Chapter Text
June, 2015 - Las Vegas
Shane wondered sometimes if this underlying need to be absolutely perfect rooted in something other than his own self-criticism. There was nothing to indicate that it had anything to do with his parents; they were always forgiving, always encouraging and accepting of his faults. Was it because he was an only-child? Whatever it might have been, it was ruining Shane’s mood more than he wanted to admit. Was it the stress getting to him? Was it the rise to fame that was finally getting under his skin? Or perhaps, maybe, most probably, it was due to the fact that Ilya fucking Rozanov was being absently cold towards him.
Last night had left a bitter taste in Shane’s mouth. He wondered if it had been something he said, or maybe Ilya had just realized that Shane Hollander was nothing more than a scam; a boring loser whose only talent was ice-hockey and making a fool out of himself. Shane felt utterly pathetic for even thinking, for a second, that someone would be genuinely interested in him. But the worst part wasn’t that Ilya thought that he was discardable, the worst part was that Shane did not understand why.
This was one of Shane’s vices. He was perfect on the ice; calculating, cunning, knowledgeable, but in social situations he was the complete opposite. Awkward, withdrawn, even shy at times. A part of him longed to be like Ilya, sharp-tongued, charming and able to make a whole room sit at the edge of its seat by just being, existing.
Shane was angry, and ashamed, and lonely.
He wondered if it was all of the above which had possessed him to send the text message whilst restlessly twisting and turning in his hotel bed, unable to fall asleep.
3:49 AM, Jane: Please stay.
Fuck, what was he even thinking? Ilya had already made it perfectly clear that he was going to bed and now Shane was overstepping the invisible line that Ilya seemed to have drawn between them. Shane wished he could take the text back, delete it from existence, and so he did the next best thing and stuffed his cell-phone underneath his pillow so that he didn’t have to stare stupidly at his own words which had been taunting him on the screen.
What he hadn’t expected was the vibration his phone had made, indicating a response to his impulsive text message.
3:51 AM, Lily: Why?
Shane stared at the text message for an almost absurdly long time, wavering between anger and exhaustion; mentally, physically, and emotionally. He tried to come up with something to say, but then Shane realized that he didn’t have a good explanation for wanting Ilya to stay, aside from the truth.
3:55 AM, Jane: Because I want you to.
The reply was almost immediate.
3:55 AM, Lily: That’s not reason.
3:56 AM, Jane: It’s the truth. I want you to stay. I don’t want you to go back to Russia, not yet.
Shane winced at his own words when he read the text back, and for several minutes there was no reply. There was no witty one-liner, no flirtation, no shaming Shane for being weird and needy and an idiot. It was 4:16 AM when his phone buzzed again, and this time there was no text, no words, just a picture of Ilya’s re-booked plane ticket. Shane released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. Then, another buzz.
4:16 AM, Lily: Breakfast in Penthouse 1. Text me when you up.
Shane buried his face in the hotel pillow in order to stop himself from smiling.
When Shane woke up the next morning, the sun was already standing high up in the sky. He forced himself out of the comfortable hotel bed, his entire body sore and aching as he dragged himself to the bathroom. God, Ilya had been rough and he could feel the exhaustion in his thighs, his neck, his arms but mostly Shane felt in his back, where Ilya had held him hard enough to leave marks. As he stared into the mirror, he realized that despite feeling like he had been marked, there were no bruises to be seen. Shane tried to ignore the disappointment that had washed over him and focused on brushing his teeth instead, suppressing his memories of the way Ilya’s eyes had lingered over him as he had fingered himself the night before.
Jesus Christ. It was barely lunchtime and Shane was already lusting over him like some kind of pubescent teenager.
He couldn’t help but snort at himself as he stared into the bathroom mirror. He looked silly with his toothbrush in his mouth, standing in front of the mirror in just his boxers and his hair sticking up in all sorts of ways that seemed to break the laws of physics. As he brushed his teeth, he took a quick picture of himself and sent it to Ilya along with his text message in order to let him know that he was awake.
11:02 AM, Jane: I’m up.
11:10 AM, Lily: You look like Чебурашка* with hair like that.
*Cheburashka
Shane’s curiosity got the best of him and thus he Googled the words Ilya had written, expecting them to be some sort of endearment, only to be met with something else entirely.
11:12 AM, Jane: Are you calling me a monkey?
11:12 AM, Lily: Чебурашка* is not monkey. Plus, he is cute. I do not see problem.
11:13 AM, Lily: When are you coming?
Why was Shane nervous, all of a sudden? He had met Ilya just hours earlier, but somehow it seemed as if the tension from yesterday had somewhat eased. Shane did not know what it meant, and it bothered him, but not as much as it seemed to excite him.
11:20 AM, Jane: Coming.
11:21 AM, Lily: 🥵
God, Shane was going to strangle him.
