilya stroked his thumb over the apple of Shane’s cheek, before ducking down and pressing a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth.
“Alright, родной. Bedtime for you, I think.”
Shane felt a curl of dissatisfaction at the thought of going back to his hotel room, but he didn't argue. Ilya took him by the hands and pulled him to his feet, pressing a hand to his back when he swayed slightly. Ilya pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Shane’s head before gently steering him towards the same bed he had left an hour ago, a lifetime ago.
“What–” Shane managed to get out, blinking hazily at the rumpled sheets.
“You will sleep here tonight,” Ilya said in a tone that brooked no arguments. “I need to – what is English phrase? Keep my eyes on you?”
“Keep an eye on me.” Shane replied absently, his eyes fixed on Ilya’s, a hopeful smile beginning to spread over his face. “You want me to stay here? With you?”
“Yes, Hollander, with me.”
Shane tried to hide his disappointment at being relegated to Hollander again, but he obviously didn’t do a very good job of it, because Ilya quickly corrected himself.
“Shane. You will stay here with me. Okay?”
Instead of answering Shane tilted himself into Ilya and pressed his smile back into Ilya’s neck, a spot that was quickly becoming his favourite. Ilya huffed out a laugh and dropped a kiss into Shane’s hair.
“I will take that as a yes. Come on, родной, you will not like to go to bed with all your clothes on, I think.”
Shane let himself be undressed and shuffled under the covers. Ilya disappeared from view for a brief moment while he turned all the lights off, then he was crawling back into bed. Shane turned almost immediately and curled himself up against Ilya, who wrapped him tightly in his arms.
“Sleep now, родной,” Ilya whispered, his breath fanning over the top of Shane’s head.
“What’s that you keep calling me?” Shane asked, already halfway asleep.
Ilya hesitated, then said, “родной. Darling.”
Shane fell asleep beaming.