Work Text:
It’s fucking freezing.
As a person who spends a significant amount of time travelling though both Canada and the United States, Shane can say that sometimes you can’t tell the difference between Montreal in the depths of a snowstorm and Boston in a cold snap. Both are unforgiving in their nature.
Especially today.
Even without the biting wind that he can hear whistling by, sending the car rocking even, Shane can’t feel his fingers or toes. The car is still off, after all, and even the standing cold is deadly.
The keys are in his jacket pocket. His hands are still flat on his thighs.
His fingers twitch but are wholly unable to move across the insurmountable foot of distance to his pocket.
In the opposite pocket Shane can feel his phone vibrating.
Hayden, probably. Wondering where the hell he is.
He’s only meeting a ‘friend,’ after all. Not his secret. . . fuck buddy; rival with benefits?
Gods, it all sounds so gross.
So. . . not enough.
Inadequate for what he feels, what he’s feeling.
Insufficient in what it is to be with him.
Scant in the meaning, the bigness, of what it is that Shane feels in his presence.
Deficient; meager; sparse; too little.
All the fucking synonyms.
Ilya fucking Rozanov.
“So. . . Lily is just a ‘buddy?’” the tone had been blithe, like Hayden didn’t believe him in the slightest, but he also didn’t think it was a big deal.
Casual. Like the fact that Shane has a ‘girl’ in Boston is the most normal thing.
Maybe it could be, if ‘Lily’ really was a Lily.
Hayden probably isn’t even thinking twice about where Shane is or what he’s doing right now outside of a passing curiosity. Natural curiosity, since Shane’s being so secretive about the whole thing.
A weird thing to keep a secret, but Shane is weird so they all accepts it with minimal pushback. Over the years they’ve been bringing ‘Lily’ up less and less.
Hayden’s mention of ‘Lily’ earlier in the hotel is probably the first time he’s heard the name from one of his team in months.
Shane doesn’t want to imagine the theories they have come up with to placate themselves. There are some active imaginations within the Montreal roster.
More than likely, if Shane had the ability to move and were to answer the call, he would hear the background of some bar or club where his teammates have decided to unwind for the night. He would hear Hayden and JJ, as they always do, trying to pay him the courtesy of refusing an invite.
Maybe he should be more grateful that they still bother, even though he never accepts, but right now Shane is feeling anything but casual.
He can’t stop thinking about this fucked up situation and now he’s sitting in Ilya’s – because he’s apparently fucking Ilya now – driveway. In Boston. In the middle of the day. After running out of his house. After Ilya called him by his name; called him Shane. Because it all became a little too much.
Shit. Ilya – Ilya, fuck, he did it again – had looked like he was about to cry.
Fuck Shane really messed up this time.
Everything just- it got to be. . . way too much for him to process. Not with Ilya sitting there looking at him with more in his eyes.
All the things – the feelings – Shane’s been keeping neatly folded away into a small box in the corner of his brain; all of the things he’s never really been planning to come back to had come bursting right to the forefront of his mind at the sound of his name in Ilya’s mouth. His lips forming around the shape of it and saying it like a prayer. . . Shane couldn’t, he can’t-
He can’t think. He can’t leave. He can’t fucking stay. . .
Right?
They both know it’s a means to an end.
There’s nothing more for them. . . they can’t be anything else.
They’re rival athletes. Hockey players. Two people at the top of their game – at the beginnings of their very long, very successful, very intertwined careers – in a sport that doesn’t actually believe in the movements they’re promoting. In short, no matter how ‘woke’ and supportive the league may boast about being now – some teams even host Official Pride Nights(!) – anyone actually in the locker rooms know what bullshit that is.
Nothing has changed. And nothing will change without some significant pushback from the players, from the fans, from the people who matter to the league and who are willing to enter the fight of their live and potentially put it all on the line.
And Shane is not willing to be that pushback – no fucking way.
