Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov carved his name on the streets with blood.
The twenty-five year old fighter, known for his lethal blows in the Ninth Circle underground ring, has never lost a fight. It was one of the very few things he was proud of. Not the fights themselves, no, but the power his young body allowed him to wield every time he stepped onto that ring. The way his moves felt more like part of himself than a bunch of coordinated, precalculated steps. When Ilya is in the ring, his mind is sharper than a dagger’s blade focused only on bringing down his opponent. He has done this time and time again until the who’s who of the wealthy put their bids on him. It is a win-win situation. The people left happy, Crowell, the club’s owner, piled good cash, and Ilya got more than he could ever make from a regular, boring job.
So, this is what he intends to do tonight too. Get in, win, and leave with his (broken) nose in his own business. Ilya doesn’t mingle much with the rest of the fighters Crowell owns, and he says owns, because he fucking owns them–but Ilya has made it clear since day one. He had a deal with Crowell. So long as he keeps the Ninth Circle’s seats full, and its drawers overflowing with money, Ilya could do whatever the fuck he wants. And no one ever says no to money–especially the amount illegal fights bring.
Ilya dodges a hit from his opponent, a pathetic attempt of him to save himself before Ilya delivers a ruthless uppercut that sends him flying back. The crowd roars around him, their voices growing louder as Ilya corners him and throws punch after punch, signaling the near end of the other fighter’s ability to even defend himself. One, two–Ilya doesn’t need to hit the third time, because his combatant crumples to the blood stained ground, knocked out. The people around him erupt in animalistic cheers, and Ilya breathes heavily as he steps away from the guy he just beat up.
His body is still buzzing with adrenaline as he takes in the hundreds of spectators screaming and throwing money into the air in his name. He feels like a gladiator standing in the middle of the Colosseum, a mere instrument for their entertainment while his opponents kneel at his feet. Ilya’s lungs burn with his breaths, his mind itching for a good smoke right now. He steps down from the ring and makes his way out of everyone else’s eyes.
“Good job, Rozanov.” Crowell drawls, the money laying heavy in Ilya’s hand where he puts it.
Ilya doesn’t respond. He shoves the money in his duffle bag and leaves the dingy, cold interior of the Ninth Circle club.
Svetlana will probably be waiting for him as usual.
***
Shane is the last to leave his shift at the hospital, or at least that is what he thought up until he was nearly scared to death by the sight of a hooded figure standing in the corner of the room he was clearing before heading out. There is not much visible from him save for his large build, and his features are concealed with the hood of his jacket, so Shane can’t tell what he looks like.
“Um. Can I help you?” Shane asks cautiously, reaching behind him for the scalpel. Just in case. For all he cares, it could be someone here to… he doesn’t know, but something about the guy standing in front of him screams ‘danger’ even before Shane sees his face.
He feels it at the bottom of his spine.
“Yes,” the guy says in a thick, Russian accent.
Holy shit, is he a part of a Russian mafia or something?
Shane shakes his head, brushing off the ridiculous thought.
He can’t imagine how he could possibly help this man unless he needed some sort of medical help. But he doesn’t see any evident harm on him, so Shane grows even more confused. It must show on his face, because the Russian speaks again.
“Svetlana.”
Shane pauses for a long moment. “Right. Right.”
Svetlana is on the nurse team as Shane, but she has been a transfer intern from Russia–which makes sense now that she is friends with the person standing in front of him–and both of them made it through the training at the hospital. They aren’t that close, but Svetlana is smart and exceptionally good at what she does, which is something she and Shane shared in common. She asked him to take care of a patient of hers today because she had an emergency she had to leave for before the end of her shift. Shane didn’t pry, and he didn’t mind the extra work. So, he cleared his throat and motioned for Svetlana’s friend towards the bed.
“Are you hurt…?” Shane asks, the question sounding stupid.
The guy stepped forward, making a gruff sound that clearly showed Shane that he was annoyed. Well. “Sorry Svetlana couldn’t make it.” He tries, but is met with silence as well.
He doesn’t have much time to stew in his thoughts, because Svetlana’s friend pulls the hood back off his head and proceeds to unzip his jacket to take it off. Shane has to physically stop himself from gasping, because the injuries he sees are so alarming there was only one way that person could have gotten them. His knuckles are an unusual red, split open at areas, and from his forearms up is barely visible under the different shades of purple and blue spreading there.
“Did someone do that to you?” Shane asks, not caring if he crosses a line.
He is doing a favour after all, the least he can get out of it is information about who and what the hell he is dealing with. And how does Svetlana even know him? Are they close? Does he come here often? Oh shit, what if he does? How has Shane never seen him?
He concludes, as an answer to his last question, that he most probably has been here when Shane was already gone. Either that or it really is his first time here. Though he is leaning more towards the former.
“Was an accident,” the other says, his tone clipped.
He is in a black tank top that does very little to cover his upper body, which is defined with hard muscle, bruised and cut at places Shane is certain can only be done by human interference. A thin, gold chain glints around his neck, and when Shane’s eyes dart to its pendant, he finds a crucifix resting between the man’s pecs.
“What kind of accident was that?” Shane inspects him closely, grabbing his face and angling it under the light. He feels the hard clench of the Russian’s jaw under his fingers.
Okay, not that bad, Shane mentally remarks. He has definitely seen worse.
“A bad one.”
He has a black eye, a torn bottom lip, a cut cheekbone and a bruising jaw. However, by the look Shane has on the rest of his body, and the way the guy is breathing shallowly, he has definitely hurt his ribs too. A tattoo on one of his arms catches Shane’s attention, black ink swirling around the lower part of his bicep and reaching his forearm in what looks like the shape of a snake, Shane discovers as he gets closer to clean the cuts on his face.
