Archive of Our Own

“Hollander! Shit, man. Your alarm!”

Shane’s eyes groggily crack open, and he tries not to grimace the feeling of crust in the inner corners of both. He hadn’t slept well last night- he rarely does before a game against Boston. It’s not so much that he worries about the score, though with his one and only major adversary on the ice, that’s always a concern. 

Still, his anticipation is not for the game itself, but what’s inevitably going to happen afterward. 

His secret nights with Rozanov are coveted, as much as he wishes they weren’t so important to him. No matter how much time they spend apart, whether it’s on the road or during the off season, it’s difficult to subsist on mere text messages. Though, they are incredibly frequent these days. 

Shane wonders sometimes if it’s as hard for Roz, this distance between them. Probably not. He probably keeps himself busy enough with whatever piece of ass he can find himself at some dingy night club. 

Shane never was one for casual hookups. Intimacy has never been easy for him with anyone besides Rozanov. 

“Yo!” 

A pillow hits him flat in the face, and Shane startles upright, seeing his teammate Hayden Pike sitting up in his own bed, gesturing angrily at Shane’s phone on the end table. Oh! Right. 

He scrambles to silence the alarm, rubbing his eyes as he climbs out of bed, groaning with exhaustion.

“We don’t even have morning practice,” Hayden complains, rolling over in bed. His hair is sleep-mussed, and his voice is groggy.

“I have a workout scheduled,” Shane explains, clearing his throat and guzzling water from the bottle by his bed.

“Scheduled with who?”

“Myself.”

“You’re so fucking weird, Shane.”

“Ah, fuck you.” Shane climbs out of bed, stretching his aching limbs as he heads for the bathroom. He sets a timer for ten minutes, and begins his morning rituals. He washes his face, moisturizes, brushes his teeth, combs his hair, deodorizes, and changes into his workout gear. He finishes just at the alarm, nodding to himself as he tucks his headphones into his ears.

“See you in an hour and forty minutes,” he says to Hayden, who is already halfway snoring again.

“So fucking specific,” Hayden mutters. He’s really not much of a morning person.

Shane is nearly an hour into his run, when he checks his watch and sees a text message light up his screen. He can’t help but smirk as he reads the words.

Lily: Ready to get your ass beat up tonight?

Shane chuckles at the typical cockiness, and types out a reply with his damp fingers.

You wish. This game is ours.

It takes only a moment for the response to come through.

Lily: I wasn’t talking about the game.

Shane’s already warm, sweat-damp face gets even hotter, cheeks flushing bright red. He ignores the text, sliding his phone into his pocket with a slightly manic chuckle. Rozanov is always so good at this stuff- the flirting and sexting and…being normal. Shane is envious of that, in some ways. It must be easier to move through the world when navigating the social aspects of it doesn’t feel like a fucking minefield all the time.

Exactly an hour and forty minutes later, Shane is back at the hotel room door, swiping his key card to enter and relieved to see Hayden has already finished up his own morning routine in the bathroom, so it’s open. He sets his phone on the counter by the sink and starts a timer for eight minutes. 

The shower is brief, perfunctory, and scalding hot. It feels good and cleansing on his sticky skin. As he washes he tries not to think too much about Rozanov’s salacious text. He’s good at flustering Shane. It excites him more than he’d ever admit out loud. 

“Wanna grab breakfast?” Hayden asks as Shane exits the bathroom, towel-drying his hair with another wrapped around his waist. 

Shane hesitates briefly. He’d checked the restaurant situation around the hotel out when they first landed, dismayed to find there was nothing that appeared to have options that catered to his macrobiotic diet. It’s hard on the road sometimes, so he has to make exceptions, but he’s feeling so good this morning, so in control, he doesn’t want to jeopardize that. He needs to be sharp for tonight, not just for the game.

“I’ll pass,” he says dismissively, hunting for some clothes in his open suitcase. Everything is neatly folded, arranged so the articles he’s looking for can be easily located.

Hayden watches him for a moment before asking, “dude, aren’t you hungry?”

“I am,” he admits, “but there’s nothing around here that I can eat. I’ll maybe go to the grocery store later and find something.”

At that, the other man pauses. “Shane, you know, you look great, man.”

