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He keeps replaying the conversation in his head.
“I’m seeing someone.”
“Rose couldn’t come. She’s filming this week.”
“We’re happy together.”
Shane had said every fucking thing he was afraid of hearing. Okay, maybe not the we’re engaged thing. But everything else. Shane was still together with Rose Landry.
And just like that, the jealousy Ilya had felt for months, while he hate-read comments under articles about perfect hockey golden boy Shane Hollander and his perfect actress girlfriend Rose Landry, while he made himself suffer through YouTube videos on the two, while he doom-scrolled through Instagram late at night, had turned into… He couldn’t even fucking name this feeling.
Ilya Rozanov did not do feelings. This was an unknown territory for him. He had never felt like this before, whatever the fuck this was.
But whatever the fuck this was, was crushing his heart into tiny little pieces until his entire body was full of shards, scratching, cutting, gouging at the flesh until his insides were so wounded, he couldn’t even breath.
He was overreacting.
Svetlana would call him a drama queen. Except Sveta didn’t know about Shane and their fucked-up situation. Ilya couldn’t even go to his best friend and complain about it, let alone cry into her shoulder.
If Russians cried. Which they didn’t.
Ilya downs the second bottle of corona and gets up from his stool. If it wasn’t an All-Stars weekend, he probably would’ve ordered a vodka. But he needs to be fit for the game later this week, so he doesn’t. Instead, he circles the bar, watches Shane talk animatedly to other hockey players, in his stupid linen suit. Which Rose Landry probably bought for him, because Shane can’t dress himself for shit.
He looks so good, damnit.
“Hey, Roz, did someone steal your favourite toy?” Cliff Marlow laughs, as he throws an arm around Ilya’s shoulder.
“Get off,” Ilya mumbles, irritated. “I’m going to my room.”
“Whoa, okay, mister grumpy-pants.” Marlow frowns as Ilya stamps off to the elevators.
Shane looks over his shoulder to see Ilya leaving the bar, but Ilya doesn’t even notice. He’s already punching the elevator button, willing it to arrive faster.
—
Ilya is in a fucking sour mood for the entire day. Marlow isn’t having it and tries to haul his ass to the pool. Ilya scowls at him, but gives in anyway. He’s not going to have Shane fucking Hollander ruin his week in Florida, just because he decided to date a woman.
Of course, Shane fucking Hollander is lounging at the poolside. In light blue shorts and an unbuttoned shirt, looking hot as ever. Ilya tries to avoid him as much as possible, trying to take his mind off Shane by playing in the pool with some of the player’s kids. But the children are aware that his heart isn’t really in it and quickly abandon him to play on their own.
He hauls himself out of the pool and sees that Shane is still on his lounge chair. Shaking the water out of his hair, he can’t help but walk right past him. Look what you’re missing now, Hollander.
Shane doesn’t even blink an eye.
But that could also be because he’s wearing shades.
Ilya pads over to his own lounge chair, where he left his towel and phone. He has a message from Svetlana.
Sveta: Having fun in Florida?
Ilya: No. 🙄
Sveta: Did you do anything stupid?
Ilya: Why do you always assume it’s me who did something stupid?
Sveta: Is this about Jane?
Ilya pauses, his fingers stilling on his phone. Why was Sveta so good at reading him? He could just say, no. He could just say, Jane is just a friend. But he was already typing.
Ilya: Maybe.
Sveta: Spill it.
Ilya hesitates. He knows they are both aware that their friendship would never be more and yeah, he sometimes discusses his other hook-ups with her. But this is not just another hook-up. He wonders how much Svetlana suspects. But again, he’s replying before he can really think about it. Maybe he just needs to get this off his chest.
Ilya: I may have invited her to a sleep over.
Sveta: !!
Ilya: And I bought her favourite drink and made her a tuna melt.
Sveta: OMG Ilyushka, are you in love with her or something?
Ilya: No! What, I can’t make someone food?
Sveta: Not once in your life have you made food for me.
She has a point there.
