Work Text:
"Shane". No. Not Shane. Hollander. It had always been Hollander. It had always been hooking up then leaving. It had always been less speaking, more fucking. They met, they fucked, they left. They didn't stay the night, they didn't stay the morning. Rozanov made that clear. they are Hollander and Rozanov, not Shane and Ilya.
"I thought we were…"
"We are not anything."
The words echoed in Shane's head. It was tormenting, the way words from two years ago were still crystal clear in his head like it was yesterday, but it was the entire base of what they have going on, well, that, and Vegas. Shane was used to it, the casual sex, the lack of words exchanged, the suggestive texts that came every once in a while. He had to be okay with it, because that was what they were. What they were not, was Shane wearing Rozanov's clothes, sleeping in his bed, eating the tuna melt he made, drinking ginger ale from his fridge. Shane felt sick, his chest tight as if someone punched out all the air from his lungs.
"I can't, I'm sorry."
He didn't miss Rozanov's expression when he said those words, his piercing blue eyes staring at Shane like he was the one causing damage. It wasn't fair, none of this was. Rozanov didn't get to decide when he wanted a casual fuck and when he wanted sleepovers and shared meals. He didn't get to dictate every step, and he couldn't possibly expect Shane to blindly go along. The panic settled in Shane's stomach, replaced by a small flame of anger. He was trying to catch a cab while putting on his— Rozanov's shirt. Right. Because his shirt was in the hamper. Because he almost spent the night. Because Rozanov decided he wanted Shane to stay the night and that was end of discussion. Because everything had to be on his terms, and Shane was expected to stay put when he felt like he didn't want them to be anything, and run over when he wanted them to. The anger was building in his chest into something ugly, and before he knew it, Shane was storming back into the living room, his hand still clutching the phone, cab not booked.
Rozanov looked like a wax statue.
Well, he always had that ethereal, statue-esque beauty to him, like he was hand-carved by Michelangelo himself. It was different, though. Rozanov was sitting oddly still, his eyes focused on a point outside the room, and he didn't seem to notice Shane was back. His hand was in the same position it did when he said "Hollander", twice, and god, what was Shane supposed to do with that information. Rozanov had the audacity to look wrecked, as if he hadn't just flipped a switch on whatever thing they have going on.
"We aren't anything." Shane heard himself say.
It startled Rozanov, whose eyes darted around for a few seconds before his gaze settled on Shane. He seemed surprised Shane was still there, and if he was being honest, Shane was surprised too.
"What?" Rozanov looked confused.
"That's what you said. At Sochi." By some miracle, Shane continued. He felt an ache in his chest, and the words spilling out of him felt like they were scraping his throat. "I wanted to check on you, I thought even if we were rivals, we could still be friends, or friendly. I wanted to talk to you like I did with Hunter and Vaughn, and you said we weren't anything."
"I do not understand." Shane could see the indifference expression falling back onto Rozanov's face, like closing the lid on a sizzling bottle of soda. "Why are you telling me this?"
Because I need you to know that I've stuck by your words since that moment. Because that was our structure. Because I came here today to maintain that, and not have you flip it around like that entire debacle meant nothing. Because you said what you said, and saying my first name and kissing me tenderly didn't align with that at all. Because you have been edging closer and closer to a new territory the last few times we fucked, and I need to know what's going on.
"You called me Shane."
"I did."
"You asked me to stay."
"I did."
"You made me a tuna melt."
"I did."
"You gave me a ginger ale."
"I did."
"You don't drink ginger ale, Rozanov."
"You do."
"Well that's the fucking thing!" Shane really didn't mean to raise his voice. "You… we don't do shit like that! You fuck me, then send me off, until next time you're horny or next time we play each other. You don't ask me to stay, you never ask me to stay. You've always asked me to leave."
The silence that followed was only a little deafening.
Shane was dressed, granted, in Rozanov's shirt and pants, but he felt like he was stripped bare. They never discussed their relationship, not really, it was built on what they both assumed a mutual understanding. For Shane, that meant quick, enjoyable hook ups that sort of left him both satisfied and hollow. He wanted to stay, or wanted Rozanov to stay, sometimes, in the short few minutes that followed their sex, where they were both coming down from the high of orgasm, but he never vocalised it. He followed through with their arrangements, meeting up in the quick hours between flights and games, never letting themselves plan or organise things ahead, because planning for sex would be too much for whatever casual meant. See, Shane was so good at casual, even if his body longed for a few seconds longer of cuddles and kisses after sex, and his mind wanted to ask a few questions more about Rozanov. He was so good, he was taking it so well, just for Rozanov to suddenly decide what he said meant jack shit.
