Archive of Our Own

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It is not lack of love
not lack of sorrow
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

I give them - one, two, three, four - the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them responsibility for my life.

- “Flare” (excerpt), Mary Oliver

And couldn’t know that the Sun was collapsing
Until the seas rose and the buildings keep crashing
We cried, “Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh”

Everywhere, everything
I wanna love you ‘til we’re food for the worms to eat
‘Til our fingers decompose
Keep my hand in yours

- “Everything, Everything,” Noah Kahn feat. Gracie Abrams

“What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.”

- The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky

“The All-Star game is over and the weekend is drawing to a close.”

The post-game press junket is wrapping up outside near the locker room, and the reporter’s voice drifts through the open door and into Ilya’s eardrums.

These are not words that - Ilya frowns, trying to remember the phrase that nice lady on television loves as much as she loves tidying up ‘mess.’

Ah. These are not words that bring Ilya joy.

In fact, they make him feel - pretty much the opposite.

Which is honestly - equal parts pathetic and depressing. Ilya frowns at his sweaty socks, balled up in the bottom of his gym bag along with the other now-discarded hockey-related bits and pieces that make up the proverbial armor he must put on every time he skates into the gladiator arena of the rink. 

Only to shed that exoskeleton and all that comes with it so completely after the fact, those moments of glory and triumph on the ice now reduced to damp, smelly pieces of polyester, dented plastic and foam.

The game itself is now also a memory, yet another notch on Ilya’s belt of stellar performances. This particular performance is actually much more stellar than any prior, and one that Ilya is doing his best to keep from fading into the back annals of his brain, where he stores mental screenshots of particularly hot scoring board numbers and that time he crushed Scott Hunter's shot accuracy record during his inaugural skills competition (only to immediately have Hollander crush his, but we don’t talk about that in Big Roz’s house).

And okay, maybe Ilya’s brief dabble in melancholia isn’t entirely centered around the concept of sportswear and athletic equipment in bad need of a wash or wipe-down. It’s just that this weekend in Florida has felt - outside of reality, in some capacities. A little bubble of escape.

Yes, Ilya is talking about him and Shane.

Because he’s actually been able to think of them that way this weekend - as a joined pair, linked - with these sunny beaches in the periphery. How open and relaxed Shane’s suddenly become around Ilya in this zip code has Florida now firmly cemented as one of Ilya’s favorites places to play, mainly because he and Shane have gotten to spend a period of time within its parameters longer than any they’ve spent together before. 

But - the reporter’s words drift back into his mind like haunting, feral screeches of circling buzzards.

The All-Star game is over and the weekend is drawing to a close.

Which means - well, what it always means at the end of their little dalliances. Tomorrow, Shane will get on one plane, and Ilya will get on another, to be separated yet again - by miles of distance and a prolonged multitude of ticks on the clock.

And now something - has arisen between them that Ilya can’t quite describe or put his finger on, and it appears that perhaps in addition to physical distance, he now has to worry about that of the - ugh, emotional variety.

Fucking blyat.

Perhaps all of these musings are a bit melodramatic, even for a human of Russian-descent well-educated in the prose of Dostoevsky and Chekhov. Montreal plays Boston in a mere matter of two short months. But, Ilya’s also - not sure what will happen, the next time they do end up meeting again. Or if they even will. Maybe Florida is the final hurrah to all of this mess, between him and Hollander, one last bang before the lights go out on them for good.

It probably should be.

Because the way Ilya’s been feeling this weekend - isn’t simply defined by the word joy, the sensation of bliss, and a handful of screamingly good orgasms.

It’s dangerous.

What they are doing is dangerous. And the more Ilya permits it to occur, the more of a risk it becomes - that they get caught. Someone finds out. One error, one misstep, one wrong turn - and like the pull of a grenade, they both blow up their entire fucking lives.

The consequences for Ilya are multitudinous. Russia not only does not recognize queerness as a state of being - it criminalizes it and any associated ‘activities’ thereof  - activities Ilya and Shane have spent most of this weekend actively participating 'therein.' 

His brother is police, his father is police, and Ilya’s annual return to Russia every summer is already in and of itself some form of prison. But if his family found out about - this? 

Well, there is a reason Ilya hasn’t ever let any of them really know him, completely.

He is pretty sure Alexei would arrest him on the spot himself. Hren, he’d probably even find a way to make a couple of baksov out of putting Ilya in the slammer. 

His father is technically retired from any police work, but even worse than a stint in jail?

Watching Grigorii’s eyes glaze over with that cool, disappointed indifference, edged in distaste. Ilya’s been on the receiving end of the look before, but the news that Ilya is - he frowns then, train of thought derailed by his mental attempt to locate the correct word for - whoever it is that likes both. 

Because Ilya does. Like both, has been with both. Men and women, for various and distinctly different reasons. At one point he just considered it rebellion, and then it became defined as ‘experimentation.’ Now, with Shane?

Neither word seems to apply. 

So maybe if Ilya starts with one for himself, it will help lead him to the right definition in respect to - whatever the fuck he is doing with Hollander. 

He opens up his phone, leaning back against the locker behind him, and brushes a still-shower-damp curl out of his eye as he types into the search bar. 

Which is - a very Shane move, actually, and maybe he’s starting to rub off on him.

In more ways than one, insert raucous laughter and thundering applause, because when Ilya’s not frenziedly self-flagellating, he is apparently a fucking comedian.

Yes, he is aware that it is the trauma. He isn’t an idiot.

He reroutes his brain away from the comedy club and to the other side quest it’s taken.

Ilya runs a quick search to find out that he, a person ‘who likes both’ - is more commonly denoted as ‘bisexual’ and that the colors of his flag (because apparently every queer person is also a nation unto themselves, with respective hues assigned to their ‘diverging from the black and white of heteronormativity’ personas) are blue - at the bottom, purple - in the center, and bright pink - at the very top. Ilya has a feeling he’s going to forget the proper order of those immediately.

He also has a very distinct and secondary feeling and that is - bisexual, homosexual, queersexual - really what Ilya is mostly these days is - Shane sexual.

With a very specific preference for Hollander.