The awkward silence along with the pressure of his curiosity kill Shane, so he speaks again. “My name is Shane Hollander,” he says. He mentally cringes at himself. Why the fuck did he say his full name?
Svetlata’s friend looks at him for a split second, allowing Shane a glimpse into his hazel, curious eyes. They are a really nice shade, and he registers, belatedly, that this man is probably very beautiful under all this.
“Okay.” is all that leaves the injured guy.
So, beautiful and a dickhead. Nice, Shane bitterly notes.
He resorts to silence then and gets to work under the heavy feeling of the Russian’s gaze on him. Shane pretends to ignore the prickly sense under his skin and does his job as he has been trained. He can’t help but notice an angry red bruise on the other’s arm where an ugly slash sits there begging for medical attention. He has a question about how on earth did the dark blond haired get it, but he bites his tongue. He clearly doesn’t want to talk to Shane.
After he is done with his face, Shane moves to check the cut on his arm. It is almost still bleeding with dried blood on its edges. He absentmindedly scrunches his nose at it and proceeds to clean it. The other tenses at the nasty sting of the antiseptic solution on his damaged skin, his muscled arm involuntarily flexing.
“It won’t need stitches,” Shane announces after he has taken a clearer look.
He just nods once at that.
Shane dresses the wound and checks if there is anything else he needs to attend to before he lets the man go. “Give your ribs some time to heal,” he finally says. “Don’t make too much effort.”
He looks up at Shane, hazel eyes unreadable. If he is surprised Shane knows that his ribs are probably broken, he doesn’t show it. “Is that all, doctor?” The last word rolls off of his tongue in a strange way that makes Shane want to squirm.
He clears his throat, his cheeks warming for some unknown reason. “I’m not a doctor. Yet. And yes, you can go.”
He catches the slightest hint of amusement flashing across the Russian’s face before it fades away quickly. Shane busies himself with tidying up the space after him and doesn’t look up until he hears the other’s voice echo through the small room again.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he says, standing by the door. “My name.”
“Okay,” Shane copies his response from earlier, which, much to his surprise, draws one of the corners of Rozanov’s lips upwards in a half-smirk.
“We will be seeing each other a lot.”
“I don’t think so,” Shane argues confidently. “Goodbye, Rozanov.”
He just gives Shane a shameless one-over before he raises his hood back up over his head and steps out of the room. Out of the numerous scenarios Shane plays out in his mind of how he could run into Rozanov again, none of them include what happens the following week at the same time at night.
“Svetlana isn’t here,” Shane says to a brooding Rozanov. He tries to hide the leap of excitement he felt deep in his gut at the possibility of interacting more with the rugged man, and he supposes he succeeds.
“She does not know I am here.” Rozanov frowns at his own words.
“You’re hiding from your own friend?” Shane raises an eyebrow then narrows his eyes. “Are you actually friends?”
Rozanov snorts. “Yes.”
“Then how come she never mentioned you before?”
Rozanov sighs. “Is because we are very old friends, and we don’t see each other much. Did I give you the right answer, doctor?” He smirks.
“I’m not–” Shane holds his breath. “You know what? Sit your ass down. The quicker we are, the sooner you can leave."
Rozanov saunters to the bed and takes his shirt off like last time, only this time his face shows more humour. “Tired of me already?”
“Why? Do I know you?”
“Do you want to?” Rozanov’s knee brushes Shane’s hip as he moves to one side of the Russian to take a look at his bruised shoulder, sending a jolt through him.
“Whatever.” Shane hides it under his careless reply.
He is lying. He wants to know exactly how Svetlana knows a person so different from her like Rozanov. He wants to know how the hell did Rozanov get this injured again. He wants to know why Rozanov didn’t go to see Svetlana as he ‘usually’ does and instead came to Shane.
“You want to.” Rozanov smiled a crooked smile that had Shane nearly dropping sterilising alcohol all over him.
Shane pointedly ignored his obviously smug remark. There is no way he is boosting Ilya Rozanov’s ego. He would rather die. Just like he would rather die than admit to himself that he wants to take off his latex gloves and touch Rozanov’s skin with no barriers. Even though most of it is bruised and scrapped, Shane can make out how certain spots must be very, very soft. Like the dip of his collarbone and the ridges of his back muscles.
“Why are you here?”
“So, you could fix me.” Rozanov answers as a matter of fact.
Shane can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it. “So, I could fix you? What, is this kind of a routine for you?”
“Yes.” Rozanov shrugs one shoulder as if Shane is supposed to get the whole picture on his own.
“I’m sorry?”
“I am a fighter, Hollander.” He rolls his eyes. “Is what I do.”
“Oh..” Shane lets the words sink in. “Like martial arts and stuff?”
Rozanov only nods.
“But don’t you have medical support there?” he asks. Shane doesn’t know much about how any of these sports work beyond what he sees on tv, which is barely anything to work with in the real world.
Rozanov stiffens. “Is not as good as here.”
Huh. Shane guesses he is right. It’s always better to go to a hospital anyway. Even if he shows up like a ghost and is hiding under a different garment every time. Maybe he doesn’t want to get recognised by the public.
“Are you famous?” Shane asks lightly.
“No. I play for a small club.”
“Are you good, then?” He wants to tease him for some reason about being a terrible fighter, but Rozanov’s injuries aren’t that serious. His arms and knuckles are the worst though, meaning that he deflects and hits much more than he receives.
Rozanov’s eyes glint, and a mischievous smile, the kind poets write about, adorns his lips. “The best.”
Shane feels remarkably warmer in his deep blue scrubs. He doesn’t know what to say to that, and it is not helping that the heat is spreading to his face and must be showing on his damn cheeks now.