And that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was Shane wanted it too. He wanted to stay the night, wanted the tuna melt Rozanov made, wanted the ginger ale slid to him across the counter, wanted his first name on Rozanov's mouth, and wanted to call him Ilya. And that was fucking terrifying, because he wasn't supposed to. Like he wasn't supposed to sleep with Ilya— Rozanov, and wasn't supposed to know, let alone taste Rozanov's lips on his. He wasn't supposed to know the way Rozanov's hands gripped his thighs when he came, or the way Rozanov's thumb sometimes traced his freckles when they kiss.
He based every hook up and every kiss on the silver lining that this was only casual, so what was he supposed to do, now that Rozanov wanted more, and tried giving him more, expecting him to just ride along like an observer. No, that wasn't fair, and he'd had to have known it.
Shane didn't really know what he was looking at, or if he was looking at anything at all, since he's so far in his head. He was briefly aware of Rozanov leaving the couch, and felt warm hands sliding along his arms.
"Hollander? Hollander, can you hear me?"
"Hm?" Shane titled his head, was Rozanov talking the whole time? Were they still at Hollander? He thought he was Shane.
His eyes were burning, but he kept a calm facade as he blinked back into reality, and from up close, he could see Rozanov's eyebrows furrowing.
"It's not fair." Shane's voice seemed to escape his mouth, echoing back into his ears like he heard it from someone else. "You don't get to decide what we are whenever you feel like it."
"What we are? Hollander, I made you a sandwich."
Fuck, the situation felt so juvenile when Rozanov said it. And maybe it was, maybe Shane was overreacting, maybe he was too in his head, and none of it, including the "sweetheart" that slipped Rozanov's mouth was ever that serious. Maybe they were still doing that old routine they had. Okay, that would be easy then. It would be time to leave.
"Okay, then." He said.
But as Shane tried to pull his arms out of Rozanov's hands, he felt the grip tighten.
"Rozanov?"
"Okay then?" Rozanov answered with a question. "You are not staying?"
"No? Do we ever?" There were a lot of questions in this conversation, Shane noticed. None of them answered. "You always ask me to leave." He repeated. It felt like a point he needed to make clear to Rozanov. Look, you set the rules, I was just following it.
You said we were nothing.
"And now I am asking you to stay."
Shane hated the way Rozanov said it so matter-of-factly. In fact, he hated it so much that frustration started to build even wilder in his chest.
"Why?" He asked, because he needed to know. Why are you breaking this routine? People who are nothing don't stay.
"I said I wasn't done with you yet. Simple."
The conversation, Shane realised, wasn't going anywhere. It felt like Shane was speaking French and Rozanov Russian, they were just saying things at each other and expect the other to understand.
Shane wanted to say something, but then Rozanov was nudging his nose on his chin, coming closer to nip at his lips. The kisses were soft and chaste, an invitation to stay longer. Part of Shane wanted to give in, this was familiar, the kisses, the hands running up and down his body. It made Shane want to toss his questions to the side and give in to whatever Il— Rozanov was giving him. And yet,
"You said we weren't anything." He found himself repeating for the third time. For some reason, his brain kept coming back to it, demanding an answer. The confusion was strangling him, and if he couldn't get this cleared he might just suffocate.
"Hollander."
"No." Shane leaned away from Rozanov's touch, even though it pained him. "People who aren't anything don't stay the night, Rozanov."
Rozanov looked at him, eyes searching for something on his face he wasn't sure what. Silence fell between them again, and it was coming to a point where Shane almost felt like the it had answered his question, when Rozanov leaned his head on his shoulder.
"Fuck, Hollander." He let out an exasperated sigh. "So many questions."
"You never answer them."
"I just want more time with you." Rozanov finally said. "We never have time."
"Why?"
"Hollander."
"Rozanov."
"We couldn't be anything."
"Then why ask me to stay?" The question was supposed to be harsh, but his tone was much softer than intended. Maybe it was because Ilya was leaning his whole bodyweight onto him, or maybe it was because of the tremble in his voice around the word couldn't. "Would you like us to be, something?"
