Chapter Text
There’s an itch right under Shane’s collar.
He doesn’t know if it’s the tag of the white shirt he’d bought just last week after Rose told him it'd look good on him chafing against his neck or if it’s the fruity drink that Rose swore was good, and it was but the taste betrayed the amount of alcohol in it. It could also be the poppers they'd done in the booth in the back on Miles’ insistence, or the way Rose's hand slides up his shirt, but it makes his shoulders rise up to his ears and a warm sense of discomfortsettles just underneath his skin. It festers and grows larger and larger the longer they stay underneath the buzz of the club lights until Shane is moments from crawling out of his skin. He needs to snap out of it – a rhythm disruption like an axe sinking into bark and splintering wood.
It threatens to swallow him when he spots one of the Raiders – Marleau, he thinks, a Montreal boy playing for Boston, and isn't that funny – and he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.
Pushing his way through the crowd, he bumps into several people, the body heat from contact with each sweaty body making his skin prickle each time.
Shane loves Rozanov’s hair. His curls are soft and just the right length for Shane to thread his fingers in and pull, and Rozanov seems to enjoy it just as much, so it's something Shane has never held back from indulging in. It's one of his favourite sights – Rozanov, mouth on Shane, with Shane's fingers in his hair.
So when he sees the back of his head a few paces away, he knows for sure. Even if he hadn't seen Marleau before, he would know. It's unfortunate, really, that that head's attached to a mouth and that mouth is currently attached to a woman.
She's objectively beautiful, in her skimpy black dress and perfect, perfect makeup. She's making eyes at Rozanov right before he kisses her, deep and filthy. Shane stays rooted to the spot as he watches Rozanov's jaw flex in the way it does when he's dipping his tongue in Shane's mouth. He watches, having to consciously tighten his grip around the glass he's holding so it doesn't slip from his hand.
He knows he shouldn't be looking, that he should turn around and go back to Rose and Miles waiting for him, but he catches Rozanov’s eye, then. His mouth trails over her neck, maintaining eye contact with Shane – he was meant to see. It makes him feel vaguely nauseous in a way he can't blame on his drinks. He all but sprints to the nearby bathroom to splash water on the uncomfortable flush of his cheeks. He grips the edges of the sink, water dripping off his face and trickling down his neck in a way that would usually make his skin crawl but today the nothingness that greets him when he closes his eyes is a comfort, and slowly, he calms down, breaths falling out of him deep and heavy.
The door swings open and clicks shut. When he lifts his head again, Rozanov is standing by the hand dryer. It’s an oddly familiar scene, mirroring their meeting in the hotel bathroom at an awards show in Vegas years ago.
The rush of blood returns, this time in anger, quick and red hot and no easier to manage, not with how much of it he's let fester. There are many things he wants to say, sitting thick and syrupy at the base of his tongue and he has to bite them back, holding them hostage behind his teeth. He can see the way Rozanov looks at him now and knows he could coax them out with his tongue if he wanted to, and Shane wouldn't be able to stop him. They'd create a mess so wet and slick and messy and maybe it'd be bad enough that they wouldn't be able to clean it up. Maybe someone would walk in and see them, fragmented and caustic in this club bathroom. Instead, he exhales through his teeth and spits out what he can bear to.
“What do you want,” is all he manages in the end.
Rozanov pauses for a beat, mouth stretching in a smirk. “I want you to suck my dick,” he tells him, and just like last time, it doesn't sound like a request.
It's not a request, but the warm-hot static under Shane's skin spills over and he retaliates a “you suck my dick!” It makes him feel just as sick as the first time he said it.
They stare at each other, neither saying anything. For a moment, Shane thinks Rozanov’s going to up him with something even more crass. Or leave.
Footsteps ring loud in the bathroom, the only sound audible other than Shane's heavy breathing as Rozanov crosses the distance from where he's leaning to Shane. He towers over him; despite them being nearly the same size, Shane angles his head up slightly. It's not their usual, with Shane watching Rozanov from much lower, brows furrowed and face twisted in pleasure, but the way Rozanov looks at him now, something arrogant and possessive and angry makes his blood heat. He squares his shoulders, taut like a string instrument tuned too tight and Rozanov’s running his fingers over it, testing the give. The buzz hasn't faded one bit, his mind louder than ever, and the longer Shane looks, the more he wants to linger, but he can't, not when the door's still unlocked, so he brings himself to look away.