Sveta: And after that?
How can he explain that he tried to gauge if Shane was interested in girls? In anyone other than him?
Ilya: I asked her if she was seeing other people.
Ilya: And I told her about you, so she’d know it’s just casual.
Sveta: … You told the girl you like that you’re sleeping with me?
Sveta: How can you be that dense? Girls don’t wanna know about your other hook-ups.
Oh. He hadn’t realized that. He thought he was letting Shane know that he liked having him around. Like he liked having Svetlana around. That’s why he invited him over, cuddled with him on the couch, bought his stupid, boring ginger ale. (There’s still a tray of them sitting in his fridge. It will probably sit there until the end of time, because he doesn’t drink that shit.) And Shane had thought he and Sveta…
Oh God, he really is dense.
Ilya: So uh, we cuddled for a bit and then she kind of freaked out after that and practically ran out of my place.
He doesn’t tell what else they had done on his couch, or that they had said each other’s first name. Or that he ran into Shane in a club last week and saw him dancing with Rose Landry, who was practically trying to eat his face on the dance floor. And that it felt like his heart had shattered into a million little pieces.
Ilya: And now she’s dating someone else.
Ilya: And at first I was just pissed, but now…
Sveta: You’re jealous? Hurt?
Ilya: No.
Ilya: Probably?
Sveta: 🤨
Ilya: Yes.
Sveta: Oh Ilyushka.
He can hear Svetlana say those words in his head. She doesn’t sound disappointed, like he expected. Just… sad for him. He doesn’t really know how to reply. He just knows that he fucked this up. Badly. He doesn’t want to think about how maybe he was the reason Shane started dating Rose Landry.
He glances over at where Shane’s sitting, but the lounge chair is empty. Ilya can’t help but sigh, before locking his phone, picking up his towel and walking back to the hotel.
—
The All-Star game is a shitshow.
Ilya can’t concentrate, can’t keep his focus on the puck. He’d always wanted to play on the same team with Shane, experience how it would feel to play with him, instead of competing against him. He’s always been certain Shane is the only player in the entire league who can keep up with him. But this time he’s the one who can’t keep up. He fumbles passes, misses assists and gets slammed into the boards more than once.
If Shane notices his bad play, he doesn’t mention it.
—
Ilya has plenty of time before dinner starts at seven. Would this be any other normal day, he would probably be playing pool or darts in the lounge area with some of the other players. But instead he’s sitting on his hotel bed, feeling sorry for himself and staring at the conversation with Svetlana on his phone.
He keeps staring at one message in particular.
Received at 13.30
Sveta: OMG Ilyushka, are you in love with her or something?
Keeps staring at those two words. In love.
No, of course he’s not in fucking love. This, whatever this is with Hollander, is definitely not love.
He tosses his phone onto the bed and crosses the room to his suitcase, clothes spilling out of it over the floor. He crouches down to pick out a clean shirt, but instead finds himself holding another one. One that belongs to Shane.
It’s the t-shirt Shane left at his place, when he ran out of the door so fast, he hadn’t even taken the time to change out of Ilya’s clothes. Ilya cradles the soft, worn-in fabric in his hands. He had washed it with expensive laundry detergent on a gentle cycle, air dried it, folded it and put it in his suitcase, so he could return it to Shane this weekend.
He isn’t sure if he’ll get the chance to return it, now that they’re not talking. He presses the fabric against his face and inhales. He regrets washing it. It just smells like fresh linen now. Gone is the smell of the minty sports body wash that Shane uses, gone is the sweaty, musky scent of his skin.
Ilya feels something wet on his cheek. Reaching up, he realizes it’s a tear. And another one. And another. And suddenly, he’s sobbing into the shirt, tears streaming down his cheeks, snot coming out of his nose and shoulders shaking with the force of the feelings bursting out of him.