“Maybe I’ll come watch you some time,” Shane says as casually as he can.
“Is too gritty for you, sweetheart.” Rozanov clicks his tongue in disapproval, though his face is dripping with aggravating sarcasm. The pet name does not absolutely crawl under his skin and zap every living cell in his body.
“You don’t think I can handle watching a fucking fight?” Shane couldn’t be more offended. Who does Rozanov think he is?
“I just think your pretty eyes should not be watching ugly things,” Rozanov elaborates, looking at Shane with serious hazel eyes. His voice when he said the words was deep and smooth, the words wrapping around Shane’s mind like a poisonous vine. It already must be working, because a dangerous thought flutters in his mind–the thought of Rozanov saying his name in that same tone while Shane–he halts his own mind, realising how horrifying he is right now. Get your shit together, he almost wants to glare at himself.
He is suddenly aware of how close their faces are, with Shane basically standing between Rozanov’s parted legs. He is holding a cotton to his bleeding eyebrow, and for a moment, Shane only hears his own breathing accompanied by Rozanov’s very close one. He smells like nicotine, mint and the fresh smell of bodywash; a combo that almost makes Shane dizzy.
“I survived looking at your face,” he quips, proud of his comeback.
Rozanov’s eyes sparkle in the tiniest bit of surprise, and then he is smiling. All unnaturally white teeth and crinkles by his eyes, and Shane realises that he would let this man, whoever he is really, ruin him.
“Such a mouth on you, Hollander.” Shane nearly jumps when he feels the slightest brush of contact from Rozanov’s hand to his hip, barely moving an inch. Just reminding Shane of his presence. And their proximity.
That snaps him out of his trance, and Shane desperately lets oxygen into his system as he puts some distance between them. “We’re done,” he announces, getting rid of the blood-soaked cotton. “You’re free to go.”
Shane could have sworn Rozanov looked the slightest bit disappointed, but he recovers quickly, getting up to put his shirt back on. His back is to Shane, so he takes the chance to study the way Rozanov’s muscles shift with his movements. His curiosity grows even more when he catches the sight of what looks like black freckles scattered over the plane of his upper back. They look too artificial to be real freckles, and they vary in size, but that is all that Shane is able to see before Rozanov is back in his shirt.
“Like what you see?” Rozanov smirks once he is done and faces Shane again.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” That would have been more believable if Shane wasn’t already half blushing.
Rozanov’s eyes rest somewhere right below Shane’s eyes, and he feels the need to hide his entire face. He doesn’t return Shane’s insult. Something just flicks on in his eyes as if an idea has settled in there, and he starts to move towards the door.
“See you, Hollander.” He shoots Shane a crooked smile, taking a couple of steps backwards until he spins on one heel and walks out of the door.
The moment he is out, Shane feels like he is breathing for the first time tonight. Only this time the scent of nicotine and soap fills his every sense. He promises himself that he won’t go home and do something stupid. Such as jerking off to the image of an annoyingly handsome Russian fighter doing unspeakable things to him.
Shane doesn’t keep his promise.
***
Ilya finds himself week after week at Hollander’s hospital. It becomes sort of a habit that he has no fucking idea how to quit. He figures he has Svetlana to thank for that. If she hadn’t opted out from their appointment three weeks ago, he wouldn’t have met Hollander. Svetlana is his best friend, and she is a very good nurse, but Hollander is beautiful, and he reminds Ilya of everything he should not be doing. And Ilya loves a challenge. No one knows about his presence at the Ninth Circle save for his best friend, which is why she is also the only one doing this fixing up thing on and off with him in an off-the-record way so Ilya doesn’t get in trouble. Well, used to.
“So, what do you think of him?” Svetlana asks in Russian over the phone.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he replies in his mother tongue, grateful for the change and the relief of not having to go over every word before he says it.
“You little shit.” His friend laughs. “He needs to get laid, and you’re lonely.”
“I’m not lonely,” Ilya lies.
Svetlana sighs exasperatedly. “Ilya.”
“I’m still mad at you, by the way. Traitor.” He changes the subject.
“I was wasting away in that shift, Rozanov, I need the night life.” She complains, justifying why she requested that she takes day shifts at the hospital instead of the night ones like Hollander.
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes, but deep down he is happy for his friend. Svetlana doesn’t approve of Ilya’s choice of occupation a hundred percent, but she understands why he does it, and she feels bad he does it so, but she also knows that it fulfills Ilya in a way no one else would understand but himself, so she doesn’t bring up the topic anymore.
“I gave you a present in return though, so you can’t be very mad at me.” She is back to her playful tone again, and Ilya smiles, kicking a pebble on his way down the street of the hospital where Hollander works.
“Again, not a clue what you mean.” He smiles.
“Oh fuck off.” She laughs. “And stay alive.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ilya jokes and hangs up.
***
Shane makes his way onto the street parallel to the main one people usually take when they are out of the hospital, rejoicing in the quiet of it. It is not dangerous so much as it is a side, emptier road rather than the crowded main one, and at this time of night after his shift, he prefers to walk home. The last time he saw Rozanov was around three days ago, and it was official that he is no longer Svetlana’s patient since she asked for her schedule to be moved around. It sucked, because she was the coolest person on Shane’s team, and that meant his job got even lonelier than before. Hayden, his own best friend, works at the ER, so Shane barely sees him.
He sighs and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his breath blowing in a fog of steam in front of his face. He is barely rounding a corner when someone grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Boo.”
“Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you?!” Shane cries out, his heart nearly jumping out of his ribcage.
If it weren’t for the gold crucifix hanging over his chest, Shane would have thought it was a mugger. The street isn’t that empty, and Shane’s loud voice turns a few heads towards him.
