Chapter Text
The first time Shane noticed the tattoos was in the shower at the CCM shoot. He wasn’t really looking, he had other priorities when he dared to glance at Rozanov’s naked body, but he noticed that his new apparent rival had more tattoos than most 18 year olds. There was the famous bear, obviously, but also a simple bic lighter on the inside of his right wrist and a number 1 on the crease where his thigh met his torso. Shane told himself he wasn’t curious about their meanings, Rozanov smoked and the 1 could mean anything, it wasn’t that deep. The one that grabbed his attention was the tiny maple leaf on the back of Rozanov’s calf. That was odd. Why on earth did this Russian man who was drafted to Boston have a symbol of Canada on his calf? But before he could examine it further the other priorities slammed back into his brain - the way water ran off the curve of Rozanov’s ass, the way Shane wanted to follow the rivulets of water with his tongue. As Rozanov turned, Shane was confronted with more than just water running off the most perfect ass he could imagine, let alone had seen in reality. He watched as Rozanov met his eye for a moment before glancing down at the proof of everything that Shane saw as wrong with himself. But Rozanov didn’t laugh, he didn’t hurl a slur at Shane like in his nightmares of locker rooms. Instead he fucking smirked. He smirked and then he reached down to his own hard cock and purposely stroked it. It was enough to wipe the thought of tattoos clean out of his mind.
Months later, lying in bed after Rozanov had just sucked his soul out of his body at the All-Stars game as Scott Hunter slept next door, Shane noticed a new tattoo. Two hockey sticks crossed as if they’re about to fight at a face-off. Not an unexpected tattoo for a centre like Rosanov, Shane has seen many others similar on his teammates and other players in the league. It’s a cliché, a little trite, and Shane was almost disappointed in the man he’s secretly obsessed with. Is he giving himself the ick? Maybe. Probably not, much as he might wish for that easy out. He just thought Rozanov might be a bit more interesting than that. But ink was scattered across Rozanov’s body in seemingly thoughtless and random ways, in ways that Shane would never do because he would always fear regret. Or having to explain them to someone one day and the fear of looking shallow or stupid. He shouldn’t be wondering about the tattoos now, shouldn’t be distracted by skin and ink. He should be worried about the fact that Scott Hunter might have just heard him whimper Rozanov’s name through the thin hotel room walls separating them. The fact that Rozanov had heard him do that. The fact that his dick had twitched so hard when Rozanov told him he wanted to fuck Shane. The fact that Rozanov would have to have been the most oblivious fucker in the league if he hadn’t felt that happen. The fact that his phone now contained Rozanov’s number saved under “Lily”. But most importantly the fact there was a plan to meet in two weeks in Montreal and the fact Shane was so excited about that meeting, about being fucked by Rozanov, that he was worried he might throw up.
So when Rozanov finally, finally fucks Shane over two years later Shane can’t be blamed for both having lost track of the ink that decorates his rival, or for the fact he wants to run his tongue over every black line. There are new tattoos now, lots of them, ones Shane can’t even see he’s sure. One is the king of hearts, just over Rozanov’s left knee. Then there’s the keyring in the crook of Rozanov’s right arm. It’s designed to look well worn, a cracked and faded leather key fob, but when Shane lies there in the half darkness of his apartment, warm in the afterglow, he thinks he can make out numbers in the folds of the leather. A one maybe? A two? Before he can make out the rest Rozanov is moving, pulling his warm arms from around Shane, heading to the shower and coming back fully dressed in his soft sweats with damp curls almost indecent at the base of his neck. All rational thoughts leave Shane’s mind, anything other than arousal completely surplus to requirements.
The next time he sees Rozanov they’re at the Olympics in Russia. It’s not friendly, not soft and safe and cocooned the way Montreal had been. His first Olympics, his first time in Russia, so soon after he had technically lost some sort of virginity (and his mind) to his Russian opponent. It was such a strange place, Sochi. A beach town where he shared frozen yoghurt with Hunter and Vaughn and then skated out onto the ice. Where he desperately wanted to be close to Ilya, but also wanted to stay far away, to protect the man he knew was at least some shade of queer from his own country, own family. It was a mass of contradictions wrapped up in a Team Canada uniform and rested on a cardboard bed in a room with black mold. His brain was fried and barely able to keep focused on Hockey, the love of his life, let alone anything else.
And yet, somehow, there was a man who despite everything managed to worm his way into the dead spaces and quiet moments between it all - the genuine fears he feels for Rozanov’s safety here just wouldn’t stay gone. It wasn’t helped by the fact that the cold way Rozanov talks to him when they do speak hurts in a way he can’t examine but which presses on him like a fresh bruise. So if he doesn’t really catch the four leaf clover on the crook of Rozanov’s right hand, just where his thumb meets his hand, it isn’t really Shane’s fault.
It was years, kisses, heartache, and so many mindblowing nights of sex later that Shame finally puts two and two together. The ironic part was he wasn’t even with Ilya when it clicked. They hadn’t talked since Shane walked out of his house after they’d said each others names, and walked right into Rose Landry.