Bend over on the floor, he cries and cries. He gets tears and snot all over the clean shirt. Which Shane would hate, because he hates getting his clothes dirty. He would probably give Ilya an annoyed look if he was here. That makes Ilya cry even harder, because he wants Shane to give him angry looks for getting his clothes dirty. He wants him to get pissed at him, yell at him. Anything but this. But Shane won’t even look at him. Because Shane doesn’t want him.
After his tears have dried up, he feels wrung out, stupid and childish. Crying over some guy’s t-shirt, because he doesn’t like Ilya like Ilya likes him. Grow a pair, his brother would say. You’re weak, his father would say, if his father wasn’t a ghost of himself these days. Get the fuck over it, Ilya would say to himself.
He fists the cross around his neck, the bumps and ridges soothing him slightly. He doesn’t want to think about what his mom would say to him. He can’t even remember her voice. But maybe she would pull him into her lap, stroking his cheek and whispering sweet nothings in his ears. He shakes his head, dislodging the images from his mind. He doesn’t want to dwell on memories of his mother too long. He’s already too heartbroken to think about her, too.
He balls up Shane’s damp t-shirt and tosses it back into his suitcase. After a moment of hesitation, he grabs the shirt and places it on the bed, right next to his pillow.
—
Dinner is loud and crowded and the last place where Ilya wants to be. Thank fuck Marlow has decided to leave Ilya alone for the rest of the weekend. He’s finally clocked that Ilya just wants to sulk on his own, especially after the game. He leaves as soon as he’s able to without seeming rude.
He doesn’t really know where to go, so he just starts walking down the beach. The sun is already setting and it’s gorgeous. On any other evening, he would probably enjoy the sight, but right now, he’s focused on his bare feet, taking one step at a time.
It’s like his body is one giant magnet, but instead of pointing north, it’s pointing to Shane Hollander. He sees a man sitting on the beach in the distance, and he just knows it’s Shane, even if he’s just a silhouette at this point.
Without really thinking, he keeps walking until he reaches Shane. He’s sitting close to the waves gently lapping over the sand. He wants to sink down and sit next to him. Talk to him. Maybe even slide his finger over to Shane’s outstretched hand on the sand and slowly caress his thumb. He wants it all and he does none of it.
Just as he’s contemplating walking by without saying anything, Shane hears his footsteps and looks up. His face is unreadable. Is he glad to see Ilya? He can’t tell.
“You found me,” Shane says.
“I wasn’t looking for you,” Ilya replies, his voice flat.
“Of course you weren’t.”
Ilya checks his surroundings, but no one is around. He finally gives in to the pull of the magnet that is his body and sits himself down next to Shane. Ilya doesn’t even know why, because he has no fucking clue what to say to him.
“Are you having a good weekend?” Shane tries. His shoulders are almost up to his ears, the tension in his back visible beneath his shirt.
Ilya shrugs. “Could be better.”
Shane keeps silent. They both are for a few minutes, until Shane blurts out, “I think we need to talk.”
“Oh, do we?”
“Rozanov, about last time…”
Ilya glances at him. “What? You ran away. Is simple.” And now you are dating Rose Landry. Simple.
Shane glares back. “I’m sorry, okay? I freaked out.”
This time Ilya doesn’t reply.
“Look, let’s not do this here. What’s your room number?”
“Twelve seventeen,” his mouth says, before he can even start to comprehend what a bad idea this is. But everything about Shane is a bad idea.
“See you in a bit then.” Shane gets up and starts walking back to the hotel.
Ilya really fucking hopes that Shane isn’t about to break his heart again.
—
Jane: Here.
Ilya takes a deep breath, before going over to open his hotel room door. Okay, here we go. What could Shane possibly want to discuss with him? It’s not like there’s anything to discuss, right?
He opens the door and Shane quietly slips inside. He crosses the room to sit down on the bed. Ilya sits himself on the dresser near the wall, keeping as much distance as possible between them.
“What do you want, Hollander?” Ilya says, keeping his voice toneless and - he hopes - without any emotion. He’s looking at a scuffed-up spot on the carpet, trying not to glance at Shane.