And now he’s back to the core problem at hand, the one becoming impossible to ignore no matter how hard he tries.

His gaze darts back to the little blue stripe on the flag image across the screen of his phone.

Blue is a color that seems apt for their present circumstances, tinging Ilya’s mental purview in the sad, cool tones of ennui - not the bright azure of a daylit, sunny sky, but the colors of slate, mist, and perhaps midnight, so dark that it’s practically black. Not a single star dotting its expanse to brighten it.

This weekend has been - nice. Ilya’s dictionary would suggest - even ‘joyous.’ Filled with light, and not just that of the Florida sun. 

But after it ends, there’s no place for them to go - not physically speaking, of course. Ilya has his house in Boston. They have Shane’s murder-apartment in Montreal. Hotel rooms exist.

Emotionally? Relationally? Shane and Ilya might as well be unhoused and roaming the proverbial streets without a hearth or a homestead for shelter.

And a small part of Ilya doesn’t want to fucking do that anymore.

He almost lets himself admit it, sitting dejectedly in this locker room - still sitting in it specifically because even walking out the door is one step closer to the weekend being over, and things returning to their baseline of ‘normal.’

He doesn’t want the baseline, with Shane. He wants more. All of it. Holding hands in public. Kisses that aren’t stolen but savored, without fear of repercussion or discovery. Being able to surprise Shane on a whim instead of having to plan painstakingly to accommodate the locations of forty-two other people who can’t know about Ilya and Shane’s big, gay secret.

Or - Ilya supposes in his case, ‘bisexual’ - secret. He’s not really sure how Shane identifies, actually.

And fuck if his goose isn’t so cooked it is practically on fucking fire, because also Ilya doesn’t even know if Shane wants - any of that, with him.

It doesn’t really fucking matter, because if he did? The very idea of it is shadowed in pure impossibility.

Because yes, if they are found out - Ilya’s life becomes markedly more difficult as it relates to his family and his home country.

But even that pales in comparison to what it would feel like to upend Shane’s entire world. To shred his hockey career, and maybe his family life. 

Chert, Ilya doesn’t even know anything about Shane’s family - other than that they make it a habit to attend almost all of his games and his mother is a branding, deal-making, side hustling witch (respectfully). He has no idea if they’d be accepting, or kind. They might disown Shane completely. 

So yeah, while Ilya might be able to handle more of his father’s grave disappointment, a spike in his brother’s escalating and imminent hatred, and a months-long stint in Bytyrka for the singular crime of being himself - 

Fucking up Shane’s life? Tarnishing the MLH golden boy? An infraction for which Ilya could never find a way to fully atone.

He’s already second-guessing every other choice they made this very weekend, in hindsight. 

What if someone heard or saw them last night at the pool? Caught a glimpse of Ilya slipping out of Shane’s hotel room door yesterday afternoon? Blyat, now Ilya’s overthinking even that stupid move he pulled during the game today, greedily grabbing the opportunity to press his lips to Shane’s skin in fucking public without considering how it might look to a discerning viewer, or even more horrifically, another player. Carter Vaughn could be texting Scott Hunter his suspicions right fucking now.

Though Hunter’s probably too ancient to have a cell phone and the wherewithal to receive texts. He probably has - a pager, or something.

Ilya’s lips tingle with the memory of Shane’s cheek against them, and he drops his head into his hands with a small, forlorn sigh. 

Bring on Bytyrka, honestly. There’s no prison worse than this one, the one in which Ilya is voluntarily living. 

At least Ilya knows he’s incarcerated in a cell of his own making, and according to Dostoyevsky that means he can still find a means of escape.

His heart fucking starts to actually hurt then, because really - there’s only one thing to do. And that thing is going to suck, absolutely suck - more than back-to-back games, one across the country from the other when he’s coming down with some sort of flu - level of suck. 

But the hard thing is the right thing here - not for Ilya himself, but for Shane.

He needs to end - all of this. Lose Hollander’s fucking number. Delete the memory of Shane’s face from his brain, the feel of Shane’s touch from his skin, the warmth of his mouth from his fucking tortured dick - which even now, as Ilya is having these very thoughts, twitches just at the idea of him, Shane’s very existence making every bit of Ilya’s molecular makeup sing in delight.

Shane, freckle-faced and bright-eyed, and perfect, and beautiful, and funny - he’s so fucking funny. Why don’t more people realize that about him? Shane who is as good at hockey as Ilya, which makes competing against him Ilya’s favorite turn-on - but now? Now that they’ve played on the same line, his desperate thoughts are going in another direction - another equally implausible one - to the idea of playing with Shane instead of against him - on the same team, not only personally, but also professionally.

He may love the thrill of beating Shane on the ice and taunting him in the bedroom, but neither of those glimmers shines nearly as bright as the glow of moving in tandem, their shots perfectly synchronized to beautifully execute a win, together. 

Ilya actually would risk it all, to be with Shane, for real. His money, his fame. His glory, his fucking legacy as ‘Boston’s Ilya Rozanov,’ even - because what’s in a name?

The only name that matters is Hollander. 

Shane. 

That’s where Ilya’s brain is headed at top notch speed before he pumps the brakes, full stop. 

He cannot think like this. Because thoughts turn into - ideas, then wants, desires, and wishes. Wishing turns into hope. With hope comes disappointment and loss, that inevitable fall of fragile empires. The best laid plans of mice and men tend to crash into the ocean of consequence, collapsing into ruins.

Certainly, the earth abides forever and the sun also rises, but it is the moon that governs the tides. And the churn of an angry sea is capable of washing over all that has been erected within reach of its waves, swallowing it whole in the night. 

So Ilya won’t allow it. Won’t let his brain go there and ignite the spark of contemplation that has the very dangerous tendency of becoming a hopeful, warm pyre.

Isn’t that stupid, isn’t it - almost poetically pathetic?

At the end of the day, Ilya Rozanov, no matter how prolific, cocky, or proud he may pretend to be - is merely a sad, simple fool wishing for the courage to dream of impossible things.

“Rozanov?”

The human embodiment of all of Ilya’s inconceivable thoughts is standing a few feet from his locker with damp hair and a warm, unguarded expression over his face.