“Shhh.” Rozanov has the audacity to shush him with a smug smile. “People would think you are in danger.”
“I’m in danger of getting arrested for busting your ass, Rozanov.” Shane yanks his arm out of his grip. “And what the hell are you doing here?”
“You want to hit me?” He grins, finding the idea of Shane, who is nowhere near his physique, wanting to hit him very entertaining.
Of course that’s all that he heard.
“Yeah.” Shane fakes a smile. “For scaring the shit out of me.”
“You should be more careful,” he says seriously then.
“Oh, thank you for the road safety lesson.” Shane scoffs.
“Is not a lesson.” Rozanov frowns, looking confused.
Shane sighs tiredly. “Our appointment is not for four more days.”
“I am not here for the appointment.”
“Then, why are you here?”
“I came to see you.”
Shane didn’t expect that for a response, so he scrabbles for something to say for a few good moments. I came to see you. Fuck, does he know what Shane has been doing nearly every night before he slept for the past few weeks? What if he knew? How disgusted would he be with Shane? How–
“Relax, Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice pulls him out of his racing thoughts. “I do not bite. Unless told otherwise.” He grins in such a way that has Shane’s cheeks flaming in this cold weather.
“Fuck you.” Shane shoves him, but immediately regrets it when Rozanov hisses. “Hey, you okay?”
“Fine,” he mumbles, slowly recovering to properly stand upright. On Rozanov’s last visit, Shane discovered that he had injured one of his sides pretty badly, and had clearly instructed him to apply ice to it once he got home, but Shane has a sense Rozanov didn’t do so. “Are you worried?” He has the nerve to flash a smile at Shane afterwards, and the urge to shove him again hits Shane with a full force.
“You’re unbelievable.” Shane hisses this time.
“No.” Rozanov’s eyes darken. “You are.”
And that’s the last thing that comes out of his mouth before it crashes against Shane’s. The alarms in Shane’s head go off one after another, his brain scrambling for a reaction. Rozanov’s mouth is hot and insistent on his, igniting something unperishable deep down in Shane’s gut. It is so overwhelmingly sexy Shane has nothing else to do but lean into it and kiss him back. He feels Rozanov’s sudden inhale of surprise followed by him physically pushing Shane against the wall until his back collides with it, and his head lands on Rozanov’s hand instead of the rough brick structure.
The gesture lets a low moan escape him, which he is embarrassed he let out when they have barely kissed yet. That embarrassment soon fades though when the sound Shane made seems to have excited Rozanov, because he tilts Shane’s head back to deepen the kiss, and Shane fucking lets him. He lets himself enjoy the dominant press of Rozanov’s tongue against his. A thrill ripples through him at the way Rozanov’s hand goes to the small of his back to bring him closer, but Shane barely gives him a chance before he arches into him in advance, punching a deep groan out of Rozanov.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he says once they break apart for air. His eyes are hooded, and he is looking down at Shane with unconcealed lust. “I have wanted to do this many nights ago,” he admits.
Something flutters in Shane’s stomach, and he swallows. “Me too.”
“I know.” Rozanov dips his head to kiss a trail down Shane’s jaw and neck, and Shane shivers.
“You cold?” Rozanov murmurs against his skin.
“No.” Shane breathes. “No. That’s you.”
He feels Rozanov’s smirk on his neck. “Can I take you somewhere warmer still?”
“Are you gonna talk all night or are you actually going to do something?” Shane huffs. He has never been more impatient and sexually aroused in his whole life.
“I will take this as a yes, then.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, Shane is pressed up against the door to Rozanov’s penthouse, being kissed out of his mind. Now that they are no longer on the street, and the space is much warmer and quieter here, Shane feels more at ease. He kisses Rozanov back with as much vigour, pushing and pulling at him at the same time.
“Make up your mind, sweetheart.” Rozanov’s teeth graze his ear, and then he pulls Shane’s earlobe into his lips and sucks, eliciting a gasp from him.
“Want you.” Shane fists Rozanov’s shirt in his hand.
“Use your words, Hollander. Tell me what you want.” Rozanov’s eyes are burning coals into Shane’s face.
“Want to suck you,” he says, spelling out the simplest, clearest of his fantasies that haven’t left the walls of his mind for almost a month.
Rozanov closes his eyes as if he needs to digest what Shane had just said, then he kisses Shane one more time. “On your knees,” he says gently.
Shane doesn’t let a beat pass before he is down on his knees, looking up at Rozanov. “Fuck, Hollander. You really want this?” he asks tightly.
Shane opens his mouth and leans forward until he wets the bulge in Rozanov’s pants with his open lips, silently answering his question.
“Fuck. Get up. Bedroom, now.” Rozanov’s hand is gentle under his chin in contrast to his urgent, barely contained order.
Shane bites his lip as they get into Rozanov’s bedroom, and they waste no time in getting back on track. Rozanov gets rid of his shoes and socks, unzips his pants, then Shane stops him. “I want to.”
He pushes Rozanov backwards until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he falls back willingly, sitting on the edge with his legs open. Shane kneels between them and peels Rozanov’s trousers while mouthing at his cock. He takes his time nuzzling and mouthing at him, enjoying the little hisses and gasps Rozanov makes. Shane’s own erection is painful in his pants as Rozanov lifts his hips so Shane could rid him of his underwear. His throat runs dry at the sight of Rozanov’s hard dick slapping against his stomach the moment it is free.
It turns him on even more knowing that Rozanov wants this as much as him, so Shane dips his head and takes him in his mouth.
“Oh.” Rozanov’s hand finds Shane’s hair immediately, encouraging and guiding.