Shane arches an eyebrow and wrinkles his nose at Hayden.

“Okay, don’t make it weird.” Hayden rolls his eyes. “I just meant, this diet you’re doing is intense. And you really don’t need to. I mean, the rest of us don’t. And I know you’re the best, but, don’t you ever get tired of being wound so tight?”

“Wound tight?” Shane prompts, confused.

“You time everything, and fold everything, and schedule everything and plan everything,” Hayden explains, “aren’t you kinda exhausted? Isn’t it a lot of work?”

Shane frowns. He supposes, sometimes, this intense type of control can be fatiguing to maintain during a busy lifestyle. But it’s the very thing that keeps him sane while being so busy, so there is no option that doesn’t include this rigidity. It’s how he’s always been. He thinks he gets it from his mom. She’s intense too.

“I like being this way,” he says, which is half true and half not. Sometimes being this way is terrible. People think it’s too much, they don't understand it, and sometimes the rules he creates for himself are so rigid he feels like he can’t breathe. And- god forbid he doesn’t follow them. He might lose his mind.

“Alright man, your prerogative. If you change your mind and want me to bring you back some pancakes, hit my line.” Hayden salutes him playfully and heads out, presumably to meet some other teammates for breakfast.

Shane exhales, fingers gliding over the fabric of the sweater he’s touching. It’s a nice one- soft, loose cotton. It feels good on his body, not itchy. Not too loose, not too tight. He wears it a lot. He actually owns four of this exact sweater, in different colors. He hopes no one has noticed.

Hayden is wrong, anyway. He’s not wound too tight. This is just who he is. And, sometimes he does let go. Hayden really has no idea how much he lets go. It’s just not with him. Or anyone else, really, besides Rozanov.

But, that’s no one’s business.

The Raiders are on fire tonight. 

They are giving Shane and the Metros a serious fucking run for their money. Shane is exhausted. It’s the third period, and it’s 3-2 Raiders. Shane needs to get his shit together, but their defense is fucking sharp tonight. 

Rozanov is in a good mood tonight, no surprise considering they’re winning. There’s only one minute left on the clock, and it’s pretty fucking obvious whose game it is.

Still, Shane Hollander was never one to back down from a challenge. They just need to rally.

It’s a whirlwind after the next face-off, and Shane has the puck. He doesn’t even think, he just moves. Hockey is all instinct to him, at this point, rarely is it anything but pure reflex. His body knows exactly what to do, his senses are alive, his skates are kicking back ice as he shreds across to the goal line. 

He’s almost there. He’s so fucking close. He dodges Marlow and is just about to take his shot when-

Oof.

A hard body connects with his, and he goes sliding into the boards. He doesn’t see it coming, too focused on getting out of Marlow’s way. Connors slams into him, and there’s no time to protect himself as he feels a white hot pain explode throughout his ribs.

Ahhhh fuck, that’s cracked, or at least severely bruised.

Shane takes a moment to wheeze in sharply, gripping the boards with as much of a grasp as he can through his gloves. He’s lost the puck but the play is still going, so hopefully Hayden or J.J. can pick up his slack. He’s too busy trying to breathe through the fire spreading across his abdomen. He’s surprised at how gasping his breaths are coming. 

“Hollander.”

He looks up to see Rozanov skating past nonchalantly. Then, the buzzer sounds. The game has been won. Boston fans are roaring in the stands at Hollander’s last minute defeat. 

“Good game,” Shane croaks, surprised at how pained his own voice comes out.

At that, Rozanov looks like he gets stiffer. He doesn’t even seem to notice his teammates celebrating behind him.

Before he can say anything, Hayden skates over, concern in his eyes behind his visor. “Hey, Shane, you okay?”

“All good,” Shane affirms, glancing away from Rozanov to offer Hayden a small smile. “Sorry, man, I fucking blew that.”

“Hey, happens to the best of us. C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

They skate back toward the bench, and Shane pretends he doesn’t feel Rozanov’s eyes on his back the entire time.