And yet- and yet there’s this box of feelings he hides from everyone (and himself) that he refuses to give a name to that always seem to worm their way out any time Ilya fucking Rozanov is involved.
They won’t be contained now and Shane doesn’t know what the fuck to do about them. He can’t stop thinking and thinking and worrying and pulling up every way this can go wrong and he can lose everything he’s been working for his entire life. Everything his parents have sacrificed to get him to this point; everything he has sacrificed.
Girlfriends. Friends. A social life. An education. A normal life.
Yes he loves the game and he loves his parents and he loves his team – he loves the life he’s made for himself here and he doesn’t regret it in the slightest, not really.
But he has sacrificed so much for it.
Is this something else he’s willing to sacrifice?
Can he give Ilya up for hockey like he’s done everything else?
He should.
It’s always been so easy before. Hardly even a decision to be made.
So why is he hesitating this time?
What about Ilya fucking Rozanov - dick, asshole, pain in the ass extraordinaire – makes it so hard for Shane to let go and move on?
He’s had countless chances, that’s for sure.
A sharp knock at his ear makes him nearly shit himself and jump what feels like a foot out of his seat. His head nearly collides with the roof.
Gritting his teeth Shane forces himself to look to his left, to look at Ilya standing there, out in the cold, in the same sweats Shane had left him in. The shirt is new. . . Shane is still wearing the one Ilya tossed at him.
It smells like him too.
Gods, Shane is such a fucking idiot.
What is he still doing here? Of course Ilya is out here in nothing but a t-shirt and sandals. He’s probably thinking Shane is the insane one.
Shane should leave. Ilya telling him to leave would only make his spiral worse, but Shane is fucking weak.
He cracks his door open, determined to say something. He even tries to say that he’s leaving. That he’ll be on his way soon, he is just trying to take a breath, but he knows that if he unclenches his jaw right now he’ll betray himself and say something impossible. He’ll ask to stay. He’ll apologize and grovel and hope that Ilya doesn’t say it was all a fluke and it didn’t mean anything to him at all.
It meant a whole fucking lot to Shane.
Ilya doesn’t say anything either. He only opens the car’s door more so that he can slip into the open space.
If he were an optimist, Shane might see the way Ilya’s almost physically blocking him from leaving, holding the door in a white knuckled grip. He would look at this and feel hopeful.
If he were an optimist, his heart would flutter and his mind would finally clear of the panic paralyzing him, and he would finally be able to look at Ilya and see the way his lips are chewed near raw, like he might have been gnawing on them. He might see the swollen rims of Ilya’s eyes, the way Shane knows feels warm and itchy and even worse than actually crying. He might look at Ilya and see a man who is just as scared but who is also just as unwilling – even confusedly so – to give this, whatever this is, up just yet.
In actuality, Ilya is probably just trying to shield himself from some of the bitter cold. Shield himself from the wind that’s ripping through even Shane’s puffer jacket and making him shiver again. Ilya’s only in a shirt and sandals.
They’re both silent, staring, assessing, terrified of what the other might be thinking. What the other might have decided – that maybe the other isn’t on the same page or maybe isn’t quite ready to make the same sacrifice.
Jumpy.
He’s feeling jumpy.
Shane hasn’t felt jumpy in a long time.
Fuck.
Ilya breaks the silence with a long sigh, “черт возьмиdamn it.”
damn it
“What?” his voice is softer than he’s meant it to come out.
“Back inside,” Ilya may actually fucking growl in answer before he pushes the door open more, his movements jerky and entirely ungraceful and so unlike how he normally holds himself that Shane obliges.
Climbing out of the car Shane almost feels like prey. Ilya is watching him intently, boxing him in until Shane is facing down the neat path to the door again and, apparently, appeasing the fear that Shane will run away. . . again.
Maybe it’s not such an unfounded precaution.
Only when he’s faced fully in the direction of the house does Ilya drop the arm caging him in, close the door, and follow Shane inside.