Shane loses himself in the sensation of Rozanov’s weight and warmth in his mouth, big and ramrod hard. He hollows out his cheeks and holds the base of Rozanov’s cock in his hand, stroking where his mouth isn’t.
The other hand travels up Rozanov’s body under his shirt that Rozanov pulls off right away, letting his fingers explore the tight cord of muscle beneath them. He finds one of his nipples and pinches lightly.
“That’s right,” Rozanov groans, his body shuddering. When Shane looks up at him, he catches sight of his head rolling back in pleasure, his chest rising and falling with the effort of delaying his orgasm. He moves his hand over Rozanov’s left pec, where he feels the fast thrum of his heartbeat. He likes the idea of having that power over Rozanov.
God, their past appointments have been nothing but torture. The tension between them doubled every time, but neither of them seemed to know how to address it or whether they even should. Until tonight. Shane isn’t actually mad at him for appearing out of nowhere now that he is fucking blowing him. Something Shane had shamed himself into not thinking about and repeatedly failing.
He focuses now though on working Rozanov earnestly with his mouth, using his tongue in all the places he has fantasised about touching. Words of praise tumble out of Rozanov’s lips and Shane takes them as motivation to go wilder, until the other is a mess of Russian and English gibberish above him. His hips buck into Shane’s mouth twice, signaling his need for more as he comes close. Shane increases his pace, and Rozanov’s grip tightens in his hair.
“Hollander–fuck–I’m going to–” he cuts his own words short when he goes completely still, and Shane pulls away in the right moment to catch his release all over his mouth, chin and some even gets on his cheeks.
Rozanov is a wonder to watch when he is falling apart. His body glimmering gold with a thin sheen of sweat as he tenses, looking like a finely sculpted god. When he comes down from his high, he looks down at Shane and his hand falls from his hair to his face. Very gently, he swipes his thumb over Shane’s cheek, his chin until it reaches his bottom lip, pushing lightly. Shane sucks it in his mouth and tastes Rozanov on his tongue, which seems to unlock something in him, because in a split second he hauls Shane up into a filthy kiss and flips them over so that Shane falls back onto the mattress with Rozanov on top of him.
Realising he is still fully clothed, Rozanov works to undress Shane while his lips stay in contact with him. If not on his mouth then on his neck, and if not on his neck, then on his chest down until he hovers over the waist band of Shane’s boxers.
“Please.” Shane whimpers.
“Please what?” Rozanov pulls his underwear agonizingly slow, looking at Shane through golden eyelashes.
“Make me come.”
“Your wish is my command, sweetheart.” And just like that, Shane is transferred to another realm where the only thing that exists is the feeling of Ilya Rozanov’s mouth around him.
Shane gasps, cries out and arches his back through it all, because Rozanov is fucking good at this. He takes Shane all the way down to the hilt and swallows around him, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body.
“Ah, fuck.” Shane moans, helplessly fisting the sheets he is sprawled on. Rozanov hooks one of Shane’s legs over his shoulder and brings a hand to his balls, caressing and cupping them.
“This is so–oh good.” He screws his eyes shut as another wave of pleasure courses through him, building up on the pressure that is already there.
Rozanov hums, the vibrations driving Shane crazy. He looks down at himself and watches his cock disappear into Rozanov’s mouth, the sweet pressure of his close orgasm growing rapidly.
“Fuck. Fuck. I’m close…” he gasps when Rozanov licks at the underside of his length.
“Good.” He rasps. “Come for me, Hollander,” he murmurs before he takes the head of Shane’s cock into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it.
Shane lets out a pathetic moan that breaks into a whimper when Rozanov tongues at his slit. One, two times and Shane’s orgasm comes tumbling down all over his senses. “I’m coming!” He cries out as he feels his climax all through his body. He shudders and spasms, shooting his load into Rozanov’s mouth who didn’t pull away when Shane warned him.
For a second, all Shane sees is white as his body calms down. “That…was fucking incredible.”
“Yes.” He blinks through his haze to see Rozanov looking at him with a ghost of a smile on his face.
Shane still has his thigh over Rozanov’s shoulder, so he slowly moves it away, feeling like it weighs a ton. Only then does he notice the yellow and purple blotches on Rozanov’s skin, and he jumps with regret.
“God, shit. Sorry–”
“Is okay.” Rozanov shakes his head. “Can’t feel it.” As if to prove a point, he stands on his knees at the end of the bed and gives his arm a 360 roll, showing off with a knowing smile.
“Show-off.” Shane kicks at his thigh, though he has a smile of his own on his face. He takes a look at Rozanov and admires how beautiful he looks, and realises, with an interest, that Rozanov’s dick is already half hard again.
He draws his bottom lip into his mouth. This could either be nothing, or it could be the best night of his life.
Three weeks later, Shane finds himself bent over one side of Rozanov’s bed while he grabs onto the covers for any support.
“You fucking love this, yes?” Rozanov snaps his hips, hitting Shane’s prostate.
“Yeah,” Shane moans in return. “Please, don’t stop.” His voice pitches high at the last word as he feels himself devastatingly close yet he hasn’t had enough of this. Of Rozanov inside him.
God, he doesn’t think he will ever get enough.
“I want you to fuck me,” Shane blurts out, the words audacious to his ears.
“Here?” Rozanov raises his eyebrows from where he waits while Shane patches him up.
“No, asshole, of course not here.” He glares at Rozanov.
“Why? Would be fun.” He shrugs, running a hand over Shane’s thigh between them.
Shane slaps it away before he has to struggle with having an erection at work.
“Not now, Rozanov,” he warns.
“As you wish.” Rozanov rolls his eyes. Then, “I cannot wait, though.” He grins smugly. “Will make you feel good.”
