Chapter Text
Shane is sixteen when he loses his virginity.
Here’s the thing: Shane has always been a bit awkward, quiet when noise would be expected, too set in his ways. Stubborn and hyperfocused. He is, however, one of the few teenagers in his school not sporting very bad acne, he's fit, and he's learned to use deodorant when puberty hit. And he's a hockey player. A very, very good hockey player. In Ottawa. Several girls, he's found out quickly enough, like this combo.
Mila is the first only because she's faster than the others and sort of bullies him into inviting her to the winter school dance. She's sweet enough. Funny. Just as stubborn as him. Shane likes her enough to kiss her under the silver banners hanging from the ceiling of the gym as they slow-dance to a James Blunt cover. They get along. She drags him out of his parents’ house, makes him take her on a few dates. Shane goes along with it. When, one afternoon, she texts that she's home alone and he should visit, he does. He's prepared, because he's paid attention during sex ed and his mother knows he's got a girlfriend, and she's not about to let him ruin his future. It's Mila's first time, too. They fumble through it, of course, but they manage. Shane leaves thinking he's not quite sure he's understood what all the hype is about.
Mila moves on from him not three months later, and Shane mopes for a couple of days before shrugging it off.
Sarah lasts a bit longer, a little over six months. Shane takes her to bed, too, because he's sixteen and permanently horny, and she's more than willing. She teaches him that he likes blowjobs best, for some reason.
Jessica is his third, and Shane kinda hopes something will click this time, but it really doesn’t. Sex is — fine. Most of the time, Shane can get off, and get her off, too. But they are mismatched in attitudes and inclinations. Shane starts thinking people are either exaggerating how good sex can be or he’s doing something wrong.
It's just — something is off. They’re lovely, these girls. Shane doesn’t hate being with them. He just doesn’t love it. But he’s sure if he keeps looking, he'll find the right one.
He’s seventeen, going on eighteen, and he’s the most excited he's ever been as he walks up to the rink in Saskatchewan. He's about to play some very high-pressure hockey against one of the most talked about MLH prospects and he wants to see him in person. Shane has been analyzing his games, studying his tapes with a sort of fascination he cannot fully explain. The Russian boy is an awesome player to watch and he's not too proud to admit it, to tell him when he finds him lighting a cigarette right next to a “no smoking" sign. The boy — Rozanov — stares at him with a strange expression before he nods. Arrogant, possibly, perhaps a bit guarded. Shane has never been especially good at deciphering human emotions — or at striking up a conversation. He feels compelled to on this occasion, though, and tries. It's stilted. Maybe Rozanov doesn't speak English well; maybe, probably, it's just Shane being his awkward self. He shakes Rozanov's hand twice in under three minutes. The second time, the other boy gives him a long, assessing glance, then smirks as if he's understood something. He chirps after him and Shane finds himself smiling back. He doesn't really get it, not then. But something clicks in place.
He's eighteen when Shane accepts he might, just possibly, be attracted to men. He goes as far as admitting to himself he's — curious. Curiosity he can process, so he sticks to that label. Nothing wrong with wanting to know what it would be like if it were a man under the sheets with him, instead of Jessica. He jerks off to the thought of ripped abs and a heavy weight on top of him as he showers and lets the water rinse away the evidence. It's better than most orgasms he’s had with his girlfriends. He takes notice and stores the information away. He resolutely does not freak out.
He’s eighteen going on nineteen, he’s been drafted to his mother’s favourite MLH team, second overall, and he’s sitting on the floor of a hotel gym, covered in sweat, the guy who’s beaten him to first place panting in front of him. They’re staring at each other.
“Is everything you dreamed of?” Rozanov asks, and Shane’s brain supplies two superimposed images: Rozanov as he is, sitting a safe distance away, and Rozanov pinning him down, sweat and all, heavy breaths leaving his mouth for an entirely different reason. Shane grimaces, keeps his eyes trained on him in defiance.
“Almost,” he deadpans.
Rozanov apologizes. Smugly. And does not look away.
Shane is still eighteen the first time he lets his purely theoretical, barely explored attraction to men seep into his real life, lets his body override his brain, silence the voice cautioning against the idea.
He's riled up by all the skating, the staring, the laughter toward the end. Rozanov has been in the periphery of his sexual awareness since the draft, probably before, and after an afternoon watching him strike different poses for the cameras, Shane's senses are full of him.