There's a hand on his face then, large and warm and calloused. It spans his jaw and squeezes tightly, indenting his cheeks as Rozanov wrenches his face back towards him, forcing Shane to look back at him. It's the first time he's touched him in months. He wasn't always gentle and that's how Shane liked it – Rozanov’s rough hands undoing him when they slotted together and pressed his thumbs onto Shane’s skin, enough to blanch but not enough to bruise, but last time he'd touched him like something precious, looked at him with something possessive at the end as they breathed hot into each other's mouths, right before he looked at him with something heartbreaking. Now, Rozanov looks at Shane with heat in his eyes and cruel amusement on his face. His other hand traces the curve of Shane's waist, leaning forward to mouth at his throat.
“Did she leave this on you?” He murmurs.
The hickey, Shane remembers absently, that Rose left that his teammates had chirped him for in all the time it took to fade.
“Who else,” Shane tells him.
Rozanov doesn't answer him, just mouths at the spot, sucking harder and harder until Shane’s panting, pushing at him with his palms and then he finally lets go. He doesn’t let up, though, and bites at his earlobe, hard, much like he did the girl outside. The sharp sting of his canines startles a gasp out of Shane before he sucks on it. It’s dirty, it’s painful, and it’s weird, and by all means he shouldn’t like it, but Shane wants to ask him to do it again.
“You know, if you want me to suck your dick in club bathroom, you will have to ask nicer than that,” he whispers, voice low and steady.
“Please,” he exhales softly. It leaves him immediately, almost involuntarily, like he can’t help but ask Rozanov for what he wants.
“Please, what?”
Shane’s cheeks warm further, shame flushing him red to his neck. He snaps, “You’re really going to make me say it –”
Rozanov shrugs. “Or I can go.” He gestures towards the door. “Many people waiting for me outside.”
No–
And Shane has his own people – Rose is waiting outside for him. He'd told her he was just going to use the bathroom, and he's far crossed the appropriate time, even with the time he'd spent staring at Rozanov across the dance floor. Rose, sweet Rose, who could come looking for Shane at any moment and find him like this, cheeks blotchy and eyes dazed and half hard in his pants.
He doesn’t want that. Shane doesn’t want him to go when it’s the first time he’s been in reach after so long. He doesn't want to go back to her.
“No,” he tells him. The please houses itself deep in his throat.
“No, what? Use your words.”
Shane swallows like it could hold back the enormity of everything he wants to say. It doesn't, comes spilling out like magma out of an eruption anyway. “No, don't go back out. To her. I'll–” He shakes his head. “Don't. Please.”
“When you are going to go back to Rose Landry,” Rozanov speaks slowly, “you think you can ask me not to go to some girl in club?”
Shane flushes. Of course he can't. That doesn't stop him from wanting. It's enough for a little push of courage. “I wont,” he says. “I'll come, tonight.”
It's risky; so, so risky with Rose and Miles and Rozanov’s teammate there today, but Shane is painfully hard in his pants and they know how to be careful after all these years.
Rozanov’s quiet for a moment. He pulls back a step, arms crossed when Shane glances at him. He’s chewing on the inside of his lip, just at the corner of his mouth. Shane's seen his lip bitten raw and split and bleeding, and it makes him want to suck his lip into his mouth and bite down.
“No, you won't,” he smirks. The mean tone of his voice as he repeats himself alleviates some of the acid curling in his gut. “Like I said, you will have to ask nicer than that.”
“Oh, fuck you, how much nicer do you want –”
“Get on your knees.”