Because, and Shane had this tiny revelation when he was in Ilya's arms, he would very much like to stay this way. That while his brain was trying to uphold the pattern of not-anything, it was slowly leaning towards something, and maybe everything. And that was fucking terrifying. What would be more terrifying was if Ilya didn't want to. But he must, right? He said so much about aren't, about couldn't, but he never said he didn't want to.
"Russia." Ilya murmured into Shane's neck.
Shane vaguely recalled that conversation in Sochi with Hunter and Vaughn, about how Russia's tough for people like that, Vaughn had said. Shane supposed he understood why Ilya would say they couldn't, then, but that was a different ordeal on its own.
"What would happen?" He asked, because he had to.
"I don't want to find out." Then, a beat. "My father is police. Brother is police."
"And your mother?"
"Dead. Father is sick now."
"Sick, like cancer?"
"Alzheimer's. He just called. Thought I was still in school playing hockey and asked when I am coming home."
Oh. Shane felt something tugging his stomach. Ilya just had a difficult conversation with his father, and Shane almost walked out on him. Granted, they weren't much of anything at that moment, but guilt ate him away nonetheless. He gently steered them back on the couch, where he climbed on top of Ilya. His frustration fizzled out slowly, along with every gentle rock of his body and the little pats of his hand on Ilya's neck. He heard a snifle and felt his— Ilya's shirt dampen on his shoulder, and at that moment he wanted to stay the night, he wanted to stay forever, to hold Ilya until he stopped crying. God, he wanted the tuna melts and the ginger ales and the sweethearts and the Shanes. Fear was still creeping on his neck, but the warmth of Ilya's body put up enough of a fight to keep them at bay.
"Russia doesn't have to know. We can still be something." He lowered his voice.
"Shane."
"You just have to say it, Ilya."
"Stay tonight."
"Okay."
Ilya didn't realised he had fallen asleep on the couch until he blinked his eyes open and the sun had already set. He was safe and warm in Shane's arms, and when he asked him to stay for the second time, he had agreed and pulled the both of them down on the couch, his hand cradling Ilya's head, and sleep came easily to Ilya.
He wished he could wake up like this every day for the rest of his life.
He couldn't believe, just a few hours ago, Shane had almost left. Ilya had almost let him. He was frozen in that second, repeating Hollander to Shane like a plea, and trying to put everything back to how they were before, denying Shane of an answer. But Shane, wonderful, so many questions Shane, didn't let him off the hook, and tore his walls down one question at a time. Would you like us to be something, he had asked, and Ilya couldn't tell him it was almost everything he had ever wanted but was to scared to ask. But Shane stayed. Even when all Ilya could give him was something raw and ugly as an excuse for not answering, Shane had stayed, and had held him, and had offered Ilya what he could only dream of. Shane, ever so perfect Shane, too good for Ilya, too unreal, too kind. What did he do, really, to deserve Shane?
He slowly realised he was still half naked, and he never got around to cleaning up the mess on his stomach. It must be all dry and disgusting now, Shane would probably hate it when he woke up. Ilya gently nudge himself out of Shane's embrace, only to find his stomach clean and dry. Did he clean and not remember? Did Shane clean up when he was asleep. Ilya was trying really hard to ignore the somersault his internal organs were performing.
"Mhmm." Shane's muffled voice came from on top of his head, heavy with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Probably seven. Dinner?"
"Mhm."
Shane said something about a macro something something diet, which essentially came down to a salad. Ilya would have to remember that word to look it up, so he could stock the fridge whenever Shane came over in the future. The thought made him giddy, even though he hadn't even ask Shane if he still wanted to come over. They ordered food from a Shane-approved restaurant, and Ilya couldn't help his thoughts wandering.
"Why did you want to leave today?" He asked. He was aware he told Hollander he asked too many questions, but Ilya wanted to be a hypocrite for a second.
"You were behaving very weird. Very different. It threw me off, and I was scared of how much I wanted it to always be this way."
Ilya really couldn't be blamed when he leaned over and kissed Shane softly on the lips, god, he was too adorable for this world, and Ilya was very much an asshole for ambushing him.
"I'm sorry." He said when they broke apart.
Shane was taken aback by his apology, which Ilya tried not to take offense for.
