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Scott isn’t sure what he’s expecting when he gets the apartment room next to Shane, but it’s not to find out that his teammate and one of their biggest rivals have been fucking for months.
In retrospect, it feels naïve. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken each small comment at face value: the arrogant, borderline flirtatious comments Ilya makes towards him in interviews, when they get overly rough with each other on the ice. But, Scott did let the small asides lull him into what he now knows is a false sense of security, and suddenly, he’s at the All-Star tournament and feeling like he’s gotten hit by a truck.
In the beginning, it really is normal. They share an apartment for convenience's sake, two bedrooms with a thin wall dividing them. Scott pokes fun at Shane on the ride back from the airport. Shane wheezes at Scott’s bedhead when he stumbles into the kitchen at 2:00 pm and won’t shut up about how even with the jet lag, Scott is physically incapable of getting out of his bed before noon.
And then, a couple days after they've landed, it happens.
Scott wakes up in the middle of the night, sheets tangled between his legs and completely disoriented. He tries to pull his scattered thoughts together enough to figure out what woke him up, when he hears a persistent tapping against the wall he shares with Shane.
Scott props himself up in bed and scrubs a hand over his stubbled face, checking his phone. It’s four in the morning, hours before he's supposed to get up and train. He huffs in annoyance and throws his sheets off, ready to march over to Shane's room and tell him to shut the fuck up so he can sleep, when he hears a soft noise muffled through the wall.
There’s a murmur of Ilya’s voice, and then a sharp moan cuts through the night, loud and clearly audible.
Scott freezes. The fatigue falls from his bones immediately and his breath catches in his throat. His brain catches up to what’s happening, and he realizes with a rush that the tapping is from Shane’s headboard hitting the wall, and that there are two voices coming from his room, which can really only mean that—
“Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane moans, and it’s loud, Shane is being so loud—“Please.”
Everything in Scott goes cold, and then burning hot. He can feel where his thighs are touching the mattress, the press of his forearm into his pillow. It feels as though he’s outside of time, like he doesn’t need anything as inconsequential as breath, the darkness of his room swallowing him whole.
There’s a shushing noise that Scott can barely hear, and then another gentle sentence, garbled by the plaster between them. Scott is filled with the absurd desire to press his ear against the wall to hear what’s being said.
The rapping of Ilya’s headboard pauses, and the quiet and inky black solidify on Scott’s skin. He distantly realizes that he’s growing hard in his sweatpants.
And then, the noise returns, louder and more insistent than before. Scott can hear Shane gasping, but there’s clearly something over his mouth trying to catch the moans as they spill from his lips. Unbidden images fill Scott’s head, of Ilya’s hand covering Shane’s mouth, pressing his head back into the mattress as he makes him take it, of Shane’s mouth slack against a pillow and staining it with his spit, of Shane biting down on his arm to try and control the pleasure wracking through him.
Shane makes a choked noise and goes quiet enough that Scott can’t hear him anymore, left with the creaking of the bed until Ilya groans, and then everything goes still.
There’s more whispered conversation, and then fifteen minutes later Ilya’s door creaks and Scott hears Shane walk down the hall into his room and close the door.
Scott stares at the wall. He’s still painfully hard, but he doesn’t try to touch himself. He feels as though a door he didn’t know existed has swung open in the recesses of his mind, shame and desire coursing through his body, and something more bitter.
He thinks it might be jealousy, and he hates himself for it.
He doesn’t sleep. Each time Scott thinks he’s mastered his arousal, that it’s really not a big deal, his mind conjures up the image of Shane with a flush clouding his warm skin, of Ilya’s desperately unraveling voice, and the raw want floods through him again.
It’s a relief when the sunlight peeks from under the curtains and Scott has an excuse to get out of bed. He pulls off his headphones and steps out of his room, bare feet sticking to the stairs as he goes down to the kitchen. He just needs to get away from his room, where his thoughts are festering in the stagnant air, drink a cold glass of water, and just be alone.
Get a grip, he thinks.
“Why are you up?”
Scott’s head whips up and Shane is standing at the sink in the early morning light, looking at Scott in astonishment.
But Scott can only look at the hickey, dark and possessive, on Shane’s neck. It sits like a wilting dahlia where his shirt slips off just above his collarbone, burgundy and obscene, and the hunger churns in Scott’s gut again.
Instead of letting his mind take over, Scott clears his throat, voice gruff. “Couldn’t sleep.”