And - fuck, this is exactly why they have to stop doing all of this.

Because Shane’s face is so open and - happy? He’s practically beaming. 

In this fucking locker room. Where the hearts in his eyes could be spotted by any other member of Team East. 

Ilya tries to find appropriate words for telling Shane to wipe that look off of his face without - well, hurting Shane’s feelings.

What comes out is: 

“Hollander. I - need to go.”

Shane blinks at him in confusion. “Go?”

“Da, I um - have to go for a run on the beach.”

Shane’s eyes dart up to Ilya’s clearly freshly washed hair. “A run? We just played a two-and-a-half-hour game of hockey.”

Shane’s clearly approached Ilya with some plan in mind for their next round of ‘activities,’ and he’s getting those puppy eyes, which means that in about sixty to seventy-five seconds, Ilya is going to cave and agree to whatever Shane wants.

Which means he absolutely has to fucking go.

Like, right fucking now.

“Fuck, Hollander! Do I ask you questions about your training regimen? Your boring salads? Your deadlift technique?”

“N-no,” Shane stammers and there it is, the ‘hurt feelings’ face Ilya was hoping so desperately to avoid. 

But in hurting Shane’s feelings in this one small instance, Ilya is taking great strides in ensuring Shane’s future happiness remains intact.

Because there is no happy ending when it comes to the two of them. There can’t be. 

And actually, yes - it is best that Ilya just - gets the fuck out of this gym and goes for that run on the beach. Clears his head.

Then he can figure out how to nip this thing in the fucking bud. Or - well, more like nip it in the fucking hanging gardens of Babylon because whatever this is, it’s already sprouted. Bloomed. Been added to the list of Wonders of the World, or whatever.

Perhaps the sea can teach Ilya its craft of razing it all to the ground.

Shane is still staring at him, a little slack jawed. “I guess I thought maybe we -”

Ilya is not about to let him finish that sentence.

“We are not anything, Hollander.”

And fuck if just saying that doesn’t cut Ilya nearly clean in fucking half.

But what completes the slice, cleaving him fully? 

The look on Shane’s face. One of pure and utter devastation.

Loss.

Clattering, crumbling, stone.

He’s very obviously trying to reschool his shattered features into something more whole and guarded, and Ilya wants to kiss it better immediately. Tell Shane he was joking, that he’s actually a fucking asshole after all and see, Shane, that’s why none of this makes sense. That’s why we need to end this, before anyone gets hurt. Before you get hurt, specifically.

But while Ilya can’t permit himself to consider a future where he gets to have Shane in all the ways that he wants, he also can’t take the option of having Shane - in any way at all - off of the proverbial table. 

So, Ilya softens the blow, a little bit. 

Because he is a whole ass idiot (also, see ‘puppy eyes’).

“Not in here,” he gestures around the locker room vaguely. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane says, face still slightly drawn. “Um, I’ll see you after your run, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Ilya says and now Shane’s face has fallen again - and Ilya needs to leave. He needs to leave right fucking now because one moment longer and he’ll be climbing into Shane’s lap, putting his mouth on any part of him he can reach, and whispering those very undeniable truths in his ear that that he was just trying to eradicate from the spirals of his brain matter.

“I’ll text you,” he says like a worthless glutton for punishment, and then he grabs his bag and practically bolts out the door.

The feeling that rises in his gut as he walks away from Shane makes Ilya physically want to throw up. 

His postgame attire is just cleaner, more comfortable workout clothes, so he tosses his gear bag on a lounge chair and heads towards the sandy shores of the beach, making it about a foot out from the waves when he realizes he didn’t even put on athletic shoes. He’s just wearing the slides he wore in the locker room shower.

Whatever. Ilya will do his cardiac penance for Shane-related mental crimes barefoot, he supposes.

Going for a run was actually a brilliant idea. Generally when he’s tying himself into a pretzel (mentally, not in a sexy way - though that also exists), Ilya tends to hit the gym. The physical exertion has the blessed effect of leeching the rubbish from his brain, as if it's detoxifying him through the sweat releasing out of his pores.

He starts at a moderate pace, the ocean waves tickling the tips of his bare toes as he jogs down the shoreline. It’s a beautiful day - clear, sunny, and warm. 

Okay, this is working. Ilya feels better already. Now he just needs to come up with the right thing to say in order to make this - problem go away. To tell Shane sayonara, you’re welcome, see you next season, But Not Like That Anymore.

Easy. Simple, even.

He immediately stubs his toe on a stupid fucking shell, and all useful phrases fly out of his mind, floating over the waves not unlike the sole, errant seagull that’s soaring overhead.

An errant seagull that has now proceeded to shit on Ilya’s left shoulder.

“Fucking why?!” Ilya shakes his fist at the heavens.

Okay, that was dramatic phrasing. The sky. He is waving his fist at the sky and talking to a godforsaken seagull, as if this bird can understand (thickly accented) English (Ilya figures fluency in Russian would be too much of an ask for a native feathered resident of Tampa Bay, Florida).

Though things seem to be lost in translation regardless, because the gull interprets his words and his gesture as an invitation to land on the sand a few feet away, cocking its head at Ilya quizzically.

“You shat on my shoulder,” Ilya says to it, like a completely normal person in his sanest of minds. “That isn’t nice.”

So now Ilya’s taken it upon himself to teach this foul fowl the standards of beach bathroom etiquette. 

He’s doing great.

The seagull assesses him with beady, glinting eyes before letting out a small squawk.

“Fuck,” Ilya says. “Look - entire ocean is available to you for shitting needs. I am not toilet.”

Something in the seagull’s gaze seems to indicate some disagreement with this core thesis Ilya’s constructed on the synthesis of man and porcelain commode, and fuck - maybe it’s right. Who Ilya even is anymore is - clearly a mystery to even himself.

“Whatever,” Ilya mutters, wishing that he spoke the language of ‘bird.’ He dips his hand in the salty water and washes the - ugh - actual shit, hren - off of his shoulder before resuming his trek down the shore.

A few minutes later he realizes the seagull is - fucking following him.