"It's okay."
So Shane stayed the night. They watched whatever movie playing on the TV and Ilya lay in his lap, enjoying the domesticity of it all. It still felt surreal to him, now that Shane was really there, his hands buried in the tangles of Ilya's curls, fingers curling on them like they are his little fidget toys. Ilya felt so greedy, but he wished Shane could stay like that forever, in Ilya's home, on his couch, in his life.
He could tell Shane still had questions, but deliberately held back after the small breakdown Ilya had, which was nice, he so rarely had someone taking his comfort into account that it almost made him tear up again. He wasn't a crier, but fuck, his emotions are a lot at the moment. His phone lit up some time during the movie, the carer he hired for his father informing him he had taken his pills and gone back to bed. Ilya had a lot more planned for the night, mainly sex, but when the movie ended and Shane turned off the TV, he let himself be led back to the bedroom, then to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then back to the bed where he shrugged out of his shirt and held Shane in his arms. Shane placed a chaste kiss on his lips, and turned off the bedside lamps.
Ilya had lived in this house for four years, it was the one he had built the second he had enough money on his hands. He specifically requested large windows and wanted his bedroom facing east, so he could bathe in the morning sun every day. His bedroom in his father's house in Russia didn't have a lot of sun, what with thick curtains and tiny windows. The living room did though, but it was never a place Ilya wanted to be. So when he looked for a new house, he wanted a place facing the sun, a place he could feel the warmth on his skin during the early hours. Ilya felt he made the right decision, he had seen countless sunrise from his bed, had felt the seasons change with the colours of sunlight. He particularly enjoyed a winter sunrise on a rest day, where he could simply lay in bed in the warmth of his home and watch sunlight dancing on the snow. He thought he had seen the most beautiful sunrise Boston had to offer. He was wrong.
Shane was next to him, the most of his face covered in morning light. Some of the light caught Shane's eyes, and Ilya saw his brows furrowed, which simply wouldn't do. He raised his free hand and shield Shane away, smiling to himself has Shane relaxed. Ilya took his sweet time brushing gently on Shane's freckles, tracing the pattern like they were stars. Some of them grouped together, some scattered loosely across his cheekbones. On his left cheek, there was a bundle of three that looked like a little heart, and Ilya couldn't help leaning over and kissed the spot softly. He could have lay there some more, basking in the warmth of the early morning and the feeling of having Shane in his arms, but he was rudely interrupted by a screeching sound.
He heard Shane mumbling, reaching over to his phone to turn the alarm off, then collapsed on top of him. The clock on his bedside table pointed at 5:30 A.M., which, considering there was no morning practice, was pure evil that Shane set an alarm at this time of day.
"What is wrong with you, Hollander? It is not even 6." He complained.
"I like waking up early."
"Ah, so you are crazy person."
"Shut up."
Ilya couldn't be blamed, really, when he reached for a kiss, not when Shane's lips curled around his words so beautifully. Beautiful, perfect Shane Hollander, who agreed to stay the night, even when Ilya scared him.
Breakfast consisted of a smoothie (which looked dreadful, by the way) for Shane, and some waffles (delicious) for Ilya.
"So." Shane began.
Ilya dropped his head, and let out a groan. He should have known this was coming. It was frankly foolish of him to think Shane would let him off the hook.
"Look, I know we don't do talking, and I don't know if I can handle us being something right now, but I still want to know." Shane was sitting next to him on the kitchen island, his eyes boring into Ilya's, and he could see himself in the chestnut of Shane's eyes. God, how he wish he could stay there forever.
"What do you want to know?"
"Well, I think I like you." Ilya sucked in a breath. "And, I think I'm reading things right, but you like me too."
"You are very cocky, Shane Hollander."
"Fuck you."
"Oh, yes, I much prefer that." Ilya leaned over for a kiss, and pouted when Shane placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.
"Ilya."
Ilya was, for lack of better words, royally fucked. He didn't realise how sweet his name sounded on Shane's lips, even though the pronunciation was pathetic at best and he definitely placed stress on the wrong syllable. But Shane said his first name, and he was looking at Ilya when he did. Sure, let's talk, what the fuck.
"I like you." The words came out of his mouth clumsily, and for a second Ilya felt like he was eleven with a first crush, dumb and innocent still.
But Shane's eyes had glistened, so he was content with being dumb. Probably.