The younger man hums and says, “You look tired.”
Scott forces himself to move and sit at the counter, his eyes on Shane’s back.
“What are you doing awake?” Scott asks. What are you doing awake after being fucked into the mattress by Ilya Rozanov three hours ago?
Shane gestures to the bottles next to him. “Needed some water.”
The clinking of glass fills the kitchen as Shane tilts a bottle under running water. Scott feels something itching under his skin. Shane’s spiky dark hair is messy, sticking up at the ends, but now he questions if it’s from sleep or if Ilya pulled on it earlier. His shirt is wrinkled and Scott thinks it must have been lying on the floor of his room. He wonders if Shane has slept at all since his rival snuck out of his room in the middle of the night.
“Nice hickey,” Scott says, and he can hear the bitterness in his own voice.
Shane sighs and turns off the water. He doesn’t turn around and Scott’s impatience builds.
“Were you ever going to tell me about him?”
“About who?” Shane mumbles, and Scott forces himself not to laugh.
“Well, I know I didn’t give you that last night, so unless you’re going out and fucking someone else, which is equally bad for your reputation by the way, there’s only one other person on this floor it could be,” Scott bites out.
Shane finally turns around and leans against the counter, his arms crossed. There’s something defiant in his gaze, and Scott is taken aback by the fierceness in it.
“I didn’t know I had to report back to you on who I was fucking,” Shane retorts.
Scott rolls his eyes. “Don’t even try that. I’ve been here for weeks and you won’t even say out loud that you’re having sex with Ilya fucking Rozanov?”
Something in Shane deflates. “I’m having sex with Ilya fucking Rozanov,” he says plainly. “There, happy?”
“Not particularly,” Scott mutters.
To his surprise, Shane laughs. “You’re so dumb sometimes, Scotty.”
“Are you laughing at me,” Scott says witheringly, “in the middle of discussing your betrayal?”
“Oh come on now.” Shane makes eye contact up at Scott. “You’re not actually mad, are you?”
The truth is, Scott isn’t really upset. He thinks it would be more logical if he was, but he can’t exactly say what he’s really feeling: the overwhelming Pandora’s box of emotions whose lid had been pried off. So, he sticks to the truth.
“I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Scott says softly. “I could've helped cover it up.”
Shane shrugs. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey Scott, welcome to the tournament, we’re so happy to have you, by the way I’m getting railed on the regular by the star of our biggest rival team, let me show you your room?’”
“On the regular?” Scott asks.
Shane goes quiet and Scott can see him blushing.
“Well—I mean, um,” he stammers.
Scott waits for him to finish but Shane just stares at the floor instead.
“How long has it been going on for?” Scott tries instead.
“Not that long,” Shane says. “It just… happened one night. It was late, I was a little drunk, and it’s not like we can really see other people right now if we don't want them reporting it all to the news sharks.”
He looks up and his eyes are wide, pleading. It barrels over him again, Shane on his knees with those dark wet eyes turned up towards Scott; Shane begging last night, Rozanov, please. What Ilya would need to do to make Shane beg like that.
“It’s honestly not a big deal,” Shane is saying, and Scott forces his mind out of the gutter. “We both talked about it and everything has been fine. This arrangement works for us. It’s more of a…” he searches for the right words. “Men helping men sort of a thing.”
“Men helping men?” Scott asks skeptically.
“Ugh, whatever. Shut up,” Shane scoffs.
“Ugh,” Scott mimicks, just to see Shane grin.
“You’re an idiot.”
They look at each other for a second before Scott breaks into a yawn.
“You should try to go back to bed,” Shane says. “You look awful. Why couldn’t you sleep before?”
Scott frowns at Shane, ready to say, Because you’re loud when you’re getting fucked, before he realizes that Shane is being serious. Shane doesn’t know that Scott heard. Shane thinks that Scott woke up early for some other reason.
“Jet lag,” Scott rushes automatically. He clears his throat, scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I think I’m still jet lagged.”
Shane touches his arm in a small show of sympathy and he has to flinch away from the touch to stop himself from doing something insane like stroking his hair. He feels like he’s a teenager again, on the knife’s edge of desperation. Shane pulls his hand back immediately.
“You should go to bed,” he repeats.
Scott nods and keeps his mouth shut. He fills a glass of water and goes upstairs where it sits untouched on his nightstand, next to where Scott lies awake, trying to pretend that one stroke of his forearm hasn’t left him wanting more.