Shane shifts uncomfortably, clearly trying to find the right words, but failing. “Rozanov…”
“What, you come here to tell me we can’t meet up again, because you have girlfriend now? I know, Hollander. You made that very clear.” Ilya knows he’s being an asshole right now, but he can’t help it.
“Fuck off,” Shane glares at him. “”Let me speak.” He takes a breath. “I’m worried about you, okay?”
“You’re worried about me?” Ilya scoffs, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah.”
Ilya crosses his ankles and finally looks up. Shane’s looking rumpled from the beach, his hair sticking up in several directions and his shirt all wrinkly. He looks adorable. Ilya can’t handle him looking like that right now.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. Worry about Landry.”
“Rozanov, stop being an asshole. You’ve barely said a word to me all weekend, you were terrible on the ice, Marlow told me–” Shane stops himself.
“What did Marlow tell you?”
“He thought you maybe had been crying? Is that true? What’s wrong?”
Fuck. Ilya turns his face away from Shane, staring out of the window. “Nothing,” he grits out. “I don’t know what Marlow’s been telling you, but it’s bullshit. Russians do not cry.”
Shane just gives him a questioning look, like he can see right through Ilya’s own bullshit. “Is it your father?”
“What? No.” His father is the least of his problems.
“Then why are you being an insufferable ass?”
“Because you fucking ran!” Ilya almost yells, making Shane jump a little. He surprises himself, too. He wasn’t planning on telling Shane anything, let alone yell it at him.“You ran away and then you starting dating fucking Rose Landry, like it didn’t mean anything!” He’s breathing hard now, like this confession has punched all the air out of his lungs.
“You’re - you’re jealous?” Shane’s face is almost comical right now, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging slightly open in surprise. Ilya would laugh, but it’s not funny in the slightest. He doesn’t reply, looking at the curtains, the ugly painting on the wall, the ceiling. Anything but at Shane.
“How can you be jealous? You don’t even like me. You said it yourself. I’m just a - just a good mouth.”
And they say Ilya is the slow one.
“I’m not jealous,” Ilya grumbles finally, his accent getting thicker with every word. “I’m just…”
“What?”
So fucking heartbroken.
But Ilya can’t say the words. Shane doesn’t feel the same way, he knows that now. What good would it do to say it? He thinks about his brother, his father, Russia. Home. He won’t be able to go home. He swallows thickly. He’s not going to say it.
Instead, he lets his feet take him to Shane on the bed, because he still can’t resist the pull. He sits down next to him, thighs almost touching.
“You want to be something?” Shane then asks carefully.
“We can’t.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Shane says, shifting ever so slightly closer. Then adds, “It did feel like we were… more. It was nice.”
“What about Rose Landry?” Ilya says brusquely. Because let’s not forget about that shitshow.
“I–” Shane stops. Thinks. Runs a hand through his already wind-swept hair. “I’m not so sure we’re… compatible.”
Ilya’s brain tries to provide a translation for the word compatible, but he’s not really sure he has the right one. He can make an educated guess, though. His heart does a tiny flutter, but he pushes it down right away. Don’t get hopeful, Rozanov.
Shane’s hand slowly finds his on the duvet, barely caressing Ilya’s thumb.
“I think I’m gay,” Shane then whispers.
Ilya almost wants to snort, almost wants to say, “Oh, and what makes you think that?”, but the mood in the room has suddenly changed, from heavy and defensive to something else. Something Ilya can’t name. So instead he takes Shane’s hand in his own and squeezes, something he hasn’t done before in all these years.
He’s never held Shane’s hand before like this.
“But what about Rose Landry?” he asks again.
Shane stares at his feet. “I tried.” His voice breaks. “I tried so hard, Rozanov But… I need to tell her. I need to break up with her.” He bites his lip. “I’m such an asshole for even dating her.”
Yeah, you are, Ilya thinks.
“C’mere,” he says instead. With one finger, he lifts Shane’s chin and brings his lips to his own. But Shane backs away and Ilya feels another stab at his heart.
“No, I can’t. Not when I’m still–” he breaks off.