Somehow, even after standing outside for a full five minutes, severely underdressed, Ilya’s warm at his back. Shane shivers but keeps walking forward.
There’s something fragile between them right now. Something so different from the normal fast and furious passion their limited hours has ever afforded them before.
The situation is something new; something undiscovered. And yes, no matter how much of a broken record he’s being, it’s something terrifying.
It’s hard to ruin a no-strings hookup with his rival who he’s supposed to hate when they barely have time to catch their breaths between coming, showering, and running to their respective team hotels – whether they’re in Montreal or Boston. Or at an All Star game or mutual brand shoot or a couple dozen other things that prove his earlier point; their careers are so intertwined and woven tight that they wouldn’t be able to escape each other, even if they really did hate each other.
This is by far is the longest stretch of time they’ve spent together in the decade since they met and Shane is fucked it all up completely.
It’s warm inside. Too warm. But Shane still feels cold. A hard mass of ice is resting uncomfortably in his gut as he takes off his coat under Ilya’s watchful gaze.
Aside from four gruff words he seems to have forced out, Ilya hasn't so much as grunted in Shane’s direction. But he is watching him.
His eyes haven’t left Shane at all since the car door opened and Shane is at a loss. It’s not discomfort, really, that he’s feeling. Not like the kind he feels when he’s in a crowd and everyone seems to be focusing solely on him, just waiting for him to do something they can write a story about and keep it going for a few days.
As always when it comes to Ilya, it’s not discomfort he feels, but his heart is racing.
Ilya is waiting for him to do something.
He should apologize. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, the words are already on his lips, formed on his tongue, but he stops – he’s not sorry, well, he is, for walking out, but he’s not sorry for being scared.
It’s scary.
And Ilya wouldn’t appreciate an apology anyway. He’s never asked for an apology from Shane before and he always mock Shane for being too polite, even for a Canadian.
“I’m scared.” And well, that’s true, but nothing else comes out with the declaration and after a long moment Ilya is huffing and the corner of his mouth is twitching.
“Yes? Of your name?” he says it with mirth but Shane can see the concern lurking in the depths of his eyes.
With a sigh of his own Shane takes a moment to lean down and line his shoes up alongside Ilya’s. It makes his heart ache, the sight of them there next to each other. “No. I’m scared of what it means.”
Again, Ilya’s lips twitch, “you’re scared of what you name means?”
“No. Stop being an asshole. You know what I mean.”
Ilya sobers. “Yes.”
Closing his eyes Shane keep talking, “I got scared,” he can’t take looking at Ilya right now. It’s too much. And, as they’ve established, he can’t take ‘too much’ right now.
“Yes.”
He keeps going, “I needed to think, so I ran.”
He’s rambling, he knows he is, but Ilya is listening to everything and he’s looking at Shane like he matters and he can feel his lips loosening.
“Yes.”
Biting his lip against the amusement rising at the bratty tone and attitude Shane keeps going. If Ilya wants him to explain, he’ll do it, but, very carefully, he won't apologize for being scared. “I’m sorry I walked away from you.”
The first signs of irritation: “Are you?”
Parroting Ilya’s new favourite word, infusing it with every bit of honesty he has, “yes.”
“Ok.” It doesn’t make him sound ok at all.
“Ilya.” Shane tests the name on his tongue. Feeling the way he gets excited at the sound of it. Feeling the happiness at being allowed to even say the name out loud in this context.
To Ilya and not just about him.
Ilya tenses, eyes flicking to Shane for a moment before sliding away again, “Hollander.”
Asshole. He kind of deserves it though, “Ilya-” he says it again. It feels just as good- “I’m sorry I ran away from you this time. Next time I promise to try and talk to you instead.”
Ilya still a moment before he pins all of his attention on Shane, “next time?”
“Well, I’m sure if you saying my name is enough to terrify me, anything else will do the same.” His heart is already going crazy at the prospect.
“Anything else? You will. . . stay?” and god, could a tone be any more hopeful and heartbreaking at the same time?