There was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on Ilya’s door when Shane knocked on it, and the more he stared at it, the more questions he got from it. His anxiety was vibrating through his entire body as he waited for the door to open and when Ilya finally opened it, Shane brushed inside, closing the door after him soundlessly. The room looked different from last night, not only brighter, but also less restrained by the neon-lights, as if the morning sun had kissed all its worries away. Shane realized that Ilya felt different, too. He was no longer stoic, no longer closed-off and hiding. He felt within reach as he leaned into Shane’s personal space to lock the door, close enough that Shane could taste and smell his mint toothpaste.
“Mornin’, Чебурашка.” Ilya practically purred and Shane couldn’t stop his eyes from lingering over his body. Ilya was wearing a black-silk robe which was loosely belted around his hips, hugging his muscular frame and not leaving much to imagination by its v-cut exposing most of his chest, his thighs practically on display, strong and pale and beautiful. The golden cross dangled from his neck almost invitingly, but Shane tore his eyes from Ilya's body when he realized that he didn’t seem to be wearing anything underneath it.
Fuck.
“Hungry?” Ilya asked then, and Shane nodded eagerly, feeling mildly over-dressed in his black sweatpants and oversized hoodie. Ilya smiled at him, gently, softly almost endearingly as he gestured for the small table by the sofa. On it was an assortment of fruit, peach-flavored yoghurt, black coffee, crispy bacon, breakfast sausages, fried eggs and a basket of cloth-wrapped bread that smelled absolutely heavenly. Shane’s stomach made an awful sound, loud enough that Shane blushed in response to it, his ears and cheeks becoming an almost crimson hue.
“Is not much, but good enough.” Ilya responded and melted into the sofa, crossing his legs and letting the silk robe fall teasingly from his shoulders. He leaned over to grab one of the cups of coffee, taking a sip and then grimacing and putting it back down. Shane wanted to kiss the exposed skin of his neck and shoulders.
“American coffee is shit. Taste like water from pool.”
“It’s the chlorine.”
“And they say Russia is bad place.”
Shane settled down beside him, close enough for their knees to be touching, but far apart to keep his hands to himself which were holding onto the couch almost desperately. He needed to calm down. But Shane barely had time to collect himself before one of Ilya’s hands were suddenly by his head, long digits digging into his raven-colored hair, playing with the ends that were still sticking up with a life of its own. Shane closed his eyes briefly, leaning into the touch before biting down on his lip.
What was he doing? What was Ilya doing? What were they doing?
“I want to apologize to you.” Ilya started, and Shane caught something flash across his features. Was it guilt? Sadness? Shane had a hard time focusing on it with Ilya’s fingers wrapped in his hair.
“For what?” Shane breathed, almost inaudibly.
“I acted like asshole yesterday. I am sorry, Hollander. I was thinking too much. There is much you do not know, about me, about home, about weight on my shoulder.” Ilya wasn’t looking him in the eyes, instead he was staring at his own hands in Shane’s hair, following his own movements and the way Shane leaned into his soft touch.
Shane wondered if Ilya would pull back if he kissed him. And so he tried and prayed that he wouldn’t.
Ilya didn’t pull away.
The kiss was awfully mellow and sweet and yearning and deep as Ilya’s hand pressed him closer, as if he was afraid that Shane was going to slip between his fingers. Shane steadied himself by leveraging himself against Ilya’s exposed shoulder, using it as an anchor as they continued kissing. It felt like Ilya was apologizing with his lips and tongue and his teeth on Shane’s bottom lip, making him shiver at the sudden sharpness of it. He felt almost drunk as Ilya kept kissing him, kept pulling and dragging him closer until Shane was practically straddling him, and then he was on his lap and Ilya’s hands were everywhere, clawing and pulling and pushing him against his chest. The sensation was overwhelming.
“Ilya,” Shane began, but Ilya stole his words right from his lips, lapping them up with his tongue.
“‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry,” His words sounded so broken, so genuine and sad. Shane was not used to this side of him, this vulnerability, and all he wanted to do was to wrap around him and take away all that was weighing him down. He wanted to kiss him until he could barely breathe anymore and push himself so close that he no longer knew where he started and Ilya ended.
“What are you apologizing for, Ilya?”
“For pushing you away,”
It was an apology, but it felt more like a confession, and Shane could feel his pulse in his throat; tight, and trembling and soaring. His arms wrapped around Ilya’s neck, fingers threading into his golden curls and he kissed him, again, and again, and again. He kissed Ilya’s neck, his cheek, his chin, he kissed his nose, his lips, his eyelids and forehead. He poured his heart into every single kiss, reminding him that despite Ilya pushing him away, Shane’s feelings for him weren’t budging.
“I am tired of pretending,” Ilya whispered against him and Shane pulled back enough that he could look into Ilya’s gorgeous eyes which were impossibly azul and emerald and golden. He was so incredibly beautiful to look at and Shane cupped his face as if he needed to make sure that he was real. Ilya’s hands grasped at Shane’s waist in response, making him gasp at the strength of it.
“Pretending?”
“Pretending I am not falling in love with you, Shane Hollander. ”