For the most part, nothing changes. Shane clearly told Ilya at some point that Scott knows, because he’s greeted at a press conference with a not-so-subtle wink from the man.
But Scott isn’t just anyone, and now that he knows what he’s looking for, he can’t stop seeing evidence of Shane and Ilya’s “arrangement” everywhere. Ilya just walks into Shane's and his living room, wearing the shirt that Shane had on the day before and talks his ear off while Scott tries not to stare. Shane sinks into Ilya’s arms while the three of them are watching shitty cable and the two stay cuddled there, on the other end of the couch from Scott, until the end credits shake them awake. Ilya places his hands firmly on Shane's waist as he moves him away from the stove. Scott runs into Shane while he’s coming out of the shower and there are hickeys trailing below the cut of his towel, and Scott feels like he’s dying. Ilya begs Shane to give him a haircut until he relents, warning Ilya it’s going to look like shit, and the two sit in the bathroom, laughing and totally at ease with each other.
It could be love—even Scott’s burning jealousy can recognize that. But it’s a level of familiarity that makes Scott ache. He had that familiarity once with a man, Kip. How he longs for those simple, freer days.
The one blessing—Scott tries to convince himself it’s a blessing—is that Shane and Ilya don’t hook up in Shane's room anymore. At least, that’s what Scott is forced to conclude, because Shane still has hickeys popping up on his skin and Scott can’t hear anything coming from the room adjacent to his. It becomes a ritual: every night Scott will go to bed and lie there. He strains to hear any noise coming from the wall next to his, even though he tells himself that he’s just trying to fall asleep. For hours, the darkness will press against his eyes and he’ll be hard, stubbornly refusing to touch himself, because you’re not supposed to jack off to your teammate.
And when he’s sure that the room next to his must be empty, he finally, shamefully reaches his hand into his boxers and lets himself come.
Scott has never felt so greedy in his entire life. His desire is a wildfire out of his control. It’s addicting, and most of all, terrifying.
“So, are you like, bisexual now?”
Ilya freezes where he’s shoveling glass noodles and spicy prawns into his mouth from a styrofoam take-out container and just stares at Scott.
“What is wrong with you?” he asks, cheeks bulging with food.
“That’s disgusting, swallow your food,” Scott snaps, folding his arms and resting them on the table where he's sitting.
Ilya exaggerates a swallow and then repeats, “What is wrong with you?”
Scott shrugs and picks at his brown rice and salmon, Shane's leftovers gone uneaten. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before due to his stupid nightly routine, and he had been strung out and on edge the entire day. “I mean with the whole Shane thing.”
“I know what you were referring to, why would you ask that question?”
Scott flushes. “You never talked about guys before.”
“Of course I wouldn't,” Ilya says like he's talking to a dim child. “I quite like my job and my family and those are two things I'd lose if I told anyone about my liking for men.”
Scott can feel Ilya looking at him and he refuses to meet his gaze.
Ilya snorts and stands up from the table. “You know, if you took that stick out of your ass, you might actually find someone who wants to fuck you there.”
He walks away and Scott is left alone in the harsh fluorescent light, regretting his decision to ever come to this tournament at all.
The ceiling of Shane’s living room is starting to peel in one corner. There’s a moth courting the light bulb at the center of the ceiling, and the carpet feels so soft against Scott’s calves.
“Scott, what are you doing?” Ilya slurs out behind him.
“Looking,” Scott says, tilting his head back to catch Ilya in his vision.
He’s lying back against the couch cushions, legs spread open and palms resting on his thighs. His eyes are rimmed red from the weed they’ve been smoking, and everything in Scott feels languid where he’s sprawled on the floor. This is stupid. This is so incredibly stupid. He shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't even be here, but he is.
“How do I look?” Ilya questions.
“You look…”—good—“like an arrogant prick.”
Ilya throws a cushion at Scott’s head and misses by a mile.
“Ouch. Nice job,” Scott says.
Ilya groans and falls back.
“I think you look nice,” murmurs Shane softly from where he’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch.
Ilya raises his eyes to meet Shane’s. Shane gives him a slow once-over and licks his lips. It’s the most blatant they’ve been in front of Scott other than bodily evidence of their hook-ups. Scott feels like he’s watching a car crash—he can’t look away.
Ilya stands up suddenly. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s only 10:00,” Scott says weakly.
“Goodnight, Scott!”
Shane just looks at Ilya. “Goodnight then.”