It's barely a command, but Shane will be surprised if his knees aren't purpling in the morning with how fast he drops down. He leans his head forward, face nuzzling into the heat of Rozanov’s crotch and he sighs at the familiar feeling of fingers in his hair. It leaves for a moment when Rozanov unbuckles his belt, undoes his button deftly before returning. He taps Shane on the shoulder once, murmuring an on my shoes, before shuffling forward. Shane looks at him questioningly, before Rozanov maneuvers him so his knees rest on his feet. He takes a wide stance, too, so Shane is pressing against his own zipper uncomfortably before he pulls it down to free himself and relieve some of the pressure.
Shane doesn't waste any time, taking the head in his mouth, moaning lightly at the taste, so similar to what he remembers, only much sweatier and muskier. He hollows his cheeks, sucking lightly on the tip before releasing him and pressing a little kiss to the side of the head. Rozanov cradles Shane’s head in his hands, brushing his hair away from his temples with his thumbs while Shane presses his lips to the tip of his cock.
His hands fist in the back of Rozanov’s pants as he pushes himself closer to Rozanov, swallowing him down before looking up again. Shane’s tongue lies flat along his shaft, lips stretched and slick, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth. Shane drops one hand from where he's gripping his hips and lowers it to his own cock – he's so hard it almost hurts, leaking at the tip already.
“No,” Rozanov tells him. Arousal doesn't fade from his eyes but they're flint-hard when he pulls Shane's hand back up. “I told you, you're not coming tonight.”
Shane moans something wet and pathetic that could have been a please.
“You won't, be good for me,” Rozanov mutters as Shane takes him further into his mouth, breathing steadily through his nose. He starts bobbing his head, starting up a rhythm that feels good and doesn’t make him gag at first, before sucking in a deep breath in through his nose before he presses further down, until the head of Rozanov’s cock presses into his throat.
Rozanov chokes on a moan and holds him there for a moment, breathing deeply, until Shane gags, tears spilling over his waterline. Rozanov doesn’t let up, however, stilling his hips but holding him by the jaw and keeping him pressed there. “You can take it,” he says as Shane chokes around a whine. He slides his right hand downwards, skimming the rim of his eyes, past his cheeks, until his thumb catches onto the corner of Shane’s lips, pressing at the place where it’s stretched around his cock.
When Shane relaxes into it, lets Rozanov slip in the tiniest bit deeper and looks back up at him, Rozanov is looking at him with a near-feral look on his face, pupils blown wide. “Look at you,” he breathes. “Made for this.”
He watches Rozanov shudder and sink his teeth into his bottom lip before thrusting slowly. It’s a dizzying sight, the furrow in his brow as he tries to go slowly at first. Shane's hips are pressed up against Rozanov’s shin, like this, and he wants to move, to grind forward and relieve himself a little, but he forces himself to stay still and let Rozanov take what he wants. And he does, thrusting faster into his mouth, and the way the slick sounds are louder than the ones spilling from his own mouth is absolutely obscene.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov’s hands tighten in his hair and he groans lowly, face pinched in the way it does when he's close. Shane's hips jerk at that, jackknifing against Rozanov’s shin and whimpers, tears spilling out of his eyes as he comes hot and sudden over the bottoms of Rozanov’s pants. His mouth tightens around Rozanov and the edge of teeth makes Rozanov follow him moments later, panting.
Shane swallows around him as he pulls out slowly, coughing once and gasping for breath. He's still bracing himself on Rozanov’s hips as he steps back and oh, his shoes are a mess, too. He shudders, wiping at his cheeks when he hears Rozanov murmur a “Hollander.”
He doesn’t want to. He’s stuck between looking at Rozanov and confronting what they’ve just done or to look at the mess he’s made of himself, so he looks down and away, cheeks still wet with tears but they warm with embarrassment.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says more firmly. “Look at me.”
Shane’s still looking down but he feels a ghost touch on his cheek; Rozanov hovers the back of his hand just above his skin, a hair's breadth away from brushing it, soft and tender. He knows he's messed up, guilt churning acrid in his gut. He feels guilty about a lot of things. What they're doing here isn't fair to Rozanov. It's not fair to himself, it's not even fair to the janitor who undoubtedly will be disgusted cleaning their mess at the end of the night. It's not even fair to Rose, sweet, sweet Rose. He’s left her alone for so long, though it’s okay because she’s not really alone, with all her friends there. He's on his knees on the dirty bathroom floor of a club with his girlfriend dancing outside, Rozanov’s pants and shoes covered in cum, and anyone could walk in at any minute, but everything is okay, because it doesn't mean anything at all.