As if it’s either imprinted upon Ilya like some sort of baby, or perhaps it’s now defining him as its own personal port-a-potty, whatever the reason - the gull is waddling on the heels of Ilya’s footsteps like a bobbing, trailing bird-shaped shadow.

It’s - maybe a little charming.

And maybe Ilya slows down to a slower paced walk just so the damn bird can keep up.

And fucking maybe after that he decides to call the creature ‘Anton,’ because he loves the Chekhov play named after the manner of finely feathered friend he’s managed to collect. 

Even though the feathered friend in the play is - sadly dead. But Ilya’s just not going to disclose that to his new buddy.

Either way, now Ilya’s taking a long stroll on the beach with a bird instead of spending the fleeting moments that remain of this weekend with Shane.

Which fucking sucks - no offense to Anton or anything. As far as company goes, he’s great. Not too chatty. Respects personal space, mostly. Doesn’t give Ilya puppy eyes and makes him want to kiss him (a very good bonus). Questionable potty hygiene, yes, but hell - nobody’s perfect. 

It’s just that Ilya already fucking misses him. (The ‘him’ - being Shane). 

So naturally, instead of plotting on how to end this thing between them (the ‘them’ being Ilya and Shane, not Ilya and Anton - that latter bond is everlasting), now Ilya has chosen to do what he does best.

Which is - gaslight himself into deciding that he can still see Hollander. Casually. Safely. No risk of certain, career-ending discovery or (heart) strings attached.

Just for the sex of it all.

The bisexual sex, on Ilya’s side. He decides he likes having a way to - define it. Define himself, even. Not everyone needs boxes, but it feels good to have a small corner of space Ilya can call fully his own.

Anyway - back to the gaslighting. In this iteration of that never-ending self-manipulation, Ilya has decided to really lean in by verbalizing it to Anton the seagull, his newest best friend (despite his inappropriate and unseemly public bathroom habits).

“You must understand,” he explains, gesticulating with one hand towards the waves. “Mostly my - thing, with Hollander is easy. Simple. We get together, and we fuck.”

Anton does not seem convinced.

In fact he almost seems like he is - strangely enough, despite being the namesake of an entirely different Russian literary giant, thinking about a quote by Dostoevsky. Or maybe that’s Ilya’s mind dragging that line from the mire of his brain and coupling it with a favorite memory of his.

“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”

Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander. I - I wanted to introduce myself.

And okay, yeah. Maybe Ilya was - interested - at first sight. Still is interested. And whatever else it is that he - is, about Shane. Somehow suddenly, and all at once, or what fucking ever. 

“Anton, you have not seen these freckles,” Ilya tries to explain, as if this statement is a proper defense for the tangled-up Hollander-centric mess his heart has created. “They are like - I do not know how to describe them to a bird. Um, stars. You know stars, da?”

Anton squawks in an assertive manner.

“Of course you do,” Ilya acknowledges. “You fly in the sky with them, I guess. Anyway, these freckles - they are like - stars of the face. Like the shapes in the sky that tell stories.”

Constellations, Ilya’s very tired dictionary groans from his room.

“Constellations,” Ilya says to Anton the seagull. “When I was small, I liked to read about how people made those up,” he adds, voice drifting into nostalgia. “I was - a weird kid. Liked looking at stars. Learning about - what people thought, when they looked at them, too.”

Anton meanders by Ilya’s bare toes pensively, pecking at the sand. Then, he twists his neck to look up at him, like he’s really listening to Ilya’s ramblings.

Ilya decides to believe that he is.

Why not? His mother loved nature, lived by the concept that animals, trees, even rivers, streams, and seas - could teach humans something about how life was meant to be lived. Perhaps this little seagull keeping Ilya company on the beach is a gift from Irina.

Deep down in his heart, Ilya wants this to be true - because with everything roiling through his mind today - he could really use some guidance from mama.

He also wishes he was a writer, in this present moment - with a proper grasp on the English vernacular, because what wouldn’t he give to write the story of the stars that have been given the gift of residing upon Shane Hollander’s face. Sprinkling across his cheeks in patterns Ilya would be oh-so-delighted to trace with a single fingertip for the rest of his life, every pattern a different and more colorful couplet that sings about this man that Ilya has grown to - 

…what the hell, Rozanov?

Well, fuck - this is not boding well for his prior attempts to, aherm. Relegate Hollander to fuck-buddy extraordinaire and nothing more, nothing less.

His phone buzzes in that exact moment, startling Anton. Ilya’s heart startles along with the bird - in hope (that traitorous word), that it’s a text from Shane - and that despite Shane asking Ilya to text him after his run, Shane can’t wait any longer and he has jumped the gun and texted Ilya first. 

Which would be just fine. “Better three hours too soon, than a minute too late” - if Ilya’s keeping things literary as has been the pattern on this fine fucking melodramatic Florida afternoon.

What? Ilya knows Shakespeare. He is well-read! He just pretends not to be, because it’s more fun to brain-dump bombs of intelligentsia unexpectedly, sprinkling them on top of his chirps - as a surprise, treat, and reminder that everyone playing against him has not only idiot faces, but also idiot brains.

Ilya opens the text and immediately closes it.

Anton does a little footie-foot tap on the sand. 

“My brother,” Ilya says by way of clarification. Anton tilts his little gull neck curiously.

“He wants me to call him. I do not want to call him.” Ilya says as if this explains it all.

Anton stares at him, little black eyes full of impatience.

“Okay, da, it is more than that,” Ilya relents. “My father is - dying. Who knows, maybe already dead.”

And saying those fucking words out loud has Ilya plopping his ass on wet sand.

Anton pads over to him on his little bird feet, standing almost flush against Ilya’s knee. His neck cranes up and Ilya swears the damned animal is looking at him with sympathy.

Ilya shrugs. “I do not know how I feel about it. Not good, obviously. Probably - bad. Sad? It is - um, what is word - all mixed up.” He pauses, and the dictionary whispers complicated into his ear, sympathetically. 

“Complicated,” Ilya says to Anton. “I wish I could be there with him, but I also - do not want to be. And can’t. Anyway…” his voice trails off. “He does not know me, I don’t think. Not really. All I am to him is a - disappointment.” And Ilya’s voice fucking chokes up at that so, okay, he is going to take a little time-out.