Shane knocks on the door politely, stepping back to wait with his hands crossed in front of him. His ribs are still burning with pain, but he tries to ignore that. He’s been waiting weeks to see Rozanov again, and the texts are not sustaining him like he wishes they would. Unfortunately, nothing really compares to their physical proximity. Rozanov’s hands on his body, his lips on his neck, his cock in his-

“Hollander.” Rozanov appears as the door opens, an arched eyebrow and a smirk waiting for him. Shane tries not to roll his eyes. 

“Hi,” he says back, meeting Rozanov’s eyes in the dark entryway.

“Ah, well, come inside then.” Rozanov steps aside to allow Shane’s entry, and he tries to manage his pained gait, hoping Rozanov doesn’t notice. He wants to be here, be near him, enjoy his presence through more than just messages. And the only way he can do that is if they fuck, so it’s not in his best interest to emphasize the bruised ribs. He can only hope they haven’t begun to show any discoloration in the few hours since the hit. 

“Did you eat dinner?” Rozanov asks, and Shane nearly does a double-take at the question, turning to look at him. The other man is dressed casually, wearing a pair of Adidas track pants and his house slides with a simple black t-shirt. He has his hands on his hips, watching Shane expectantly.

“Um, not yet.” Shane quirks an eyebrow. That is an unusual question. Normally, they don’t chat much before they get to the good stuff. Shane was going to find something for dinner after they hooked up- it’s a little easier this way, since he’s bottoming. Or at least, he hopes that’s what they’re doing tonight. It’s been too long and he wants to feel Rozanov inside him.

Rozanov nods thoughtfully, glancing down to Shane’s torso, still clad in his jacket. He flushes warmly at the feeling of Rozanov’s eyes fileting him- knowing the other man is picturing him naked.

Shane decides to help him out. He shrugs out of his jacket and folds it neatly, setting it on the kitchen island while Rozanov watches intently. He slides his shirt off over his head, doing the same with that, and then removes his pants. Once everything is folded in a neat pile on the island, he stands before Rozanov in just his sleek black briefs.

“Your turn,” he says playfully. He isn’t sure why Rozanov seems to be moving in slow motion tonight, but Shane has been waiting way too long for this. He needs the burly Russian to get into gear with the same urgency he usually fucks Shane. 

“Are you sure?” Rozanov asks, even as he slides off his own shirt and pulls the track pants down his muscular legs.

“Am I sure about what?” Shane asks, pleased when Rozanov moves toward him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist.

“You want to do this tonight?” Rozanov murmurs, leaning in to press his lips to Shane’s neck.

Oh, god.

“Y-yeah,” he manages, overcome by the sudden sensation of those lips on his flushed skin. “Don’t you?”

“Mm, I do, very much.” Rozanov doesn’t offer much else in the way of a reply, just presses his lips more firmly against Shane’s neck, kissing and sucking.

Shane should tell him to stop. He’s going to leave a bruise, and that would be really risky. He doesn’t want to have to explain away any hickeys to his teammates. He’s never been a very good liar.

He can already feel his cock growing hard at the movement of Rozanov’s mouth against his body. Then, their heads slant together and their lips fall into place, and Shane finds himself moaning clumsily into the kiss.

Fuck he missed this. He would never fucking admit it, but he missed this so much. It’s not even just the sex, though that is the best part, sure. It’s…this. This closeness. This intimacy. He’s never been able to really do this with anyone else. Somehow, in some weird way, Rozanov makes it feel so simple. 

Instead of being overstimulated, instead of feeling touched-out and annoyed, he relishes in the feeling of Rozanov’s hands against his skin.

“So hard for me already,” Rozanov mutters, voice muffled against Shane’s skin as he kisses greedily down his neck. His other hand snakes around Shane’s thigh, squeezing the firm muscle there hard. “Will you be a good boy for me tonight?”

Oh thank god, Rozanov is in one of those moods tonight. One of those moods where he wants to tease Shane a little, boss him around. Shane loves this- he wants to turn his brain off, feel nothing but pleasure and intimacy.

“Uh-huh,” Shane breathes, eyes closing as he tilts his head back, feeling it thunk against the wall behind him. “G-gonna be good. So good.”

“Mm, that is what I like to hear, moy sladkiy.” 

