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“Thanks for coming with me, Shane,” Rose smiles gratefully at him across the backseat of the car.
For the record, Shane was not particularly keen on going to this. This kind of ‘networking’ event in the disguise of a party is his least favourite type of evening event, especially when it’s aimed at an entire industry unrelated to him. But Rose had asked and, well, he’ll do anything for Rose if she asks.
“I know it’s not your thing,” Rose continues as if she can read his mind, “but I just don’t want to have to dodge Owain all night. He was such a dick the other day, he needs to know he’s not even close to the peak of my gay boyfriends.”
Shane huffs a laugh and shakes his head. Rose has a (self-admitted) problem when it comes to dating men, in that close to eighty percent have been gay. She waves it off as ‘theatre school, what’re you gonna do?’ though Shane doesn’t fall into that category himself, so is something of an anomaly.
Not that he can talk anyway. He’s dedicated himself so hard to hockey that any romantic relationships have long since taken a backseat.
Shane is out to most of his fellow players in the League and although it’s not been great it’s not been as bad as he’d worried it might be. Even still, bar Scott Hunter he doesn’t know of any other queer hockey players, especially any that are single, so he’s just put his head down, focused and won Montreal their fourth cup. He's not yet out in public and so he can’t imagine it’d be possible for any non-hockey relationships to survive with his schedule and hiding them in the closet.
But he’s content, for now. He’s got hockey, his routine, his parents, Rose, Hayden and his kids.
He’s lonely, sure, but isn’t everyone to an extent?
He shakes himself away from the thoughts as they pull up to the swanky hotel where the party is being held.
Shane steps out of the car first, reaching a hand back to take Rose’s as she follows, blinking through the paparazzi camera flashes.
“Seriously, Sveta?” Ilya groans from his position lounging on the edge of her bed. She's tugging a tight, slinky dress up her legs and torso and gives him a pointed look until he rolls to his feet and tugs the tiny zip up her spine. “Can you not take someone else?”
“No, Ilyusha. It’s just this one party, and you owe me,” she reminds him and he sighs in defeat and reluctantly pulls on the trousers and shirt she’s hung on the bathroom door for him.
This would usually be his vibe, a fun acting-industry party with an guest list of A-list celebrities from actors to producers, but he’s exhausted after arriving back from Paris Fashion Week first thing this morning and all he wants to do is sleep for twelve hours and then order shitty fast food for a late brunch from the comfort of his bed.
But Sveta’s right, he owes her, and he loves her enough he can stand to look pretty on her arm for one night as she works to make whatever ex-boyfriend will be there tonight jealous.
He also knows she’ll likely abandon him as soon as she sees someone she’s interested in, so he can try and find someone for her quickly and abandon ship, and then he can retreat to the quiet of his home.
Sveta tsks and fixes his hair as they wait for the car to arrive, pushing his curls into something a little tamer than the unruly mess from his post-plane shower. She eventually nods curtly when she’s styled him to her satisfaction and takes his arm as they head down to the car.
The penthouse bar is busy but not overwhelmingly so, and Rose guides her and Shane effortlessly across the floor towards the bar. She’s greeted by almost everyone they pass, has a bright smile and warm hello for each person in turn and promises to speak to the majority of them later once they’ve grabbed a drink.
They order their drinks; Rose some kind of cocktail, Shane a rare beer. He’ll switch to his usual ginger ale after this, but doesn’t want to stick out too much without a drink in his hand, not just yet. Rose tucks her hand back into his elbow as they strike out into the crowd.
It’s not as bad as it might have been, and he doesn’t really mind being Rose’s plus-one. She’s a good conversationalist and has a way of bringing him into the conversations with actors and producers and directors so that he can follow along even when they dive into more technical details or industry specifics.
Shane gets a few hockey questions as they circulate, but the majority of the attendees don’t appear to know anything about it and he’s honestly just happy to be here as a bit of support for Rose.
They spot Owain at one point, who sees Shane and looks like he’s sucked a lemon to Rose’s not-so-secret glee.
After an hour or so he’s a little tired of just standing around on Rose’s arm, so he excuses himself to hit the bathroom and promises to get them both drinks on his way back.
The room’s slowly got more crowded but there’s still a good pathway following the walls so he slips through the crowd and along the darkened edges to the bathroom.
“Vodka, neat,” Sveta orders for them both as they step up to the bar, more than one group of eyes following the two of them.
Ilya knows that’s mostly due to how fucking fit they both look; Sveta in her dress that lovingly caresses every curve and highlights the mile-long length of her legs, and Ilya in trousers he knows shows off his ass and a loose silk shirt that ripples attractively as he moves.