Unfortunately, he's still messed up. He wonders how he'll pay for it this time, if he'll have a sore ass and welts or bruises littered on his hips and thighs to hide from Rose.
He shivers at the thought but mostly holds still, trying his best not to lean in. Shane’s eyelids shutter and Rozanov's running the pad of his thumb under Shane’s eye, right over the arch of his cheekbone. He pushes down right over the apple of his cheeks, over the most prominent jut of bone where there's nothing to pad it and presses down hard enough for the skin to blanch. Shane’s breath hitches, a staccato of air entering his lungs just as quickly as it’s stolen from him. He’s wound up tight like a spring, nervous energy culminating in a tight ball, teetering on the edge of bursting. Shane shudders in place when Rozanov's hand pauses, holding the pressure steady, breath coming out heavy and warm. He lets his head tilt a fraction, dipping back to expose a bit of his jaw.
Please, he wants to say, like he can’t help but beg. You want to. I want you to, please.
A high and breathy sorry is what comes out instead.
Shane is intimately familiar with the feeling of blunt force to the face. Only here, he's not being checked into the walls of the club bathroom, no solid weight of an opponent pressing him into the boards. All he has as he registers the hot sting blooming across his cheek is Ilya peering down at Shane still kneeling on the bathroom floor with the mess all over himself and Ilya's shoes, face unreadable in the shadows of the dingy lighting.
“I did not tell you you could come,” Ilya murmurs. The touch burns pleasantly when he rubs a thumb over his left cheek, soothing it immediately after.
“Please,” Shane slurs. “I'm sorry, I can't–”
“I always knew you had little control, Hollander, but you were still good at following orders,” Ilya says, gripping his face and turning it over to inspect it. “Look how messy you are now, coming all over yourself like you haven't in ages.”
Shane slides his eyes sideways as the warmth spreads from Shane's left cheek to the rest of his face, ears flaming. There's no chance Ilya misses it, and he's grinning widely when Shane chances a glance back. “You really haven't? Poor Rose Landry, she must be –”
“She's fine,” Shane hisses. “I just–” There's no way he can explain to Ilya that he can't come without him, without thinking of him and his mouth and his cock with his own hand down his pants when Rose is off showering. He just ends up shrugging helplessly.
He doesn't need to, because Ilya catches on anyway. “Hollander,” He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Does she know? That you can't come without a dick in your mouth? Without me fucking you, begging like you need it? Did she try, with one of your toys? Wasn't enough, hm?”
“Shut up, oh my god,” Shane groans.
“She doesn’t, then,” Ilya continues, “only I know what you want.”
Shane doesn’t have to agree with him for it to be true.
He lets himself be pulled up by Ilya, hands deftly tucking him back into his boxers and buttoning his pants, still sticky from before. There’s no difference from when he’d entered the bathroom and now. He leans against the wall by the sinks, only slightly dazed as Ilya washes his hands. “Here is what you are going to do,” he tells Shane over the whirring of the dryer. “We are going to go outside, and have another beer. No, not together–” he holds up a hand. “Then you are going to leave Rose Landry here, and shower when you are home. I will come and if you are good, maybe, maybe I fuck you then, hm?”
His eyelids are drooping slightly, but Shane nods, slack-mouthed. Beer, shower. He can do that. He’s going to need to find somewhere for Rose to stay, though. He’s pretty sure Miles has a spare bedroom. He ducks into a cubicle just as Ilya unlatches the bathroom door and slips out, digging the heels of his palms into his hands, breathing deeply. The bass of the music in the club outside thrums just as loud as before. The beer he orders from the bartender, who gives him a funny look as he orders it makes him feel just as warm as before. The tag still itches when he pays off the tab for their group.
He slips back into the crowd, beer in hand, and goes looking for Miles.