“Shut up,” Shane says, a little weaker than he intended, his mind already running wild with images.
Then Rozanov had taken him home and made him see stars. He fucked Shane so good he felt it in the morning and spent the whole day trying not to smile to himself at work like a maniac. Right now is no different, no less intense, Shane is moaning with every thrust of Rozanov’s hips that is aimed to take him apart.
“Oh, god.” His legs shake with the intensity of his impending orgasm. Rozanov reaches over and takes Shane’s cock in his hand. It only takes him an embarrassing two strokes before Shane is coating the sheets and Rozanov’s hand with his come. “Oh, god. Ilya.”
“Shane.” His name rolls off Rozanov’s tongue as he follows shortly, crying out as he pulses inside Shane.
He keeps driving his hips into him, drawing out both of their orgasms until Shane is spent, happy, and officially boneless. Rozanov rests a hand on his chest as he slowly pulls out, supporting Shane’s weight.
“I ruined your sheets,” Shane says sheepishly, looking at the mess he made.
“Is no problem.” Rozanov helps him in a standing position as he yanks the ruined covers away and off the bed with one hand while the other holds Shane in place. God, he is so strong.
Rozanov lets him down onto the bed, and Shane stretches tiredly in it, a giddy smile on his face. He doesn’t notice Rozanov looking at him until his eyes clear. “What?”
“Stay tonight,” Rozanov simply says.
Shane pauses. They don’t do this. They don’t spend the night with each other or cuddle after sex or anything of that sort. They did exchange numbers, yes, and they may have been texting on and off between their appointments, but they are just attracted to each other sexually. That is all.
The idea of spending the night cuddled up in Rozanov’s arms feels tempting more than Shane would like to admit. Especially when he spends the time between their appointments either texting Rozanov, thinking about him, or jerking off with him on the phone. Then, it flashes in his mind like an emergency siren. He had called Rozanov by his first name when he came, didn’t he? Fuck, he wasn’t even aware of himself—which makes it even worse.
Calling each other by their last names was something they both went by. It felt more casual, easy going and challenging at the same time. It went with whatever the hell they were doing. So, breaking it feels like more than it should be. He had said it too though, Shane recalls through his post-orgasm haze. It can’t mean anything, can it? They have been seeing each other for almost two months now, so it only makes sense that they are more familiar with each other than before.
“I’ll stay,” he says, even though nerves are eating at him, because he has no idea why his insides are fluttering like a teenager being noticed by his lifelong crush. “On one condition.”
“What is it?” Rozanov is smiling.
“You got any food in this mansion of yours or?”
Rozanov’s smile widens, and Shane’s heart does a weird thing in his chest.
“Shower first?” He suggests.
Shane nods. “Hell, yeah.”
They take longer than they intended in the shower, making each other come again under the running water. When they emerge, Shane changes into a hoodie that belongs to Rozanov, which falls larger on him but Shane doesn’t mind. One of the things Shane has learned about Rozanov so far is that being a fighter makes a lot of money, and Rozanov clearly doesn’t let that go to waste. His place is nice and is technically a mansion compared to the small apartment he shares with Hayden.
Shane sits at one of the kitchen stools lined by the marble island and watches Rozanov make them sandwiches. He looks comic in a warm way; Ilya Rozanov, one of the deadliest fighters in Canada, standing in the kitchen making tuna melts for himself and his—fuck buddy? He doesn’t know how to label himself in relation to Rozanov, which isn’t a problem, because it just proves that there is nothing between them beyond sex.
Liar, a voice snaps in his mind, but Shane shuts it up.
“Go put something on the tv,” Rozanov says as he sets two empty plates down.
Shane flips through the streaming platforms on Rozanov’s tv until he settles on The Matrix. He presses play at the same time Rozanov appears in the living room with two filled plates. They sit together on the couch, going through their food while silently watching the movie. Shane has made sure English subtitles were on for Rozanov so that he doesn’t get lost in the middle.
By the end of the movie, both men were almost asleep from exhaustion. Shane’s head was loosely resting on Rozanov’s shoulder, and the other’s arm had slipped from the back of the couch to Shane’s own back. He is too tired to overthink their state right now, but all he feels is the need to crawl under Rozanov’s extended arm and fall asleep there.
Something nudges his side. “Shane.” Rozanov’s voice penetrates his senses.
“Mhmm.” Shane doesn’t open his eyes.
“Shane, let us go to bed.” Isn’t he already in bed?
Oh.
Oh, right.
Shane’s eyes snap open and he sits up a bit too quickly, accidentally making himself dizzy. “I’m awake.”
Rozanov, looking adorably rumpled next to him, chuckles. “Of course, you are.” He looks sleepy too, and when he gets up and offers Shane his hand, Shane doesn’t turn it away. He probably should, because Rozanov isn’t his boyfriend, but his hand is big and calloused and holds Shane’s so tenderly it makes his stomach swirl.
They get into bed together with Shane naturally fitting in Rozanov’s arms with his back to his chest and he immediately falls asleep, tiredness washing over him. He chooses to believe it is exhaustion and not the safety he feels with Rozanov’s larger figure encompassing his.
Shane doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up and it’s still dark outside. He is a light sleeper, so when he first heard Rozanov’s voice and felt the tremor of his body against Shane, he was awake in no time. His eyebrows draw together when he hears him again, this time no longer half asleep, and he realises that Rozanov is muttering in Russian. He twists to turn the low light on the nightstand on, and Shane is kind of startled at the sight he finds next to him.
Rozanov’s body is stiff as if every muscle in his body is cramped, there is a light frown on his face, and his eyes are moving behind his closed eyelids. Oh shit, Shane sits up properly, Rozanov is most probably having a nightmare. A whimper escapes him, a sound that, in a parallel universe, would escape a wounded cub.
