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“See you next season :)” No. “See you next season.” Fuck. “We didn’t even kiss.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shane hits his head on the elevator wall. He decides to erase this text, too, and just send nothing. Just leaving whatever he needs to say hanging there, in that Vegas hotel elevator. A moment later, he draws a deep breath. Panics. And presses “Send”.
FUCK. Shane regrets it immediately, of course. HOLY SHIT, what the fuck he’s just done. What. The actual. Fuck. Are you. Doing. Hollander.
Shane waits for an answer a couple of moments, completely terrified, his gaze fixated on his phone. Nothing. Fuck.
Suddenly, Shane finds himself suffocating in the elevator, panic attack swiftly building inside him. He needs to leave, he needs to find some air, he needs to stop feeling like a caged animal. Rooftop. This is a fancy hotel. There has to be a rooftop, right? He presses ROOF with a shaking hand and rides back up—one floor higher than before. Fucking elevator moves too slowly. He will surely die right here.
***
An eternity later, he’s finally on the rooftop. He breathes, forcing air in and out like it’s a job. Fuckfuckfuck.
He spends another twenty minutes there, slowly getting his senses back. Then, he hears his phone vibrating.
Lily: Where are you?
Shane feels panic building up again.
Lily: Hollander where the fuck are you right now?
Shane needs to breathe. He needs to throw out his damn phone. He needs to forget how to text and never do it again. Never. He opens the camera app, shoots a quick blurry photo of the rooftop view, and sends it to “Lily”. Holy. Fucking. Fuck.
A few minutes later, Shane hears the rooftop door open. He slowly turns to face Rozanov. He looks disheveled, his hair a mess, his shirt buttoned crookedly. He seems almost… anxious? Shane has never seen him like this.
Rozanov pauses at the door briefly, his eyes fixating on Shane for a moment, then quickly covers the distance between them. Shane wants to ask, “What do you want from me?” but never gets a chance, as Rozanov crushes his mouth to Shane’s. Desperate, almost painful kiss. For a quick moment, Shane finds himself back in time three years, on another Las Vegas rooftop. But this time he doesn’t care enough to protest. Instead, he pulls Rozanov closer, afraid to break contact even for a quick second.
Minutes—or maybe hours—pass. Shane can’t really tell. Eventually, they break the kiss, trying to catch their breaths, foreheads leaning against each other. Rozanov whispers, “Let’s go.” Shane wants to ask where but he’s not sure it even matters anymore. Rozanov quickly intertwines their fingers and pulls Shane after him.
They are lucky enough to not get caught during the three minutes it takes to get downstairs from the rooftop to Rozanov’s penthouse. But somehow, Shane thinks that if they did, perhaps Rozanov wouldn’t care either, for the first time in four years. Shane chuckles internally at the thought. Must be the vodka talking. He’s not so good with alcohol, after all.
Now, they are back at Rozanov’s hotel penthouse. Everything looks exactly like it did half an hour ago, when Shane left. Only difference is, now Shane can remember how to breathe again.
Once they are inside, Rozanov crowds Shane into the wall and kisses him again. This time, it’s less desperate and almost… tender? Shane shrugs this thought off. He will think about it later, when he’s alone. At his own hotel suite, or later on the plane back to Montreal. Or maybe never. He hasn’t decided yet.
Finally, Rozanov pulls back a little. “Come,” he says quietly, and leads Shane to the bedroom. Shane obeys without hesitation, though he finds himself not hungry for Rozanov… No. Not hungry for sex with Rozanov. This he will have to process later, too.
In the bedroom, Rozanov pauses beside the bed. Rozanov’s empty glass and a cigarette butt on one bedside table, and the second glass—his own—on another. Shane expects Rozanov to start tearing their clothes off immediately, or to command Shane to do it. But he just gently pushes Shane on the bed, clothes on. Rozanov leans over Shane on his elbows, looking at him with a sudden hint of sadness in his hazel eyes. Shane looks away and distractedly notices crooked buttons on Rozanov’s shirt. He feels the desperate urge to fix Rozanov’s shirt, and before he has a chance to think about it some more, he just reaches his hands and does it. Rozanov’s breath catches for a second, until Shane pulls his hands away. Shane waits for him to comment, to say something obnoxious about Shane being desperately boring. But Rozanov doesn’t say a word. Perhaps he’s afraid to break this silence between them, just as Shane is? Shane’s never seen Rozanov afraid. Certainly not with Shane in his bed.
Finally, Rozanov catches Shane’s mouth again. Then he kisses Shane’s jaw. His throat. He opens a collar of Shane’s shirt and peppers light kisses on Shane’s collarbone. Rozanov leaves a trail of kisses lower and lower on Shane’s body, right through Shane’s clothes. When he reaches Shane’s crotch, Shane expects him to open the fly of his dress pants, but Rozanov surprises him yet again, only pressing one light kiss there. He doesn’t touch Shane’s dick, continuing to kiss his thigh instead. Somehow, each light kiss burns through the fabric, harder than it has ever done on bare skin. Shane closes his eyes.
He doesn’t know how much time passes here, while Rozanov slowly peppers each centimeter of Shane’s body with kisses. Sometimes, Shane hears him murmuring something very quietly, a barely audible whisper. Suddenly, Rozanov breaks the contact, looking at Shane intently. “When do you fly out?” he asks. For a second, Shane struggles to clear a fog in his head. Then he remembers. “8:35 am.” Rozanov lifts Shane’s hand, checking his watch. “3:41,” he sighs. “When do you have to leave?” Never, Shane wants to say. I can stay here, with you, for the whole fucking summer. And maybe another two years after that. Out loud, he replies: “The car leaves at 4:30.” He processes a bit, then continues. “And I need half an hour to pack.” Rozanov sighs again. “Can you stay for ten more minutes?” he asks. “Fifteen,” Shane agrees. Rozanov drops his head onto Shane's stomach, hiding his smile.
***
Twenty-two minutes later, Shane is leaning against the door of Rozanov’s penthouse. This time around, he’s not alone, Rozanov standing beside him, running his fingers over Shane’s palm. Somehow, it makes it harder to leave than a few hours ago. Rozanov shakes his head: “You should go, probably…” He squeezes Shane’s hand, then takes one step back from him. Shane nods. “So, I’m off. Again.” Rozanov chuckles softly. “Goodbye, Hollander. Again.”
***
Inside the elevator, Shane smiles at his phone. “See you next season.” Sent. He has only twenty minutes to pack his clothes, barely enough to do it in his usual neat (and slightly obsessive) manner. But for the hundredth time this night, Shane really doesn’t care at all.