Anton makes a supportive noise through his beak, like he’s encouraging Ilya to ‘let it all out,’ as the expression goes. Ilya tries to search his brain for the right adjectives to define this dark, cavernous pit that gnaws from within him whenever the topics of ‘family’ and ‘Russia’ comes knocking at the door.

“I am tired,” he says finally. “Tired of these people I am supposed to call ‘mine.’ Tired of Russia. Tired of America, probably, too. Like a -” he waves his hand towards the sea, in search of the appropriate verbiage. “Man without country?”

A man without a home. Because Russia is - well, Russia. And in America, there is no Shane.

Anton is silent. Ilya laughs, mostly at himself. “See, this is my problem. There is only one person who does not make me feel this - tired. Maybe - empty is a better word. Or not existing, or something. But one person - makes me feel like, I don’t know. I am known.”

Seen. Cared-for.

Ilya’s dictionary stirs in its hotel room drawer, reminding him that other words exist for that sentiment, ones that can be found in the section starting with the letter ‘L.’

Abruptly, Anton pecks Ilya on the fucking leg - because he is apparently an asshole and therefore a true kindred spirit, like a fellow Rozanov who can also fly and eats bugs. Or fish? (Anton, stay away from adding melted cheese to those. It tends to end badly). 

“Fucking ouch, what the fucking fuck?” Ilya startles but then realizes that the peck never hits skin.

Anton is pecking his phone.

“Okay, okay. Fuck it. Enough,” Ilya says with a sigh.

Because it is - enough - all this self-flagellation, all of this wasted time. And though he hasn’t fully completed his gaslighting, Ilya tries to gather his courage and opens his texts.

Lily: where are you right now

The dots blessedly start to skitter immediately, Shane’s thumbs typing out a response on the other side of the screen.

Jane: I’m sitting on the beach. 
Jane: Just a little ways from your stuff
Jane:  I saw your bag on the chair and figured I would just hang out in case you wanted to talk
Jane: um fuck. This is stupid. I swear I’m not stalking you? But you haven’t updated your phone so apparently i can’t delete my prior messages and now i am embarrassed 

Oh, Hollander. Ilya’s heart squeezes painfully, and he quickly replies:

Lily: shhh, stop. Do not be embarrassed. I’m glad you were looking for me ;)
Lily: I bet I can find you. Stakes?
Jane: I get to come to YOUR hotel room tonight. If you find me. 
Lily:  Ok ;) ;) ;) Deal, Hollander.
Lily: and then maybe you get to come IN my hotel room
Lily: as reward

Checking into room 1217 this weekend felt practically prophetic, considering the number on the door combines the two most important ages of Ilya’s life - twelve, the age he was when he lost his mother.

And seventeen, the age he was when he met the man who inevitably changed the trajectory of his entire fucking life.

Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander. I - I wanted to introduce myself.

That man is the one holding him now as they sit on Ilya’s hotel bed, Ilya blinking the moisture from his eyes in a futile attempt to bring himself back to some semblance of composure.

Because when Ilya texted Shane to meet up on the beach he was not expecting him to show up to his room in his (stylish!) black and white button down and proceed to somehow emotionally slam Ilya against the shore like a rock and crush Ilya’s carefully constructed barricades into the sand.

This was not the pounding Ilya signed up for, actually. (Yes, now he is - actively trying to deal with the surprise unveiling of all of this trauma by attempting to be funny about it, in his own cracked up brain.)

Because this is - as are all things Hollander - dangerous.

It may have been Shane’s first look at all of the 'broken' Ilya tends to keep undercover and hidden.

Followed by another handful of sudden, immediate firsts - both the tears in Ilya’s eyes and the warmth of this current embrace. 

Sure, Shane’s arms have circled Ilya’s body before, but not in the way he is holding him now. He’s practically enveloping him, pressing Ilya’s face to his chest, stroking his hair - and fuck if Ilya isn’t thinking some sappy ass thoughts about it if he’s being honest, similar to that poetic bullshit spiraling through his brain when he was sitting on the beach, covered in shit, and trauma dumping on an innocent bird.

Something along the lines of ‘all their little pieces are perfectly shaped to fit together.’ First, the spaces between their fingers. And now, every gap between their bodies has also been filled, not a single inch left for oxygen, Jesus, or the devil that is the MLH to separate.

What is a hug if not holding hands in human-shaped form?

Ilya’s brain really needs to shut the fuck up, because the only thing worse than dealing with trauma through humor is doing it vis-a-vis fucking poetry.

All of that Russian literature he absorbed in his younger years is fairly solid proof of that fact.

Anyway, he is doing his best to blyat, calm the fuck down, Rozanov.

But Shane starts kissing him, so now that’s an impossible thing.

The kiss is tender, Shane slotting his lips over Ilya’s like they’re filling a space that’s been empty for far, far, too long. Their mouths mirror the way Shane cradles Ilya’s body, and yeah, fucking hell - they really are that, two puzzle pieces that just happen to also be people. Ilya wonders if they were born or created to fit this way - and if God and heaven exist, he decides that upon arrival at those pearlescent afterlife gates, Ilya will personally shake his, her, or their hand in gratitude for that divine design.

In fact, for all of his soul-searching today - Ilya would happily define himself as a human born for the express purpose of fitting perfectly with the person of Shane Hollander. It may be the only thing he has ever done perfectly, and he’s okay with that.

Suddenly, because Shane is definitely rubbing off on him, Ilya says:

“I have an idea?”

Shane keeps his arms tightly wrapped around him as he replies:

“What?” His nose brushes Ilya’s, almost like his body needs to keep them connected while their mouths are occupied with that foolish business of talking as opposed to being linked in a kiss.

Relatable, really.

“Have you ever tried docking?”

Shane blinks at him, leaning back slightly in his lap. “Dude. How the fuck would I have ‘tried’ docking, exactly? You - need two dicks for that?”

Ilya’s expression grows a little teasing. “Right, I forgot. Big Roz is the only dick for you.”