Sveta’s also just in high-demand in general, at the minute. Having produced two recent hits - a gay hockey romance series that admittedly Ilya’s watched more than once, and a film that in contrast was a serious drama highlighting the history of women’s contributions in World War Two - she’s had an insane number of people reach out to work with her on their next project.
Tonight is no different, it feels like practically the entire room is waiting for their opportunity to pounce on Sveta for a few minutes and make their pitch.
She’s graceful about it, as always, even where Ilya knows the project is nothing she’d have any interest in, she’s able to let them down gently. Ilya would admittedly be much blunter, has much less patience for this sort of thing. He can charm with the best of them, but he’s not got the patience to work in the acting industry and deal with all of those conflicting visions and ideas, so he’ll stick to modelling, thank-you-very-much.
So Ilya just sips his vodka, follows Sveta around and offers his most charming smile to everyone who comes to speak to her, happy to just play the role of eye-candy for as long as his best friend needs him to.
Shane squeezes around the edge of the room again; a ginger ale and a cocktail for Rose in his hands as he tries to spot his friend through the crowd.
The previous gap around the edge of the room has filled up a little since he'd gone to the bathroom, but it’s not overwhelming just yet. The volume is still decent, no-one shouting over each other to be heard, the lighting still bright enough without being too harsh.
He’s too busy searching the crowd for Rose to notice the man who steps into the narrow path in front of him, and he swears lowly as Rose’s cocktail soaks into an ivory shirt with a leopard printed on it that should be tacky but somehow isn't entirely. It's instantly soaked, the fabric sticking tightly to rippling muscles under the fabric.
“I’m so so sorry,” he mutters, putting the now half-empty glass on the nearest flat surface - luckily a little table - and grabbing for the napkins from the little stack on it, as if that’ll help.
He presses the napkins into the wet spot, and blinks as firm muscles tense under his touch, finally looking up from the torso to see hazel eyes staring at him. He’s maybe only an inch or so shorter than the man he’s bumped into, which is rare enough in of itself, but his gaze is instantly distracted by thick lips that curve into a sharp grin.
“Ah, is fine,” he hears in a gentle Russian accent, “No harm, no foul, as they say, no?”
“Still, I’m sorry,” Shane mutters, and realises he’s still got his hands pressed up against the man’s torso, wrenches back almost too quickly and flushes.
“You are okay? None got on you?” the man asks, and Shane looks up again in surprise, notes the stranger's eyes scanning down his chest, lingering maybe longer than would be socially acceptable. Shane takes a second to process and makes the most of the distraction to take his own fill of a broad chest and narrow waist within touching distance.
“I’m fine,” he replies automatically. “Sorry.”
“You are Canadian?” the man smiles again.
“I- yeah?”
“Lots of ‘sorry’s, it makes sense,” the man's grin widens, and Shane can’t help a huff of laughter.
“Sorry.”
The man laughs, and it pulls a responding laugh from Shane’s chest. Christ, but he’s fucking beautiful when he smiles. Golden curls are slicked back from his face, showing off sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw that Shane wants to rub his own cheek against.
Shane doesn’t recognise him from any of the many films he’s watched on the indeterminable flights to-and-from away games, but there’s only so many he can watch, really, but he wants to open up IMDB and see if he can't find him and watch a few.
“I’m Ilya,” the man introduces, holding out a hand between them. “Rozanov.”
“Shane Hollander,” Shane returns, and long fingers wrap around his as they shake hands briefly, the heat lingering even as they part.
“Ah, Mr. Hockey,” Ilya’s eyes light up with recognition. “I almost did not recognise you without your helmet, or without the wet white t-shirt.”
Shane huffs a laugh, a little embarrassed by the mention of the ginger ale ad he’d done a while ago. He’d looked so fucking awkward in it, but for some reason Canada Dry still loves him, and he won’t complain about getting a free supply of his favourite soft drink.
“I am a big fan,” the man continues. “Of you, not of Montreal. They are very little without you.” Shane blinks, the compliment taking a second to sink in. “But I am afraid that Boston will beat you next year,” a cheeky grin lights up his companion’s face, and Shane laughs again in response, a little louder this time.
“They can try,” he replies, and sees a spark of challenge pass through hazel eyes, igniting a similar spark in Shane's chest.
“So, what brings you here?” Ilya asks, leaning in a little as if to make sure he can hear Shane properly, even though the background noise isn’t too bad. Shane gets a whiff of his aftershave, something woodsy and warm and tries to subtly inhale a little deeper.
“Oh, I’m here with a friend,” he admits, glancing around but he still can’t see Rose. “She needed a plus one, and I was free, so. Um, what about you?”