Shane has no idea what that means, but he loves it when Rozanov slips into his native tongue. The words sound so natural, so easy, and he can tell Rozanov is more comfortable saying things in Russian, never awkward or unsure around the edges the way he is with English. Shane really should try learning some phrases.

Rozanov presses his hands into Shane’s chest, pushing him back until his shoulders hit the wall, and he tries to hide his wince as the impact sends a shockwave of pain through his ribs. He’d almost forgotten how badly they’re hurting. His breath sharpens a bit, but he forces his lungs to expand again, relaxing his upper body.

Rozanov eyes him with those intense, sharp blue eyes for only a moment before he’s dropping to his knees in front of Shane, mouthing at the fabric of his briefs. Shane whines, his cock aching at the warmth of Rozanov’s tongue, teasing him through the layer of material separating them. It’s so unfair, but it makes him so fucking horny.

Then, he’s swept the briefs down and his lips are around Shane’s cock, and he’s gasping at the sudden feeling. Rozanov has never been anything less than a fucking expert at making Shane come, and giving head is a particular area where he fucking thrives.

“Put your leg up,” Rozanov says as he pulls off for a moment, tapping Shane’s thigh. It takes Shane a moment to compute that he wants him to throw his leg over Rozanov’s shoulder.

Shane hesitates, knowing that movement is going to twist his body in a way that will kill his ribs. He inhales sharply, and lifts his leg, torso twisting slightly, and he lets out a surprised yelp at the stab of pain that spirals through his ribs.

Rozanov looks at him with sudden alarm, gripping the thigh on his shoulder to keep Shane steady.

“Um, what the fuck?” he asks, glancing at Shane with confusion.

“It’s fine,” Shane pants, “keep going, please don’t stop.”

“Hollander-”

“Please!”

“Fuck.” Rozanov shakes his head. “You’re sexy when you beg for me.”

Then, he’s sucking Shane’s cock again, and the pain disappears. Well, it doesn’t disappear, but he’s definitely distracted from it. He lets out a few lewd moans, head thrown back against the wall. With his thigh up on Rozanov’s shoulder, the angle gives him easier access to go deeper, dragging his lips down to the very base of Shane’s dick until the tip hits the back of his throat. God, he’s fucking good.

“C-careful,” Shane gasps, “or I’m gonna come.”

“Fucking beautiful cock.” Rozanov pulls back and presses his lips greedily against Shane’s dripping slit. “So fucking wet, gorgeous.”

Shane whines. “Rozanov. Need you inside me.”

Rozanov smirks. “Alright, sweetheart, you get what you want tonight. So fucking easy for me.”

He moves before Shane can figure out a way to stop it. As he’s done many times before, Rozanov bends down and scoops Shane up in his arms, hiking his thighs up around his hips, allowing his hands to drape around Rozanov’s neck. 

This is something he does often, picking Shane up. Shane honestly loves it. It makes him feel weirdly revered, worshipped, like something delicate and lovely. 

Tonight, though, the movement is so swift and sharp that the pain bursts through his abdomen like razor wire. He lets out an honest-to-god scream, and in the next second, he’s back on his feet.

“Hollander?!” Rozanov exclaims, carefully dropping him back down.

Shane doubles over, gasping and wheezing, hands clutching his ribs for dear life.

“You’re fucking hurt,” Rozanov realizes, wide-eyed.

“J-just my r-ribs,” Shane rasps, feeling the blood drain from his face. Fuck that fucking hurt.

“You idiot, why would you not say something? I hurt you.” Rozanov steps back, hands hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with them.

“I’m fine,” Shane barks back, though his voice is still betraying him. It’s nothing more than a ragged croak, haunted with deeply seated pain. “They’re just a little bruised from tonight. It’s fine!”

“You screamed.” Rozanov takes another step back, as if somehow his presence alone is enough to irritate Shane’s injury. Not his ribs, but Shane’s definitely starting to get irritated.

“Just give me four seconds, fuck,” Shane gasps, “I’m alright.”

Rozanov’s face is harsh, cold, and Shane shrinks back from it involuntarily. He’s pissed him off, he’s ruined their night. Rozanov wanted to get laid, and Shane has fucked it up by fucking screaming at him when he tried to get closer. He’s going to ask him to leave next, and Shane doesn’t even know when they’ll see each other again.