“You’re going to bed, too,” Ilya mutters and hauls Shane up from the couch, tugging on his hand and leading him up the stairs. Scott wants to scream. Upstairs, a door slams shut.
He closes his eyes. He thinks that maybe he’ll do the right thing, be a good person and stay in the living room and crank the music up in his headphones until he can’t hear a thing.
Instead, he unfurls himself from the floor and goes up to his room.
They aren’t trying to be quiet this time. Even if they weren’t in his room, Scott thinks he would probably be able to hear them from down the hall. There’s a bang as something falls to the floor and a hushed, “Leave it, leave it,” from Ilya. Scott turns off his light and lies down.
There are muffled moans and the bedsprings creak where Shane and Ilya are shifting around. Scott lets his fingers trace around his lips, runs a hand down his chest. He pushes his pants down to his ankles and feels his cock, hard and already leaking, spring up to hit his stomach. Scott pets his thighs and has to shove his fingers into his mouth to keep himself from groaning at the sensation on his sensitive skin.
There’s a whimper from beyond the wall, and Ilya laughs. “So desperate and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Scott’s dick jumps on his stomach, and he hears Shane groan.
“Please,” Shane pants. “Please.”
“Please what?” Ilya teases, and there’s another low moan.
“Please, touch me.” Shane’s voice sounds strained.
“Touch you where?”
There’s a frustrated noise and Scott holds his breath.
“Inside,” Scott barely hears Shane whisper, “Want you inside.”
“There you go,” Ilya coos and there’s a sharp gasp, “All you had to do was ask.”
Scott thinks he’s floating. His body feels weightless, barely real as he shucks his shirt off and quietly grabs lube from his nightstand. The moans are near-constant now and he can hear Shane biting on something to try to keep the noise in.
A slap echoes through the room and Scott stills where he’s squirting lube onto his fingers. There’s a strangled cry and everything in Scott burns white-hot.
“Let me hear it,” Ilya grits out. “Let me hear how bad you want it.”
“Oh my God,” Shane whispers, and trails off into a groan. “Oh, fuck.”
Scott squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip so hard he thinks he might have drawn blood. He slowly strokes himself to full mast as he lets himself listen to Shane’s wrecked noises. He doesn’t know if he needs to make any noise at all—the more he listens to the brunet’s choked-off moans, the more he feels like he’s living through their pleasure, through the way his body is being wound taut.
“More,” Shane says, “I can take more.”
There’s a pause, before Ilya’s voice murmurs, “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”
He hears a wet kissing sound and he aches.
“It’s okay,” Shane whispers. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
There’s more shuffling on the sheets and then Shane lets out a shuddering gasp.
“Is it—” Ilya starts, but Shane cuts him off.
“Just… slow. It’s fine, just slow,” he says.
Everything is quiet and Scott forces his body to relax. He listens intently but it seems like the two men are suspended in their own world. He imagines Ilya leaning over Shane, their breaths mingling in the space between them as Shane’s eyes screw shut, hands grabbing Ilya’s shoulder.
Slowly, movement stirs back to life in the other room. Shane’s breaths take on weight, little noises slipping through again.
“Always so tight,” Ilya says. “Just on my fingers, imagine how that’s going to be on my cock.”
Scott’s hand brushes hard over a vein and he lets out a sinful groan. He wants to kiss the sound out of the two younger men's mouths. He wants it to be someone else giving him so much pleasure he feels drunk off it.
Suddenly, there’s a loud, untethered moan, so loud Scott can almost convince himself it happened right in his ear. He lets go of his thigh and slaps his hand over his mouth.
“There?” Ilya sounds smug, the tone so familiar that Scott can picture exactly the face he’s making right now.
“I—oh, that’s…” Shane struggles to speak against his gasps.
“You can say it’s good,” Ilya mocks. “It sure sounds like it’s good.”
The brunet just lets out another broken moan in response.
“Say it’s good, Hollander.” Ilya’s voice is so low it’s muffled.
Shane is still making desperate noises on the other side of the wall, but the sound is quickly cut off by his voice, panicked and desperate, saying, “No!” Something thunks against the headboard.
“Why did you stop?” Shane whines.
“Say it’s good,” Ilya insists.
“Obviously it’s good you moron, otherwise I wouldn’t be in bed with your annoying ass.”
Scott bites back a smile at their banter.
Ilya doesn’t let up. “Say it for real. Say it feels good.”