He doesn’t really mean it super seriously, but Shane’s expression goes from the initial flicker of annoyance to growing a little - earnest, as he shrugs his shoulders. “I guess, yeah. Kind of.” He frowns again. “Shut up. Anyway, I’ve um, Googled it.”

Ilya laughs, trying to ignore the tiny, happy bubble fizzing at his chest generated by the most beautiful words in the world - I guess, yeah. Kind of - that combination of English letters possibly making the list of Ilya’s top five favorite phrases. “Of course you did. So, want to try?”

“Oh, um.” Shane swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing agitatedly. 

“Don’t be scared,” Ilya says, nosing him on the cheek.

“I’m not fucking scared!” Shane retorts as his ears go a little pink. 

“I know, I know,” Ilya replies, nipping at his ear to show him he’s just fucking around. “You are brave.”

He means that, actually. Everything that’s happened tonight only corroborates this singular fact that Ilya’s always known about Shane.

Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander. I - I wanted to introduce myself.

He’s not a chicken, not even close. In fact, he may be the bravest person Ilya’s ever met. He thinks about Shane walking up to him on a cold day in Saskatchewan often, because it was their origin point - and Shane sticking out his hand to say hello? The only reason they’ve made it to ‘here and now,’ at all.

‘Here and now’ Shane is still wrinkling his nose pensively. “I’m not um -" he gestures down to his groin, and Ilya tries to puzzle out exactly what he’s saying, reaching for that part of his brain that speaks Hollander fluently.

No accent.

He’s not what? Hard? That’s not it, he definitely is - the bulge is clear and apparent. Not ‘scared’ - already established. Ilya considers the subject of contemplation at hand.

Ah. Got it.

“You do not need foreskin,” he says, and Shane blushes just at the mention of the fucking word, like he’s not the freakiest freak when he’s on the other side of the proverbial hotel bedroom sheets while they’re actually twisting beneath them.

“Well,” Ilya amends. “You need one. One foreskin. But Big Roz has got you.”

“So there’s um - enough bubble gum to go around?” Shane says, still looking a little tentative about the whole thing.

Ilya tosses his head back, barking out a laugh. “Gospodi, Hollander. Yes. I have enough gum. Big League Chew. Just for you.”

And only for you, Ilya’s heart supplies, but he keeps that little addition behind a wall of white teeth, letting the silence hang between them instead as he watches Shane’s face do that thing it does when Shane is really thinking something through.

“Have you, um -” Shane breaks off the sentence with a small frown and his gaze drifts to the left. “Never mind.”

The expression that flits over Shane’s features now is one Ilya knows very well. 

“I have not done it before,” he answers the unspoken question, quietly. Shane’s eyes dart up. Ilya shrugs. “You are not the only one with fucking Google. Many useful videos, da?”

He can see the heat rising under Shane’s cheeks, and he winks. “We can watch one, after. But - you tell me. If you want to do this, davai. If not - it also is fine.” And then he shuts the fuck up, waiting patiently for Shane to decide.

Ilya’s pretty good at this part, despite the growing urgency weighing down his balls. Considering he once had to wait two entire years to fuck the man, he figures he can handle a few additional minutes of pause prior to determining if they are going to - dock the proverbial halls.

See, coping with trauma through humor is fun. 

Coping with it through sex is even more fun, however, because -

“Okay,” Shane says, making up his mind more quickly than Ilya anticipated..

“Okay?” He double checks, earnestly - showing Shane with his eyes that he still has an ‘out.’

Shane squares his shoulders and nods. “Okay.”

Fucking davai.

Ilya kisses him, and then, despite all of his pontificating on the virtue of self-restraint - and also because Ilya is first and foremost a menace, he starts tugging on Shane’s waistband like an impatient toddler begging for candy in the checkout line. “Let Hollander Junior out to play.”

“Do not fucking start,” Shane grumbles, but he’s already acquiescing, sliding from Ilya’s lap to pull down his shorts and underwear, releasing his dick into the air-conditioned atmosphere of room 1217.

Ilya gives Hollander Junior (because that is his name, no matter how Shane protests) a firm stroke in greeting before dropping his pants in order to add Big Roz to the party.

Shane’s eyes immediately go dark. It should really go to Ilya’s head more how much Hollander loves his fucking dick. It certainly goes to Big Roz’s - which is already preening and swelling at the nonverbal praise. 

“Okay, so-” Shane says, clearing his throat. “Where do you want me?”

In his arms. In his bed. Everywhere, anywhere. With him. Forever.

These are words that blessedly don’t leave Ilya’s mouth because he hasn’t lost his absolutely last marble, not yet. He tugs Shane towards the bed. “On your knees, okay?”

Shane complies, unbuttoning his fancy shirt, and Ilya can certainly help with that - he joins him on the mattress, following the press of Shane’s fingers with his tongue, tracing the path behind each buttonhole that opens until the shirt is fully undone - and so is Shane, unraveling under the touch of Ilya’s mouth, his hands now busying themselves in the curls of Ilya’s hair, just like he likes it - firm little tugs that Ilya knows mean yes, yes, more, please, faster, harder.

It’s nice when it’s like this. Speaking this one common language in mutual eloquence, a rare gift of not having to fight for the right words in order to be understood.

Ilya decides they need a little bit of an opening act before the main event begins and wraps his lips around Shane’s dick for a few quick sucks, Shane gasping above him. “If you keep doing that -” he stutters, syllables choked - “then-”

Ilya pops off with a resounding, satisfied sound, relocating the press of his lips to Shane’s neck. “Da, Hollander. You forget I know how fast you come.”

“Fuck. Off,” Shane says, but it’s just an exhale of air, not actual protest, and he slumps forward into the crook of Ilya’s shoulder.

Where he - fits, ever so perfectly. As always.

Speaking of fitting -

“Okay. Let me show you how to do this,” Ilya says into Shane’s ear.

“Show me,” Shane rolls his eyes, but Ilya can see the heat in them rising. “I bet we both watched the same videos.”

“Mmmm, you have them saved to your phone, don’t you,” Ilya purrs, his tongue flicking over Shane’s neck and enjoying how he shudders underneath it.

“Fucking Christ,” Shane says. Then:

“A couple.”