Ilya’s smile softens, something a little more welcoming in it as he listens. “I am also here for a friend,” Ilya replies, “Sveta is a producer, and needed some arm candy for the night so here I am.”
Shane can’t quite believe someone as hot as this is reduced to merely arm candy, but there’s no hint of a lie in Ilya’s voice or body language, and Shane swallows at the thought of walking into an event with the man on his arm, thinks he'd suffer any event for the chance.
Christ, but Shane Hollander is pretty. Ilya’s gaze keeps getting stuck on the stunning smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and he thinks it’s practically criminal that none of the adverts he’d seen have highlighted their beauty.
Though now he gets them all to himself, he realises, so he won’t complain.
He vaguely remembers some shitty tabloid articles about Shane and Rose Landry, and he’s seen her briefly somewhere as he’d circulated the room so he assumes she’s the friend Shane had mentioned.
He catches something like interest in Shane’s face as he leans in close, wonders how much further he can push it.
“So,” he murmurs, “can I get you a drink, to replace this one?” He plucks at his shirt, still a little damp and sticking uncomfortably. At least whatever it was had been clear, so he’s not got a weird coloured stain marring the silk. This was one of his favourite vintage designer shirts from an old shoot, and he’d be a little sad if it was ruined.
“Oh, that was Rose’s,” Shane admits, and Ilya almost wishes he’d touch him again as his hand hovers over his side. “Sorry again.”
“No more apologies,” Ilya says firmly, and Shane blinks at him again but nods in acquiescence. “Was an accident, and no-one was hurt.”
“Okay,” Shane agrees softly, thick lips curving into a gentle smile Ilya wants to dig his teeth into. “Can I get you a drink, though?” he asks, nodding to the empty glass in Ilya’s hand.
Ilya grins, he won’t say no. He follows Hollander over to the bar, orders a neat vodka and makes sure he’s standing as close as possible to Hollander without being too much.
“What are you having?” Ilya asks, and Shane flushes as he lifts his previously unspilled drink.
“Just ginger ale,” he confesses softly. “I’m not a huge drinker, especially not in busy places like this.”
“Fair enough,” Ilya murmurs, “You do not mind if I?”
“No, of course not,” Shane reassures him instantly. “Honestly, it’s not that I don’t drink, and I don’t mind if other people around me do. I just don’t drink a lot.”
Ilya nods and leaves that line of conversation there, asks Shane instead how he’d met Rose and they’d become friends to the point that he’s being dragged to these kinds of events.
He finds out Shane is funny, as he tells him the stories, a dry, deadpan sort of humour as he weaves the tale of him and Rose dating before she’d gently helped him come to the conclusion that he was gay.
And fuck if that revelation didn’t stir the heat in Ilya’s belly, the sheer fucking want that had been building in him since he’d first collided with solid muscles.
Shane’s not fully sure if he’s imagining the heat in Ilya’s eyes, but the way they flash when he admits his orientation and he leans that little bit further into Shane’s space has him almost certain.
“What about you and, um, Sveta?” he asked. From what Ilya’s told him it sounded like they were just friends, but Shane’s not entirely sure.
“We go back a long way,” Ilya tells him, and speaks of their history growing up together, how he’d followed Svetlana when he’d become semi famous as a model and branched out to the U.S., from where he’d only become more successful. Shane can see the modelling, thinks that grin could sell him a lot of things he didn’t otherwise need.
Shane finds himself tucked further and further into Ilya’s space as they talk, until he’s practically pressed against him hip-to-hip, and it would only take a minute adjustment until they’re touching.
He takes the way Ilya watches his mouth for courage and carefully places one hand on Ilya’s waist, enjoys the way he briefly pauses in his sentence but his smile deepens as he continues. Ilya’s own hand lands on Shane’s hip, and Shane shifts an inch closer again.
“Would you want to find somewhere quieter, maybe?” Ilya asks him, lips practically against Shane’s ear and he wonders what it’d be like if he just turned his head, presses his mouth to Ilya’s. He’s not quite courageous enough to do it here, but nods and accepts the hand Ilya offers before he leads him towards the exit.
“Let me just- I just need to text Rose,” Shane admits as they wait for the lift to reach their floor.
“Ah, sensible. I should message Sveta too,” Ilya agrees, but doesn’t take his hand away so Shane digs out his phone and types in a rough ‘heading back, call you tomorrow’ to Rose with one hand, as Ilya does the same with his other.
“Do you want to go somewhere and get another drink?” Ilya asks him, as the elevator doors ping and open. “Or-”
“Or?”
“My hotel is not far,” Ilya suggests, and Shane’s heart starts to race, but nods and voices his agreement when Ilya raises a single brow in question. He gets an approving nod and a gentle hand squeeze in return, and follows Ilya out the hotel and down the street as they reach the ground floor.