Ilya leans over and buries his face in Shane’s neck, glad to find that he still smells like that sporty body wash with a hint of sweat. “Need you,” he mumbles and he feels Shane melt into his touch.
But then Shane pushes him away and stands up so suddenly that Ilya almost yelps. Shane fumbles for his phone in his pocket. “Stay here. I need to–” He doesn’t even finish his sentence, just runs from the room like he ran from Ilya’s home two months ago.
Ilya just sits there, on the end of the bed, waiting for - what, for Shane to return? Ten minutes pass, then fifteen. He lies back on the pillows and his hand grazes the t-shirt he left there earlier. He doesn’t know exactly what Shane is doing right now, but he can guess. That tiny flutter of hope is still sitting in his chest, but he pushes it down, like he does with every feeling that’s associated with Shane, because he doesn’t know how he can deal with it otherwise.
He doesn’t know how long he has been waiting, staring at the ceiling, thoughts whirling in his head, before there’s a quiet knock on his door. He gets up, taking a deep breath and opens the door.
It’s Shane, phone still in his hand. His eyes are watery and his cheeks are tear-streaked, but he gives Ilya a small smile. “She’s okay,” he says.
“Tell me,” Ilya says, lifting his hand to cradle Shane’s face, thumb caressing those beautiful, stupid freckles. With his other hand, he pulls Shane into the room and closes the door.
“She already knew. She was just waiting for the right moment to talk to me,” Shane says in one breath. “She doesn’t think I’m terrible.” That last one has clearly been weighing him down. Ilya can just feel the enormous weight lifting off his shoulders, can feel him relaxing in his arms.
He can’t reply. All he can do is press his mouth to Shane’s. Shane tastes like ginger ale and home. Finally. Finally.
He walks them back to the bed and sits down, Shane straddling his lap. He cups Ilya’s face in his hands and leans in to kiss him again, but then pauses. “Ilya,” he says and Ilya starts at the sound of his first name coming from Shane’s lips. Shane thumbs away the tears that have slowly made his way down his cheeks.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya croaks, burying his face in Shane’s neck.
“It’s okay,” Shane says. He wraps his strong arms around Ilya’s shoulders and strokes his curls. He doesn’t say stop crying, you pussy. He doesn’t say you’re so fucking weak, Ilya. He just quietly rocks him back and forth, holding him tightly while Ilya cries into him.
“Feel better?” Shane asks, once Ilya has cried enough. He looks up at him with tear-straked cheeks and snot coming out of his nose.
“I got snot on your pretty shirt,” he says, sniffing.
Shane laughs. “Yes, you’re disgusting,” but his eyes twinkle. He leaves Ilya’s lap to get him some tissues. “You want to know a secret?”
Ilya blows his nose. “Sure?”
“I hired a stylist.”
Ilya feels the corners of his mouth lifting up. “You did?”
Shane grins shyly, as he lies down on the bed and pulls Ilya into another hug. “Yeah. I just wanted to wear something other than athletic stuff, you know?”
“You got tired of looking like shit?”
“I didn’t look like - what’s this?” He pulls the t-shirt Ilya has stuffed between the two pillows earlier. His brow furrows in that adorable way. “Is this my–?”
Ilya snatches the shirt from Shane’s hands. “Nothing, just a t-shirt.”
Now it’s Shane’s turn to look delighted. “Did you sleep with my clothes, Rozanov?”
“Shut up,” Ilya says, but he’s smiling, too. He tosses the t-shirt onto the floor and presses his face in Shane’s chest. It feels like he belongs there.
Ilya’s heart is so full, so full of - what, he doesn’t even fucking know. All he knows is he wants to crawl into Shane, be as close as humanly possible. He wants to bury his face in Shane’s chest, hold him so tight they merge together into one new being. So he can never be apart from him again. And if it is up to him, he’ll never let Shane go ever again, not even if his fucking life depends on it.
Shane responds with the softest kiss on his forehead. And this time, Ilya lets him.