Ilya pulls back, a little amused at the admission. “We are definitely watching one after. Or maybe now?”

Just in case Shane needs a second ‘out,’ because he is allowed to change his mind.

Hollander Junior is clearly making it up for him, though, because moisture is already beading the tip of Shane’s dick. He locks eyes with Ilya, and ah, another expression Ilya knows intimately, one Shane’s usually wearing on the ice but it does sometimes cross his face in the bedroom. 

Determination. 

Shane Hollander has his mind set on getting this done, and getting it done right - and he is not backing down. 

“After,” he says, firmly. “I choose after.”

“Okay,” Ilya says with a toothy grin. “Let’s fucking do this.”

Shane’s nose scrunches again, like an agitated, pensive kitten. Kotik, Ilya wants to say to him. His very own tiny feral cat of a man.

“Based on what I saw online,” Shane says slowly, “you are doing most of the - doing?”

Okay, Ilya is absolutely, one-hundred-percent making Shane pull up those videos after. For Science.

“You can help,” he says with a wink. “Big Roz is a team player.”

There’s a bottle of lube on Ilya’s nightstand, still there from his Shane-less Friday evening activities that feel like they occurred in a different life - and fucking hell, Ilya’s thinking about it again. About how far they’ve come. 

I think I like you a little too much.

That ‘useful phrase’ honestly hits the nail right on the damned head, though Ilya’s maybe going to admit it only to himself. And maybe to Anton, if he ever sees him again - because a good-hearted, finely feathered friend like that deserves only the truth. 

What he feels towards Shane? It’s a lot more than ‘like,’ and definitely ‘too much.’

And it actually is - so fucking simple, if he would just let himself accept it.

Like breathing. This feeling, defined on that page of the dictionary, also beginning with the letter “L” - located somewhere between the words ‘lout’ and ‘low.’

Ilya decides to focus more on acting like a lout, and getting - ehrm, low. Just for the present moment (it’s easier).

He lubes up Shane’s cock, enjoying his tiny pants at each gentle stroke, the weight of Shane’s palm on Ilya’s shoulder, the fit of his dick in his fist.

Puzzle pieces.

Just like that Ilya’s mind meanders again, on the heels of the footsteps of his heart, following its emotional beats like a little brain-matter-shaped-shadow.

He still doesn’t know anything about Shane’s family. He doesn’t know if they would support them, if they’d even like Ilya - the real Ilya - not ‘Rozanov’ - that man is someone the Hollanders certainly dislike immensely, but that man’s not who Ilya really is. 

He still doesn’t know who ‘Ilya’ is, fully - himself, quite yet.

What he does know? Shane Hollander’s favorite color is yellow. He likes the Google search bar and he hates jello shots. He wears long sleeved, buttoned-up pajamas at the beach because he can’t sleep with sand touching his skin. His nose scrunches when he’s confused. He sneezes like a fucking kitten and his diet is that of a domestic rabbit. 

Holding his hand feels like a safety net, holding his body feels like a priceless gift. Holding his cock? The embodiment of a blessing, enough to make a man who has never walked with God believe in religion.

And he is the one singular person that Ilya Rozanov has ever, ever been in love with. The only one. 

It’s simple.

And Ilya thinks perhaps it’s one of the things he could let define him, that quiet, steady and as-of-yet unspoken love for Shane Hollander. Hren, it might be the only thing holding those little pieces of Ilya together right fucking now - in any shape or form whatsoever.

He transfers his hand to his own dick and aligns it with Shane’s so they are - face-to-face.

It’s apropos, actually - almost too on the nose that their dicks are facing whatever this is, head-on right along with them.

Big Roz and Hollander Junior, like they’re the main leads of this story. 

Okay, Ilya is - possibly losing the plot. This is because Shane’s eyes are darting from their dicks to Ilya’s face with his jaw slightly slackened, Shane himself seemingly having lost the ability to inhale fully, panting on the edge of a whimper with each breath.

Ilya wants to eat him alive.

Instead, he wordlessly works his foreskin over Hollander Junior, and fuck if now Shane’s eyes don’t roll backwards into his head.

“Ilya, fucking hell,” he says - and yes, da, pretty much.

Because this - feels so good that it’s borderline - agony. Shane is, per the usual - wetter than hell. Ilya probably didn’t even need to add lube at this point, and the slide of Shane’s dick within the sheath of his foreskin? Electric. Decimating. Razing it all to the ground. 

Though Ilya’s pretty sure whatever he’s feeling - Shane is feeling it more.

He wasn’t kidding when he noted that Shane’s not the only one who does his research. Ilya’s been down a few rabbit holes lately, initially spurned by that toxic Rose Landry era, and now just a Hollander-esque lingering habit he’s trying to break. But one of those rabbit holes somehow got him reading about circumcised dicks (there was even - a scholarly dissertation? involved at some point).

And of course, in all of this reading, Ilya was thinking about one circumcised dick in particular - Shane’s. He still remembers the random article he stumbled across on substack, that required any readers to subscribe to it in order to peruse the contents: 

“The Raw Power of Docking: A Journey of Masculine Bonding and Sensory Awakening Between Cut & Uncut Dudes.” 

Did Ilya subscribe?

You bet your ass he fucking did, with his own fucking email containing his own full legal name.

Presently, watching the look on Shane’s face, he’s reminded of a particular paragraph in that one piece of Very Important Literature:

“You see, the circumcised dude brings to the table a history of desensitization. His glans, stripped of its natural protection, has weathered the storms of friction and lost some of its sensitivity along the way. But fear not, because here comes his intact counterpart, with his fully equipped glans, ready to reignite the fire of sensation.”

While Ilya’s not entirely sure he is an ‘intact’ counterpart, considering all of the broken pieces he’s been picking up on his way to this very moment - he does take some measure of pride in Big Roz for - what appears to potentially be akin to ‘reigniting the fire of sensation,’ based on the noises currently spilling past the spaces of Shane’s teeth, which are biting down on Shane’s lower lip while Ilya gently strokes the area where they are now linked - slowly, carefully. Easing Shane into this mutually shared experience.

“Fuck-ing God,” Shane says. 

Da, maybe his, her, or their son - and the holy spirit, too. 