Anticipation ratches up with every step, and Ilya clearly feels the same if the glances he keeps sending Shane’s way are any indication.
“You want this?” Ilya asks softly, as he unlocks his hotel room and Shane pauses with his back to the door as it shuts behind them.
“I’ve not really, um, just come back with someone like this before,” he admits.
“We can just sit and talk,” Ilya offers softly, but Shane shakes his head.
“I want this. I want you,” he promises, and groans as Ilya steps into his space, slides a hand around into his golden curls, liquid silk against his fingers as he holds Ilya close to him.
Kissing him is a revelation, hot and heavy as Shane licks the lingering sharpness of vodka from his tongue, his teeth. Ilya’s body is warm and almost comforting against his as he presses him up against the door, and Shane sinks into it, brain going blissfully quiet as Ilya takes the lead and pleasure takes over.
Ilya wakes in the morning to soft noise outside his hotel room, and it takes him a second to register the warm body in his arms. Shane. He’d been so fucking responsive last night, had taken everything Ilya had wanted to give and given back so much more, and Ilya’s dick stirs at the memory even as his fucking soft heart thumps in affection.
“Hi,” Shane whispers as Ilya cracks his eyes open, and freckles greet him under brown eyes as the hockey player smiles at him.
“G’mornin’,” Ilya murmurs, presses his lips into the tender spot behind Shane’s ear. “Sleep okay?”
“Mm,” Shane agrees, his hand squeezing Ilya’s forearm around his waist. “I hope you don’t mind that I stayed?”
“Of course not,” Ilya squeezes him closer in response. “Stay forever if you want.”
Whatever Shane would reply to that is interrupted by the buzzing of a phone. Shane groans and leans forward with an apology and Ilya lets him go, tries not to eavesdrop as Shane answers the call.
“Hey, Rose. No, honestly, it was fine…”
Ilya gets up to use the bathroom and to give Shane a little privacy, can still hear him chatting as he washes his hands.
He tiptoes back into the bedroom, but is so distracted by the sight of a naked Shane Hollander, pacing by the side of the bed that he trips and smashes his toe into the dresser, a shouted curse voicing his displeasure as he hops around on his other foot.
“Oh,” Shane freezes, a flush further pronouncing his freckles as Rose clearly says something. “Well, I, um… Ilya? Rozanov?” he offers in question and even Ilya can hear the soft squeal that comes through the phone speakers, followed by rapidfire speech. “Um, Rose wants to know if you’d want to get brunch?” Shane asks, looking almost defeated as he does but the hope in brown eyes has Ilya agreeing instantly.
Ilya sighs dramatically, “Is great sacrifice, especially when you’re looking like that,” he gestures, and Shane flushes again as he seems to realise the state of his undress. “But if you want to go, I would come with you. I may also need to invite Sveta, if Rose will also be there. She will kill me if I network without her.”
“Okay,” Shane nods, “Okay.” He turns back to his phone and agrees for brunch, and while he chats Ilya gives into his impulses, steps in close until he’s backing Shane up against the bed, grinning as Shane grows both more aroused and equally scandalised, but either way pretty eager until he can end the call and Ilya tackles him back down onto the bedsheets.
“I know it’s been all of a single brunch, but he’s practically perfect for you,” Rose murmurs as Ilya and Sveta both excuse themselves to the bathroom, post-brunch. “Fuck, Shane. I’m so happy for you.”
Shane smiles, feeling loose and relaxed from the two orgasms Ilya had given him last night, followed by a good night’s sleep and another orgasm this morning just before they’d left for the restaurant Rose had booked for them, expanding the reservation to four people last-minute.
Brunch had been good; Rose had been delighted by Shane’s unexpected conquest, charmed by Ilya as he'd been hilarious but thoughtful, asking questions and showing genuine interest in Rose's answers. Svetlana had arrived and instantly delved into an in-depth hockey analysis with Shane that he had not expected while Ilya watched in fond amusement.
“It was a really good night,” he admits lowly, and grins at Rose’s delightedly exaggerated-scandalised laugh. “Thanks for bringing me with you.”
She grins brighter and squeezes his hand over the table.
Ilya and Svetlana don’t take much longer to come back, striding across the room together in a stunning walk that has the majority of the other diner’s heads turning.
Ilya slides back into the seat with Shane and Shane shifts his leg over so their feet can press together under the table. Ilya presses back into him, grin softening a little as his gaze catches Shane’s over the table.
Shane hopes this is the first of many more brunches together, is pretty sure Ilya feels the same, and he grins as they turn back to their friends, looking forward to whatever comes next.