Silence, and then Shane speaks so quietly Scott can’t make out the words. But his tone is resigned, clouded in a lust strong enough to force him to swallow his pride.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Ilya asks, and then Shane’s moans cut through the air again, pushing the air from his lungs as he struggles to swallow around the pleasure in his body.
“I love it when you sound like this,” Ilya groans, and then there’s another unintelligible murmur of his voice that Scott can’t understand but has Shane begging, “Oh God, oh my God please fuck me, please—”
Scott has to grab the base of his dick to stop himself from coming. Shane sounds like he’s unraveling at the seams. He sounds like he’s left every rational thought down in the living room, and Scott feels the frustration choke in his throat again. He wants to be the one taking Shane apart. He wants to be taken apart. He wants to take and be used and give, for his body to become a supernova of all the ways it can be someone else’s. He’s tired of it being his.
He almost misses Ilya’s breathy voice when it says, “Turn over. So good,” Ilya groans. “You’re so good, just relax baby.”
“Wait, wait,” Shane rushes out, “Just wait, I need a minute.”
There are more kissing noises. As much as Scott doesn’t want to, he waits too.
After what feels like an eternity, Shane says, “Okay, move now.”
There’s the slow creak of bedsprings and Ilya’s choked-off breath.
“Are you still okay?” He asks. “I can stop, we don’t have to…”
“It’s okay,” Shane whispers. “Keep going slow, it’ll get better in a bit.” He huffs out a laugh. “I was too eager.”
“Oh my God,” Ilya groans. “Don’t laugh, you get so tight when you laugh.”
Shane laughs harder, and Scott can hear Ilya’s muffled hiss.
“Are you considering a tickling kink?” Shane jokes.
“I thought you said you wanted to keep going,” Ilya says, “Not try to turn me off as quickly as possible.”
The seconds stretch on as Scott hears nothing but the bedsprings and harsh breathing. He feels like he’s burning. It occurs to him that he could get up right now, walk into Ilya’s room, and beg the two of them to accept his greediness, his insatiable hunger stoked by the two of them. The thought evaporates as soon as Scott has it, banished to the place he keeps all his other unspeakable shames. He thinks they’re large enough to fill his room to the brim at this point. To drown him.
“You can… more,” Shane says after a minute. “I want more.”
The tell-tale sound of Ilya’s bed hitting the wall starts up as Ilya finally goes faster. Scott times the twist of his wrist to the noise. Shane begins to moan in earnest again, breathy with one sound bleeding into the other.
“Feel good?” Ilya pants.
“Y-yes,” Shane chokes out. His voice cracks under the strain of articulation.
“God, the way you take it, you just love it don’t you?” Ilya teases. “Love falling apart on my cock.”
“Yes,” Shane whispers again. Then, so quiet Scott thinks he might have made it up, “Fuck me harder.”
Ilya moans and the bed slams into the wall now.
“Fuck,” Shane cries, “I'm so close.”
Scott realizes that he’s close to coming too. His cock is drooling pre-cum where it's sitting in his hand, surrounded by the sounds of the two younger rivals.
Shane cries out and Ilya spits, “Beg. Beg for it.”
“Oh, please, please make me come, I want to come on your cock, please please—” Shane babbles.
The sound of Shane’s voice, completely fucked out, all shreds of the dignified, respected hockey player abandoned on the bedroom floor, blindsides Scott and his own orgasm rushes over him, milking the pleasure from his body as he struggles to keep the noise to himself. He can vaguely hear Shane and then Ilya coming on the other side of the wall too, before falling boneless to his mattress, sticky and body totally satiated.
He listens passively to the shuffling on the other side of the wall, the sheets rustling as the two clean themselves off. Scott feels himself floating in the hazy space between consciousness and sleep, trying to summon the willpower to get out of his bed and get a tissue, when he hears Shane’s voice.
“Do you want to stay tonight?”
It’s so soft and tender. More intimate than the sex, than anything Scott has ever heard from him before, it’s rubbed raw by the inimitable attachment of entrusting your desires to someone, and caring for theirs. It’s the weak beating of the heart cupped in your palm.
“Okay,” Scott hears Ilya whisper, and he hears him climb back into bed.
Scott thinks of Kip, thinks of pretty young boys with dark hair and sarcastic wit, and of thick foreign tongues and golden-boy charm. He lets his head hit the pillow and lets what little sleep he'll get take him over.
He'll do it all over again tomorrow.