“Why would you not tell me you were hurt? I would not have touched you, Hollander.” Rozanov demands, throwing his hands up with disbelief. Jesus, he’s really mad. He’s wasted time on this when he could be out finding someone else to fuck, probably. Shane hates that. 

There’s a sticky feeling in his chest, sour and angry that pulls at his lungs. Rejection, sharp and stinging. He doesn’t want Shane, of course he doesn’t, not like this. But Shane needs to be near him. They don’t play against each other for too long. He was hoping to at least soak up a few hours with him. 

“I’m really okay,” Shane says again, finally finding steadiness in his voice as he straightens up. The pain is still there, sharp and blistering, but he can mostly ignore it. “Just, let’s not move like that. I can still-”

“Are you joking at me?” Rozanov asks with disbelief lacing his tone.

Shane hesitates. “Did you mean “joking with me?””

“Um, did I?”

“I think so.”

“So, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Jesus Christ, are you joking? I’m not fucking you like this, Hollander!”

The rejection sharpens in his body, twisting, tugging, arguably more painful than the bruised ribs.

“I still want to,” he says, shamefully honest.

Rozanov shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It will hurt you more, so, no. Did you even get looked at? By medic?”

Shane’s brow furrows. “Do you get looked at every time you bruise something?”

“I… no.”

“No one does, man.”

Rozanov lifts a hand to rub at his forehead, as though the whole thing is giving him a bad headache. “You make me fucking crazy, Hollander.”

“In a good way?” Shane squeaks pathetically.

“Oh my god.”

“Rozanov, I’m really f-”

“Hollander, go sit on the fucking couch. Just, go. I will be there in a second.” Rozanov turns on his heel and heads in the direction of what Shane thinks is the kitchen.

Couch?

Okay, this is good. Maybe he’s coming up with a position they can do on the couch that won’t irritate Shane’s ribs more. Maybe he just wants Shane to suck him off. He can definitely do that. He’d like to get off too, but, he guesses if it’s this or nothing, he’ll take this. He won’t admit it but he misses Rozanov too much while they’re apart to not at least try to prolong the encounter as much as he can.

Shane hobbles over to the couch, lowering himself with his teeth gritted and intense hissing until finally he’s plopped down on the cushions. He realizes, as an afterthought, that he’s still naked, which is really embarrassing. 

After a few moments, Rozanov returns, fully dressed, with supplies in his arms. He’s got an ice pack and a heating pad, a tube of anti-inflammatory gel and a bottle of pills with a full glass of water. He sets a few things down and hands Shane his briefs and pants, which he quickly pulls over his legs. Shane is confused for half a second, before Rozanov hands him the pills and water.

“Will help with swelling,” he says, gesturing to Shane’s torso. “Is your ribs?”

Shane nods.

“Take four.”

Obligingly, Shane takes four pills with a sip of water.

Rozanov arches an eyebrow. “You did not even read the bottle. Do you always just take pills people give you?”

I trust you, Shane thinks.

“Are you trying to poison me?” he asks.

“No.”

“Then no harm done.”

“Whatever. Hold still now.” Rozanov leans in, squeezing some gel into the palm of his hand. Then, moving ever-so-carefully, he slowly begins to spread the salve on Shane’s ribs.

“Ahhh,” he grits out through his teeth, unable to hold it back. 

“I know,” Rozanov murmurs, surprisingly tender, “just one second. Is almost over.”

It takes a few more moments before Rozanov pulls back and wipes his hand on a paper towel from the end table. Then, he passes Shane the ice pack. 

“I-thank you,” Shane stumbles out, perplexed. 

Rozanov nods, getting to his feet with a huff. “You should eat dinner. Does it hurt too much to eat?”

“Kinda,” Shane says, “I’ll grab something on my way back to the hotel, though.”

“I have leftovers,” Rozanov says, gesturing to the kitchen. “Pizza.”

Shane is confused. They don’t usually do these types of things. There had been one time, after they’d fucked, Rozanov put on a movie in bed and they watched it together while still in their post coital haze. But it was a shitty remake, neither of them were too invested and they ended up sucking each other off again by the time the credits rolled by. That was about as domestic as they got.