They're both in the showers and he just — he can't not look.
His eyes take Rozanov in in increments, stolen glances merging into the full picture.
He's magnificent, alluring in a way that Shane has rarely experienced — never experienced. He's aroused before he realizes it.
Rozanov notices. Of course he notices, Shane thinks, alarm bells ringing in his head as Rozanov smirks at Shane's state.
“Shut up,” he barks, embarrassment colouring his voice. But Rozanov turns and stares at him, and he's hard, too, hand moving in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.
Shane's eyes are glued to the movement of Rozanov's wrist. He looks away with effort, mutters a clipped not here, gets out of the showers and dresses all the way up to his socks.
And then, skin crawling with a mix of discomfort and anticipation, he waits.
He jerks back into action as soon as he hears Rozanov leave the showers, reaching for his shoe and dropping it the instant he sees him come to a stop in front of his locker, towel hanging indecently low on his hips. Shane's sweating, not five minutes after he finished showering.
“We can forget that happened in there,” he offers, and half hopes that Rozanov will take the out. He's — he doesn't know what Rozanov's game is, here. Shane is cursing himself for his recklessness, knows he's given the other man ammunition. Though Rozanov has, too…
“Is that what you want?” the other asks, skepticism evident in his voice.
“Sure.”
“You're such a bad liar.” Rozanov laughs and, surprisingly, Shane is pretty sure it's not malicious.
He feels his cheeks burn as the other man approaches, cocky and confident in a way that should not be attractive but is. Good God, it is. Shane's eyes feel riveted to the hard ridges of his muscles, almost mocking as they hint at what hides under the terrycloth. He looks away but knows Rozanov sees right through him. He sounds amused when he speaks.
“What's your room number?”
“1410.” It comes out like a question. Shane curses himself, rolls his shoulders back just enough to not feel like he’s curling into himself, makes himself meet Rozanov’s gaze.
“And if I come to your room at, say, nine o'clock tonight…?”
“I might open.” Shane feels proud for managing to match Rozanov's carefree tone, even as his eyes are burning holes into him.
“I might knock.”
Shane keeps staring, a little helpless. Fucking hell.
The wait is excruciating. He showers again in his hotel room, paces around the bed, regrets all his life choices, puts on a suit. Takes it off a minute later, burning with embarrassment even though nobody will ever know how much of a loser he is.
He gets into comfy clothes — easy to take off, his brain supplies unhelpfully — and sits at the small desk near the window. He fiddles with the lights. Almost crawls out of his skin when a knock indeed comes, just a little after nine.
Shane is — terrified. He is also overwhelmingly horny. And, he tells himself stubbornly as he walks to the door, he's not about to make a fool of himself. He knows how to do this. It can't be all that different from doing it with a girl.
He opens the door with a confidence he doesn't feel, and then there's another person in his personal space, another man pinning him to the wall. Shane inhales deeply, looking down as the gap between their hips vanishes. His eyes roam, avoiding Rozanov’s. They get stuck on his lips. He’s sure he’s telegraphing his desire, feels self-conscious about it for just a moment. Then Rozanov grabs his chin with the softest of touches and captures his mouth in a kiss — quick, teasing, testing.
In the breath between their first and second kiss, Shane understands, with a clarity that should scare him, what it means to want.
It’s but a matter of seconds before he gets his hands on Rozanov’s dick, stroking clumsily in the constraint of his pants. It feels different, already. So very different from any other sexual experiences he’s had. Rozanov pushes against him, groans a little, slips his thumb inside Shane’s mouth. Shane’s brain stutters. He sucks and it feels right, his tongue tracing the ridges of his fingertip, saliva making the movement smooth and suggestive. Shane’s thoughts narrow down to a single idea. He drops to his knees like a man possessed and gets his mouth on Rozanov’s dick. It’s — revelatory. Or it will be, afterward, once he has the time to process it with some semblance of lucidity. There, on the floor of an anonymous hotel room, between the legs of the most attractive man he’s ever laid eyes on, Shane feels his head go quiet the same way it does when the puck drops, single-minded focus on one thing and one thing only. He gets shaken out of it when Rozanov drags him to his feet, his insecurities rushing back at once.
“Was that bad?” he asks before he can stop the words. He cringes, expecting Rozanov to mock him.
“No, too much too good,” Rozanov, instead, reassures him, swiping away some spit from the corner of Shane’s mouth before kissing him again. It’s — uncharacteristically sweet. Shane relaxes a bit under his touch.