“It’s like I’m - inside of you,” Shane says - which gives Ilya just a small pause for concern in the midst of all of this pleasure, because Shane’s made it pretty clear he prefers to be the one being penetrated during their bedroom adventures.

“Still okay?”

“Okay is an understatement,” Shane gasps. “Fucking great. Fanfuckingtastic. So good I think I’m gonna die.”

“Happy to be of murdering service,” Ilya says, chest easing with relief - and now fully leaning in and letting himself enjoy this - the slide of Shane’s dick against every single nerve, ratcheting Ilya’s pulse way beyond base level, his curls growing damp from the sweat droplets forming on his brow.

Hollander, being Hollander, says, “Can I - do it?” 

Fucking davai fucking again. Ilya nods yes, and Shane’s hand replaces his on their cocks.

“Oh,” Shane says, and it’s true what they say.

When it comes to handling stick - of any variety, Shane Hollander is a goddamned beautician.

“H-holy shit,” Shane says. “I’m going to pause for - I just have to stop for a second. Okay?”

Ilya nods, stroking his back. “Okay,” he bites out, watching Shane’s face.

He looks blown wide open - and now Ilya just wants to crawl inside his fucking head because as Shane takes a deep breath and starts to stroke them again, the expression across his features is a brand new one, a first - glistening with the glaze of pure and utter bliss. 

Ecstasy, maybe, Ilya’s dictionary supplies with its hands over its eyes, and fuck Ilya needs to know more about this, so he can catalogue what Shane looks like right now - properly - for his own future edification.

For clarity’s sake - these flowery words are all a prettier way for Ilya to refer to his spank bank. 

Because he is a poet as well as a comedian. And a horny fucking dude. He’s got layers! Just like that funny green monster in his favorite animated movie. Anyway - 

Hmm, Shane did come here wanting to talk. Maybe Ilya can use this ‘theme’ for the evening to his own sexy advantage.

“Tell me,” Ilya purrs into his ear, the tip of his tongue tracing the ridge of cartilage, breathing heat down towards the eardrum. “Tell me how it feels.”

“I - um, fuck.” Shane says.

“And you say my English is bad.” Ilya noses him on the temple, trying to push past the buzzing sensation of ‘close’ that’s tightening the spheres of his balls - because he wants this to last, and last, and last. 

“I don’t fucking say that,” Shane retorts, “your English is good. Just as good as your dick feels on mine and - fuck, fuck, hell.”

It’s markedly - wetter in their shared cocoon, the flush on Shane’s neck rising to the spot right behind his right earlobe. 

That ‘lasting’ thing Ilya was working on is about to go right out the fucking hotel room window. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks, because it’s Shane’s choice tonight.

As a treat. And a reward, maybe - not just for sitting on the beach so Ilya could find him, but also for walking into this room and somehow tearing Ilya apart without laying a single finger on his physical person - and then putting all of those pieces together again, along with the freely given addition of that magical, final one. The piece of Shane himself.

As if it’s the piece Ilya’s been missing, walking around incomplete all of these years without realizing the hole in his chest was shaped exactly like Hollander.

“N-no,” Shane stammers in answer to Ilya’s question, his other hand grasping for something solid - and Ilya extends his fingers. Shane intertwines them, linking them at another point of connection. 

Two lonely stars in the universe that now share a constellation. A story, beginning.

“Want to come like this,” Shane breathes, and fuck okay, yup - he is full of impeccable ideas tonight, actually.

“Okay,” Ilya replies. 

“Good, because I’m - fuckinggoddammitholyshitfuckinghell - Ilya.” Ilya’s name is a moan on his tongue and it’s never sounded so sweet, and Shane is a screaming, mewling mess, the press of his body writhing against Ilya like the crest of a wave.

He’s squeezing his hand, like he did in the cab the evening before - but he doesn’t let go this time, he only holds tighter- and they both tumble over, practically drowning in each other - to finally wash up on the shore, Shane still - encased. Joined. Tandem. 

On the same team.

Ilya seals their final point of connection by locking their lips as Shane’s body melts into his. 

“Fucking. Perfect. Let’s do it again,” he mumbles. Ilya chuckles and lets the flicker of warmth in his chest spread, just a bit. “We have a little more time,” he says, though fully knowing they really probably don’t. Shane looks at the clock. “I can come twice in an hour,” he says with a face yet again full of determination. Then yawns, like a sleepy bear cub. Ilya swats at him. “You can go get cleaned up first.” Then he takes a breath and decides he will try and be - a little brave. Like Shane.

“Maybe, stay? I can set an alarm before morning.”

“Okay,” Shane says. Just like that.

Simple.

He adds, “I do like you.” Tentatively. Hesitantly, like he’s making sure it’s all right - and maybe giving Ilya the option of an out. 

“Okay,” Ilya says.

The smile begins to spread across Shane’s face. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Ilya wants to say more. But not here. Not tonight.

Shane heads to the bathroom.

Ilya starts cleaning up a little while he waits for him to be done. He looks over at the window and catches a glimpse of a seagull flying overhead. He wonders if it’s Anton. 

He decides it must be, because at that very moment, a Chekhov quote drifts into his mind’s eye. 

“We shall find peace. We shall hear angels, we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.”

That’s what it feels like, being here with Shane this weekend. Tonight. The blue of midnight coloring their trajectory somehow, suddenly, all at once - brightens with the shining pinpoints of the stars. He imagines them in the pattern of a new constellation that follows the shapes of Shane’s freckles, spinning and sparkling and beautiful. 

For a moment, Ilya lets go, allowing the burgeoning warmth in his chest to suffuse him fully. 

It’s an aurora borealis of joy against the moon’s dark tides, calming the destructive waters of the sea, and tinging brighter the night - upping the color gradient to a lighter blue of comfort, safety, peace - and not at all of sadness. 

A bold stripe of purple appears, menacing and playful. Then - a very bright pink - for love.

Together they form it, the flag of Ilya’s nation, a singular one he can be proud to raise and stand under, belonging. Seen and known. 

As a bisexual man, in love with Shane Hollander. 

Shining bright like a diamond in the sky.