This? Taking care of his bruised ribs? Not asking him to immediately leave so he could go find some replacement hole? Offering him some leftovers? Shane is flabbergasted.

“I haven’t had pizza in over a year,” Shane says stupidly.

It’s Rozanov’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“I’m on a macrobiotic diet,” Shane says.

“A-” Rozanov blinks. “I do not know this word. Macro- what?”

“It’s a special diet. I can’t eat pizza.”

“You are allergic to pizza?”

“No, I just can’t eat it.”

Rozanov just stares at him expectantly.

Shane sighs. “There are rules to the diet. It’s low fat, high fiber-”

“Rules? To your food? Says who?”

“The diet says. There’s a whole cookbook with-”

“You let a bunch of words tell you what to do?” Rozanov demands. “Why are you not in charge?”

Shane hesitates. He doesn’t really have an answer to that one.

“You are not allergic to pizza?” Rozanov checks.

“No, Rozanov, no one’s allergic to pizza.”

“I mean, probably some people are.”

“I don’t think- I guess you could be gluten free. Or allergic to dairy. Or tomatoes. So, okay, maybe-”

“Hollander, I’ll be right back. Jesus.” Rozanov brushes past, handing him the TV remote as he heads into the kitchen. 

Shane holds the ice pack against his ribs, staring at the untouched TV remote while he listens to the quiet sounds in the adjacent kitchen. The microwave beeps, and the fridge door opens and closes, and plates clink together.

Then, Rozanov appears again, two plates in his hands. He sets them both down on the coffee table, alongside a Ginger Ale and a Coke can.

“Eat food,” Rozanov says, “will help. You’ve looked hungry all night.”

Hungry for you, Shane thinks pathetically.

“I’m not supposed to eat pizza,” he says again, hollow. 

“Is fine,” Rozanov says dismissively, picking up his own plate, “you have permission to eat pizza. Eat it.”

It’s so dumb. Rozanov doesn’t have the authority to tell Shane he can break his diet. Still, there’s something inside Shane that itches to obey his commands. To turn off his brain, with all its rules and malfunctions and rigid tightropes, and just do whatever Rozanov says.

“Alright,” he agrees mildly. The pizza is leftover, microwaved downtown Boston pizza. It’s…fine. Objectively, it’s probably not very good.

But Shane hasn’t had pizza in so fucking long.

“Wow, fuck,” he says around a bite of piping hot cheese and sauce. “This is fucking amazing.”

“Mm, da, is good pizza.” Rozanov nods, picking up the remote and flicking on the television to some old movie Shane doesn’t recognize. They sit in relative silence, eating their pizza while the movie plays on. There’s a young woman with purple dangling earplugs in, speaking around her apartment door to a strapping blonde gentleman. 

After their plates have been cleared, Rozanov turns to Shane, finishing up the last few sips of his Ginger Ale. He’s pleasantly surprised Rozanov had some on hand, it’s his favorite drink.

“How are your ribs?” he asks.

Shane blinks. “They feel better, really. We can- if you want to-”

“Stop.” Rozanov shakes his head, flattening his hands in front of him in a pleading gesture. “Hollander, I am not going to fuck you while you are in pain. I am not into that. Sorry.”

Shane’s brows furrow. “I’m not into that either.”

“No? Then why do you keep trying to get me to do damage to you?”

Because I don’t want to leave. I want to be near you. However I can be.

“I should probably go, then,” he says quietly, removing the ice pack from his aching ribs.

“Oh.” Rozanov nods thoughtfully. “Yes, probably.”

Neither of them move for a moment, their eyes catching across the brief distance between them. 

“We can finish the movie,” Rozanov says, before Shane can reply.

“Okay,” Shane agrees.

It goes quiet then, once more. Rozanov tucks his feet up under himself on the sofa, arms spread over the back. It’s a surprisingly domestic image of him, relaxing on his couch like this, full from dinner and watching a movie. Or, half-watching if the way his eyes keep darting to Shane is any indication.

Shane tries not to let his mind race while they sit there, knees touching, proximity so close it burns his skin. It’s confusing, doing this and nothing else. But, he figures, maybe Rozanov just wants some company tonight. Maybe he isn’t in the mood to go out and go clubbing. He’ll probably get himself off after Shane leaves, no problem. It’s not about Shane. Rozanov just wants a warm body beside him while he unwinds. 