Shane shakes his shoulder, feeling how strained Rozanov’s muscles are under his touch, but the other doesn’t budge. He opens his mouth to call for him, involuntarily being gentler than he intends so he doesn’t scare Rozanov even more. God, what on earth is causing him this much distress? What could he be dreaming about?
“Ilya,” Shane calls softly, planting his hand a little firmer onto his chest. “Wake up.”
Rozanov shifts, but he doesn’t wake up, more Russian gibberish tumbling out of him. His frown deepens. “Ilya, you’re dreaming.” Shane tries again, and this time his eyes fly open and he jerks awake with a yelp. He bolts upright in bed, eyes wide and frantic with…fear.
“Hey, hey.” Shane is quick to place a grounding hand on his chest where cold sweat and the erratic beats of his heart are.
“It was just a bad dream.” Upon hearing his voice, Rozanov’s head snaps in Shane’s direction, confusion swimming in his eyes.
Shane’s heart twists in his chest. He has never seen Rozanov like this before. So shaken, so…fragile.
Clarity starts forming in his hazel eyes, and he releases a shaky breath. “Shane?” He raises a trembling hand and places it over Shane’s on his chest. His shoulders slump in relief as he exhales a little easier this time and closes his eyes, letting his forehead fall forward onto Shane’s.
Shane feels his heart start to gradually slow down, but he doesn’t move an inch. “It’s okay,” Shane whispers in the space between them.
Rozanov audibly swallows, pulling away enough just to look Shane in the eye. “Hold me,” he whispers. “Please.”
The words, though whispered as sacredly as a prayer meant for only one to hear, along with the look of utter vulnerability in Rozanov’s eyes shake Shane to his core.
“God, of course, Ilya.” He doesn’t think. He just throws his arms around Ilya who sinks into Shane’s arms like they’re his only lifeline.
He tightens his arms protectively around Ilya, and the other shivers even though his skin is damp with sweat. “I’m here. You’re okay.” Shane’s chin rests on the top of Ilya’s head, hopefully a comforting presence.
They stay like that for a while, Ilya’s arms locked tightly around Shane while he softly rubs his back. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Ilya’s response is immediate. “…not right now.”
He slowly withdraws from Shane’s embrace, and Shane suddenly feels empty at the absence of Ilya pressed against him.
“Thank you, for um, this.” Ilya is actually blushing.
Shane chooses not to capitalize on it. Not now at least. “Do you often get these nightmares?”
“Sometimes, yes.” Ilya avoids his gaze.
“I will not be able to sleep for a while, so do not wait for me.” Ilya shakes his head, motioning for Shane to go back to sleep instead of wasting his time with him.
Shane almost hits him with a pillow on his head. Affectionately. “I’m not gonna sleep right away as well since I’m already awake.” He shrugs.
“I could, however,” he rests his chin on one hand. “Listen to you talk about your sexy tattoos.” He cracks a smile at Ilya, who returns it bashfully.
“You think my tattoos are sexy?” He asks, his voice laced with humour.
“Are you kidding? Hell yeah,” Shane shamelessly admits.
“They are.” Ilya’s face unravels in an unfiltered smile as he looks down at his arms.
“So, tell me. Why a snake?”
Ilya shrugs. “I like it.”
“Seriously? That’s all?” Shane scrunches up his face. “No mysterious story behind it?”
Ilya makes a funny sound. “Is just nice,” he says. “Snakes could be friendly or dangerous. Depends which side you are on, I think.” An adorable grimace takes place in lines between his eyebrows as he thinks of his answer.
“And are you dangerous, Ilya Rozanov?” Shane licks his lips, a slow smile spreading on them.
“I am friendly too though.” Ilya draws Shane in by his wrists.
“Okay, okay, don’t get carried away.” Shane laughs, twisting out of his grasp. “What about the one on your back?” he asks curiously.
The smile falls from Ilya’s face. Shane had wondered about that tattoo since he first saw glimpses of it when Ilya first visited him at the hospital. Then, when they undressed each other more than once, Shane had discovered that they were stars. Some of them were bigger than others, and sometimes Shane guessed if they had some sort of a pattern, but he didn’t know anything about constellations, so he kept it to himself.
“You don’t–” Shane starts, but Ilya’s voice overlaps with his.
“Is for my mother,” Ilya says quietly.
“Oh.” Shane breathes. There is usually one, common reason why people get tattoos after other family members, and he doesn’t feel like he is ready to hear what Ilya has to say about this one in particular.
“She died when I was twelve.”
“Ilya, I’m so sorry.” Shane places a hand on his thigh, and he shakes his head.
“Is okay.” It is very obviously not, judging by the tremor in his voice. “I feel that she is with me all the time.” A small, melancholic smile plays out on his lips.
“That’s very beautiful.” Shane smiles back at him. “Can I…see it?”
Silently, Ilya shifts in his position and lies on his side with his head in Shane’s lap, and his back in full display to him. The gesture is so soft Shane almost feels like he wants to hold his breath so he doesn’t tear the thin veil of comfort draped over them. He puts one hand in Ilya’s soft curls and the other on his back, fingers tracing the speckles of ink.
“They spell her name,” Ilya says.
Shane looks closely and finds that some stars have very minimal letters under them. He touches his finger to one that has an ‘i’, then follows the invisible path between it and another one with an ‘r’. He repeats the motion, fingers travelling across the wide expanse of Ilya’s upper back.
“Irina?” Shane spells out, checking if he is right.
Ilya confirms with a nod.
“She has a beautiful name,” he remarks. “What was she like?”