"Okay." Shane nodded, finally removed his hand and let Ilya kiss him.
His lips were exceptionally sweet, and the corner of his mouth was definitely curling up as he kissed Ilya back. It was nice, just kissing Shane. Just having Shane's hands around his neck and breathing him in. Ilya kept going back to the thought of wanting Shane there all the time, but maybe, maybe now it wouldn't be too far fetched. It would be weird for a casual booty call to travel to see each other, but it wouldn't be as weird for people who liked each other to do so, right? Would Ilya have earned the right to miss Shane, now that he confessed he liked him? Ilya sure hoped so.
When Shane had to go, he was wearing Ilya's clothes, and his own clothes were in the hamper. If Shane remembered, he didn't say anything, and Ilya wasn't planning on letting him know. Ilya also wasn't planning on letting Shane know, that after he left, Ilya went back to the hamper to fetch Shane's jacket and threw it on the bed. Shane also didn't have to know, that after the game that night, Ilya hugged the jacket to bed, trying to remember how Shane felt in his arms.
Jane
when is your flight?
In a few hours, I'm packing right now
let me know when you're at the airport
Missing me?
miss fucking you
We'll see each other in a few weeks
few weeks too long
So you do miss me
in your dreams, hollander
I'll miss you too
embarassing, is just a few weeks
Fuck off
no
what are you doing?
I just said I'm packing
boring
hollanderrrrrrrrr
Is this how it's going to be?
You blowing up my phone with texts?
depends
will you reply?
Maybe
then yes
You're annoying
and yet
you still miss me
I hate you
not what you said this morning
Shane could get used to this, Ilya texting him all the time. It used to be sparse, dirty jokes, remarks on his games, or whatever clickbait the media conjured up. Now it was updates about his day, his opinions on certain games, what vegetables he found that reminded him of Shane (kale, for some odd reason), or questions about what a certain word meant in English. Shane replied whenever he could, usually with a picture of his own day, his comments on the same game, a remark about how weird Ilya was, or a brief definition. It was nice, Shane found, to have someone to talk to all the time. So when Shane went to JJ's party and met the actress Rose Landry, he told Ilya as well.
Lily
how was rose landry?
She's really sweet and friendly for such a famous actress!
Did you know she also watches hockey?
hockey or shane hollander?
Hockey, she had a lot to say about Scott Hunter's performance lol
yes it was abysmal
Glad you're applying your new vocabulary
anything else?
about rose landry?
She asked if I was free this weekend. She wanted to go gift shopping for her brothers
They're the ones obsessed with hockey
so it's a date?
No, we're just friends
friends
I… uh… sort of told her I was seeing someone
She wasn't asking me out I swear!
She was just joking about how her dating life was awful, like a guy was giving her mixed signals
And I said I can relate, people can be confusing
Anyway we started talking more and I let it slipped
But I didn't say it's you, just someone from a different city!
Ilya?
Shane was going to text another time when a call request popped up. "Lily"
"Hey."
"You told her we're seeing each other?" He heard Ilya ask.
"Well, I told her I was seeing someone." Shane felt nervous. They never discussed being exclusive, did they? Was he being too forward again? "Is it okay?"
"Yes, Shane. Is very okay." Ilya exhaled on the other side. "I want… can I tell Svetlana too? She is my friend, and I won't say it's you."
"Yeah, you can tell Svetlana." I'm so fucking glad we're on the same page, Shane didn't say. "So we're seeing each other."
"Just each other, yes?"
Oh, Ilya was establishing exclusivity. That was surprising, but Shane couldn't complain. He did, however, had an absurd thought.
"Ilya." He said tentatively. "Are you jealous?"
"Of what?"
"Of Rose. You were asking if we're going on a date and now you want us to be exclusive."
"Be what?"
"Just seeing each other."
"Ah. No, you are thinking to much."
Shane had to hide the chuckle threatening to escape his throat. Ilya was definitely jealous.
"But yeah, just each other." He said.
"Exclusively?"
"Exclusively."
"Good."
They talked a bit more on the phone, Ilya about a stupid romcom he found on the TV, Shane about his night. It was nice, for something they had never done before. He would like to call Ilya more often, if Shane was being honest. Well, if Shane was being really honest, he would like Ilya around all the time, for that matter. It was good enough to settle for calling often.