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Shane's scars have never been an issue before. Well, they have, though not necessarily in this exact context. Not with a man touching him and exploring him like this—Rozanov's hands are splayed across Shane's thighs, his mouth suckling at his spent cock.
"Rozy, 'ts too much," he rasps, hands tapping at Rozanov's shoulders.
"Okay," he replies.
He stops the ministrations with his tongue, but doesn't emerge from between Shane's thighs. Instead, he focuses his attention onto the skin there. Rozanov carefully inspects it, traces the scar tissue with the tips of his fingers.
"You cut yourself," he says simply, doesn't even say it to Shane, eyes still transfixed onto the skin.
Shane splutters, face instantly reddening. Rozanov hasn't mentioned them, not when they were in the shower together that first time. Not when he came into Rozanov's mouth that first time, either. Why now?
"No judge," Rozanov continues. He finally looks up at Shane and certainly sees the embarrassment on his cheeks. "Just notice it before. Don't be embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrased."
He is. Embarrassed. Of course Shane is embarrased, guilty and shameful, too. Permanent marks on his body depict a version of himself he has tried his best to bury.
Rozanov detaches himself from Shane's lower body and now he's cold. Vulnerable and bare, his cock soft against his thigh, there isn't even the cloud of arousal to keep himself covered and safe. Rozanov collects the thick hotel comforter from the floor and covers them both. Shane is silent, but accepts the gesture of closeness and warmth. This isn't part of their situation. Not really. But it feels nice like this, anyway.
"Hollander."
"Rozanov," Shane parrots.
"These are old," Rozanov says. They're tucked in, but his hands still linger on the tender flesh of his scarred thighs. "Do not do it any more?"
"No," he replies quickly. His body is tense, stiff and ultimately—and unfortunately—still trying to melt into Rozanov's kind touches. "Not for a long time. Just stupid kid stuff."
He nods. "I did many stupid thing in childhood. I did not hurt myself. It… it is not stupid, Hollander. Maybe weird, or, er– odd?"
"Okay, fuck you," Shane says.
"No, no. No judge, remember?"
"Feels like judge. Stop… just stop touching them, okay?"
Rozanov agrees silently, his warm fingertips stop trailing the scars and retreat to his own chest. On their backs now, skin not touching, Shane focuses his attention onto the ceiling above him. The hotel room is silent, stuffy and smelling of sex and sweat. He should get up, clap his hands together and say goodnight. Shane doesn't make any movement to stand, stays here in the bed with Rozanov, his scars and the ceiling.
"I was. I don't know… overwhelmed a lot as a kid," he admits into the silent, tense air. "Anxious. It—I don't know, I guess I saw in a TV show or something that doing that helped, uh, peoples racing thoughts. So I did it. Really just… stupid kid stuff, Rozanov."
"How old?"
Shane thinks it through for a moment. There's years of feelings or of hard times that he has been able to block out. It's his best asset, really. Focus on hockey, on winning, on being the best and everything else he can let fall to the wayside. But the first time he cut himself, he unfortunately remembers.
"Thirteen," he croaks. "I was thirteen. The first time. I lost a game and my best friend on the team wouldn't talk to me."
"Fuck him."
Shane can't hold back his smile. The softness of Rozanov to immediately jump to thirteen year old Shane's defense. It's sweet. He hates how sweet it is.
"Well. Yeah, I mean, he was just a pissed teenage boy. I was too, I guess I just…" he shrugs, eyes still up to the ceiling. He can feels Rozanov's gaze on him. "Took it out on myself instead? He, uh. He wouldn't even look at me. Just said 'way to go, Hollz,' and got into his moms fucking minivan."
"Did you lose game? From something you did?"
"Yeah, shitty pass, I guess. I don't really remember the game, to be honest. I just remember thinking that…"
"What?" he urges.
Why Shane is willingly baring a bit of his soul to Ilya Rozanov right now he isn't sure of, but once the memory came to him, it seems impossible for him to stop it.
"I remember thinking that everyone hated me," he continues. "That my teammates and my coaches and my parents thought I was… useless, or something dramatic like that. After the game, I was sort of crying in the shower, hot water turned all the way up. The burn, it felt good. Made my mind… go somewhere else?"
Shane's breath hitches remembering that awful self-hating ache. The sort of ache that has never fully left him. He still has those kinds of days—days where after a bad game he brandishes himself in hot water as some sort of punishment, or more like a way to tether himself back into his body. Make himself feel it.
"But it wasn't enough, I guess. Popped the blade out of my moms razor and did some pathetic cuts to my legs. Barely scratched, but there was blood and a… burn that helped. I felt my pulse in my thigh and my head was less loud. Enough to make the image of my stupid friends face not be the only thing I could see, at least."
Shane releases a shaky breath and prepares himself to look at Rozanov, who has been content to let Shane spill some of his thoughts. He is turned onto his side now, head pillowed by his hands, with wide shiny eyes.
"Bad," he finally says. Shane chuckles at the simplicity of the statement. "I'm glad you don't do anymore."
Rozanov's hands touch him once again, over his chest and cups his pec, brushes his pinky over his nipple. His hand follows upwards to his collarbone, his neck, his cheek. Shane turns his head then, takes a look at the wet, pinkness of Rozanov's lips and can't but help himself to a kiss. Shane breathes into his mouth, tastes himself on Rozanov's lips and whimpers.
"Cannot have your perfect, sexy skin getting all messy for me," he laughs. Kisses his cheek, his nose. "You are strong. Some people… cannot stop those thoughts. Is very good you don't do anymore."
Shane swallows and nods quickly. He coughs like somethings stuck in his throat, but all he's really wanting is to fill the silence. He doesn't want to leave, but they both have early flights tomorrow. And just because Ilya knows more about him now than anyone else in the world, they still aren't anything but a fuck on the road.
After an abysmal and long flight, Shane floats through his apartment and takes the hottest shower he can bear.