“She was very kind,” Ilya says, his voice distant as if he were living a memory. “Always had a smile, you know. Even though she was very sad most of the time.”
“Why was she sad?” Shane gently brushes Ilya’s curls out of his eyes.
“She was depressed,” he clarifies. “My father, he was not good to her.” A hint of anger creeps into his voice.
Shane leans down and plants a kiss to the side of Ilya’s head. It all feels so natural he doesn’t let one single thought of his interfere with what he is giving to Ilya. He doesn’t care. Maybe he wants to do this again. Maybe he wants to hold Ilya through his nightmares every night, remind him that he is here, that Ilya is okay, because Shane is by his side. Maybe he wants to be more than just casual.
With Ilya’s larger figure laid down in Shane’s lap and his heart’s deepest wounds at his mercy, Shane doesn’t have a shadow of a doubt that Ilya shares the sentiment.
For the next month, all Shane knows is pure bliss. Dating Ilya is not the typical dating experience. If someone looked at it from the outside, they would definitely deem Shane and Ilya two lunatics. A fighter who gets high on busting people’s ass every week and a nurse who fixes him up right after with the promise of having the most mindblowing sex later. It is thrilling in a way that keeps Shane on his tiptoes. He likes being up in Ilya’s space, at the receiving end of his affection, just as much as Ilya likes it too.
But while it all has felt like a dream, some things had started to nag at the back of Shane’s mind. Like the way Ilya turned it into a joke every time Shane brought up his fights. Or the way he always refused to let Shane accompany him to any of them. Or the way he always changed the subject whenever Shane brought up any details about his brutal sport. He had ignored it at first, but it just kept getting stranger and harder to ignore. It was almost as if Ilya was purposely hiding something from him, and it left Shane feeling uneasy.
It felt like there was an entire part of Ilya’s life Shane had no idea about, and he couldn’t help but feel the wall it was building between them.
“I was thinking,” Shane says from under Ilya’s arm that is draped lazily over his waist.
“Of course you were.” Ilya rolls his eyes.
Shane pinches his nipple in return.
Ilya yelps and laughs. “Alright, spit it out, Hollander. What has your brilliant mind come to?”
Shane braces himself. “I want to go with you to your fight tomorrow.”
The silence that falls between them is deafening. Ilya’s arm drops from around Shane as he leaves the comfort of his bed.
Anger simmers under Shane’s skin.
“Come on, I want to support my boyfriend.” He smiles tightly.
Ilya doesn’t reply to that. Instead, he throws a shirt on. “Shane.” He turns to him, expression tired. “We talked about th–”
“What the fuck, Ilya?!” Shane snaps, his anger reaching a significant amount he can’t keep to himself anymore.
He gets up and starts ragefully putting some clothes on. “How long did you think you could hide this from me?”
Ilya grimaces. “What do you mean?”
“I know you’re an underground fighter, Ilya,” Shane says it out loud for the first time since he discovered it.
He felt so stupid, not having figured it out earlier when the signs were all there, when every description on the internet matched Ilya's behaviour. No, scratch that. He was more angry at Ilya for constantly lying to him and hiding it when Shane was more than willing to be part of it, whatever it is that Ilya was hiding.
But not anymore. Not when Ilya has made it specifically clear he doesn’t want Shane as part of his life. Not this one at least.
When he stays silent, Shane’s tiny hope of it not being true is crushed. And judging by the look on Ilya’s face, he learns that his boyfriend is way in beyond knowing how dangerous it is. He knows it, and he likes it.
“You could have told me,” Shane says quietly, doing nothing to mask the hurt in his voice.
“You wouldn’t understand.” Ilya’s reply is cold and lifeless. Like it isn’t even the person Shane knows is talking.
“Then fucking make me!” He shouts desperately. “Because I can’t do this,” he says less loudly this time, his voice quivering.
“What?” For the first time tonight, Shane sees something other than indifference in Ilya’s eyes. Fear.
“I can’t do it.” He shrugs, his eyes dangerously blurring. “I can’t let you destroy yourself while I just watch, Ilya.”
Ilya’s hands curl into fists by his sides, then uncurl, then curl again. He can see the battle in his boyfriend’s eyes, and he can, unfortunately, see which side is winning.
Hurt, anger and disappointment numb Shane’s senses, and the next words slip out of his mouth before he thinks. “Is this what your mother would have wanted?”
Ilya’s expression hardens so much that Shane almost flinches. In all his life, he never thought about how just one word could end his entire world.
“Leave.”
“Ilya–”
“Leave, Hollander.” Ilya repeats, his voice devoid of any emotion, but if his eyes aren’t playing a trick on him, he sees Ilya’s eyes shining. It is probably just his brain trying to ease the pain of the situation.
“This is your choice?” Shane fights one more time, his chest heaving as if he were carrying a heavy weapon in a battle he is destined to lose.
Nothing. Ilya turns his back to him.
Then, with what strength is left in him, Shane says, “if I walk out that door, Rozanov, I’m walking out of your life.”
The words taste like venom on his tongue. Bitter and nearly choking him to death.
He waits for a nod, a shake of his head, a ‘wait’. Anything. But Ilya is frozen in his spot.
Shane picks his jacket from the foot of the bed and drags his feet to walk out of Ilya’s bedroom. “Goodbye, Ilya.”
***
Ilya has always thought that his mother’s parting would be the hardest, most gruesome thing he would ever have to endure. Which is true.
Because the second worst thing he had to experience was pushing away the best thing that has ever happened to him. All because he was madly in love with Shane. It hurt, because every word Shane said was right, but it didn’t lessen the pain.
The pain of watching his heart walk out the door of his life, leaving behind a fresh trail of blood in Shane’s name.