The credits have just started to roll on an objectively romantic film, when Shane turns to him and quietly asks, “do you want me to get you off?”

Rozanov looks at him like he’s got three heads. “Jesus, Hollander, you are a pervert.”

His face flushes red. “I’m not! I just figured- since you helped me out and stuff, something for your trouble, at least?”

Rozanov’s nose wrinkles, and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “I- no. I ate too much. Not in the mood. But, nice offer.”

“Oh, okay.” Shane nods back. Then, with a sigh, he moves to stand. 

Rozanov is at his side the next instant, one arm braced around his waist to help guide him into a standing position. He can tell his ribs are already starting to look bruised, purple and ugly, and the pain is definitely throbbing. He’s relieved for the assistance, though surprised by it.

Tonight has been really weird.

“How are you getting back?” Rozanov asks as he hands Shane his discarded shirt from the floor in the entryway.

“I ordered a car,” Shane tells him.

Rozanov nods, hands on his lips, running his teeth over his lower lip.

They both hesitate, looking at one another unsurely.

“I’ll see you next time?” Shane asks, more hope in his voice than he’d like to be showing.

Rozanov nods once at him. “Yes, that will work.”

Quiet again. The air feels tense and thick in ways he can’t explain.

“You should see doctor, for your ribs,” Rozanov adds, “they look pretty bad, Hollander.”

Shane presses his fingers lightly over the space on his ribs that’s aching, and winces. “I guess I should.”

“And, don’t lie to me again.” Rozanov steps closer this time, fingertips reaching up to brush along the freckles on Shane’s cheek. “I did not like to touch and hear you scream, Hollander. At least not that kind of scream.”

Shane’s face burns with a flush. “I-sorry.”

“Is okay. Get better soon so I can fuck you into the mattress properly.” Rozanov leans in and presses his lips against Shane’s in a quick, blunt kiss.

Shane lingers, humiliatingly, eyes closing against the feeling.

“You could still-” he tries once more, but Rozanov’s face is flat and unrelenting.

“Just go see a doctor,” he says with an eye roll. “There is next time. Relax.”

Next time. There’s going to be a next time. 

“Good luck against The Admirals next week,” Shane says, unsure of what else to say.

Rozanov snorts. “Do not need luck. Their captain is a hundred years old. Will be easy win.”

Shane snorts. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Da, is why you like me.” Rozanov smirks and presses another quick kiss to Shane’s lips.

His phone buzzes, alerting him that his car is waiting outside.

“Well…” Shane shifts awkwardly on his feet, glancing at the door. “Goodbye.”

“Til next time, Hollander.”

Shane nods, and heads for the door, his gait a bit stiff from the pain. He pulls it open, and is about to step out on to the front porch, when he feels a hand brush his bicep. He turns to see Rozanov standing there, his expression surprisingly…open.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“You won’t get better if you don’t eat good food,” Rozanov says haltingly, like he’s doubting the words even as he says them. “Do not let cookbook tell you what to do, da?”

Shane swallows the lump in his throat. He wishes he could explain to Rozanov that the control is the only thing that keeps him from spiraling. That letting the cookbook tell him what to do is the only substitute he has for letting Rozanov tell him what to do. Even though he’d much prefer the latter, every single time.

But he can’t say all of that. So he just nods, and smiles briefly.

“Yeah, alright Rozanov. Thanks for the pizza.”

“Sure. See you next time.”

“See you next time.”

The door closes behind him, and Rozanov is gone.

Shane shuffles over to the car, mind reeling with this bizarre evening full of weird interactions that he can’t make sense of. He sits in the backseat, one hand cradling his ribs, the other twisting his hair between his fingers to try and keep his emotions steady. 

He watches the green pass by outside the window, and thinks about Rozanov’s dark curly hair, and his big shiny eyes, and his terrible microwaved pizza.

And, despite the chaos in his brain, the pain in his chest, and the utter agony that is yearning for this stupid fucking Russian man that’s wormed his way into Shane’s life-

He finds himself smiling.