“Did you like sucking my cock?” Rozanov smirks a beat later, back to his trademark cockiness. Shane's being teased, not mocked, and he can't always tell the difference but with Rozanov he can. This, too, will be revelatory at some point, later. Right there and then, Shane simply finds that he likes the teasing just as much as he likes the sweetness. He likes that he can tell it's good-natured. He finally lets his shoulders drop, and some of his defences.
“Wow, those English words just roll off your tongue,” he answers in kind, the smallest of jabs.
Rozanov smiles but does not relent.
“Yes?”
Shane appreciates he’s checking on him and means it.
“Yes.”
“You want me to — ah, lie on the bed and let you do it some more?”
“Let me?” Shane shoves him back toward the bed, grinning. He keeps smiling as he follows Rozanov’s demand that he strips, folding his clothes tidily on a chair before stepping up to the bed. He feels confident as he stands naked and aroused and lets Rozanov watch him.
He’s on the bed, then, and it’s momentarily awkward again, the change of positions slightly jarring, slightly too loaded to be entirely comfortable. They’re on the bed, naked, side by side. Willingly, intentionally. If it were a woman, this would be the moment Shane rolled on top of her and tried his best. It’s not a woman, and it’s in equal parts thrilling and terrifying. He — he doesn’t want to take over, really. He’d rather let Rozanov take the lead. Rozanov seems to understand it, gets his hands back on Shane’s skin. After that, it’s easy again. Extremely easy. Shane feels Rozanov's hands on his stomach and dick like a brand, commandeering all of his attention. It's — his hands are big, his grasp strong. They're matched in body size, and Rozanov is not really holding him down but he could. Shane feels his dick twitch at the idea of it. His eyes fall back to Rozanov's cock and his mouth waters. Blowjobs have always been his favourite part of sex. He quickly discovers that that still applies when he’s giving them. It’s mind-dumbingly good, the way in which a mouthful of dick quiets his ever-running thoughts. He loves the feel of it, the taste, the way he struggles to breathe. How Rozanov twitches under him, muscles straining with pleasure. It’s heady, knowing he’s the cause of that. Shane gets lost in it.
Rozanov pushes him off just in time, finishing on his own stomach with a few hard strokes. He teases him, right after, pretends to leave, and Shane cannot get a good read on him, not right then, with contrasting versions of Rozanov fighting for dominance in his head. For a moment he really thinks he’s about to leave Shane unsatisfied. He’s incredulous, vaguely offended, and his face must give him away, because Rozanov rolls on top of him and stares at him seriously.
“You think I am asshole?”
“I know you are,” Shane retorts.
“I would not leave you like that.” They stare at each other for a long moment. Shane believes him. He files the information away — another piece in the puzzle that is Ilya Rozanov.
He comes down Rozanov’s throat minutes later, and it’s bliss laced with embarrassment laced with awe. Rozanov teases him about it, and it doesn’t sting.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, still catching his breath. He can’t — he’s — Rozanov just — swallowed him. It was so fucking hot, Shane thinks he might be dying a little.
Rozanov shrugs, loose-limbed, nonchalant smirk back in place. He looks smug. It’s a good look on him, Shane thinks through the last dregs of post-orgasmic bliss. They glance at each other and the reality of what they’ve just done hits. They laugh a bit, incredulous, still high on their release. It’s — Shane struggles between warring emotions. It was — amazing, his brain supplies. Not that he’d tell Rozanov that. He definitely doesn’t need his ego inflated. But it was amazing. And a reckless, stupid, stupid idea. Lucidity returns, and with it unease.
“You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, are you?” he asks, and resents how scared he suddenly sounds.
Rozanov rolls his eyes, answers sarcastically but reassures him. Shane feels his gaze on him for a long beat. He doesn’t meet it. Coward, he chides himself. The moment stretches, a set of possibilities left wide open in front of them. Is he going to stay? Does he want to? Do I want him to? Shane waits, uncertainty coursing through him.
Rozanov sighs and takes things into his hands again. Shane is grateful the other seems to know how to navigate the situation. Rozanov says something about an early flight as he gets dressed. He stares at Shane from the door one last time and makes sure to catch his eyes before leaving with a short goodnight and a loaded nod.
Shane stays in bed and exhales. After a long moment, he hides his face in his hands.