Shane’s heart aches and he’s so fucking mad at himself.
In a burst JJ would be proud of, Shane crowds Ilya towards the wall, muttering like his teammates would during a frustrating game, “fucking hell, Ilya. Pu capab’! Venez iciI can’t take it anymore (Quebecois slang)! Come here,” but he’s the one moving towards Ilya and trapping him against a random door. And, Ilya can’t understand French anyway.
Fingers tight on Ilya’s hips he crowds him backward, squeezing the bones until he’s sure there will be marks. He’s never left marks like that before and it’s thrilling. He pushes until there’s a thump as Ilya’s back connects with the other side of the hall and steps back to look at him.
He’s beautiful, standing there, leaning against the wall, staring at Shane, a sexy little quirk to his lips.
Now that Shane has him pushed up against the door though, he stalls out. This whole situation came from a colossal freakout because Ilya said his name and Shane had a feeling.
Sex sure as shit isn’t going to fix that.
More to the point, Ilya hasn’t touched Shane yet either. He’s let Shane move him back, smiling even in that knowing way he does, but he hasn’t moved to touch Shane the whole venture. Not like he would have before, instantly, with no provocation, even a few hours ago.
There is a good inch of space between them that might as well be as wide as the Grand Canyon for how insurmountable it seems to cross it.
Instead of discussing the space, Shane looks up, “do you want me to stay?”
That’s not what he’s asking, really. They both know it. But, then again, maybe they don’t. Maybe he needs to be more clear. Maybe he needs to do more to meet Ilya where he’s at.
Normally Shane could leave it at that and take what Ilya is willing to give him.
It doesn’t feel right, in the context, so he amends his question before Ilya can do more than open his mouth, “do you really think we can take this step and still be. . . pretend to be what they’ve made us out to be?”
It’s more honest than they ever allowed themselves to be – than he’s ever allowed himself to be – and Shane feels like his heart might just leap out his throat.
Ilya’s mouth closes, opens again, closes, his lips getting tight as his brows furrow. Shane clenches his hands into a fist against the urge to smooth out the wrinkles.
The longer Ilya stays silent the more Shane feels like he’s finally done it, finally ruined the only relationship he’s actually, truly felt normal in – even if it’s the farthest thing from normal – and Ilya will finally see that this isn’t worth it.
That Shane isn’t worth the fuss.
Ilya is a playboy.
It’s something that’s been a given since the day Shane met him and felt the need to create this box.
Ilya is a playboy, a manwhore; Shane is not.
He’s boring.
He likes to read the New Yorker – a habit from his dad. He likes to grocery shop even though he can’t cook for shit because he likes to see what other people – normal people – buy for themselves. For their families.
He likes doing his laundry. He makes it an all-day affair so that it’s done just so.
He spends his days training and his nights studying: other players, other teams, past plays he can maybe modify and use to their advantage, himself. He’ll spend his hours after a practice or a game studying each and every movement he made on the ice and then he makes a plan on how he can improve for next time.
Ilya doesn’t do this. Not to the extent that Shane does at the very least.
Ilya likes to enjoy life. He goes out with his friends. He goes out to clubs just to be around the people and the noise.
He’s not afraid to not be something other than perfect.
Spending time with Shane means absolutely none of these things.
They’re just so different. Shane can’t ask Ilya to give up this life he so clearly loves to be boring with Shane.
Eventually, Ilya will get bored and Shane will get his heart broken and maybe he will have already lost his career because of it and then he will have nothing.
Somehow, it still seems worth it. To Shane.
But he can’t do that to Ilya.
He’s just about to work up the nerve to open his mouth and force out the words to stop. . . all of this before they get too out of hand, before they get too deep and someone gets hurt (and who is he kidding? It already hurts and he hasn’t even made a sound yet), when warm fingers splay over his cheeks. He leans into the hold before he can form a conscious thought.
Ilya’s eyes, when he looks up at him, are soft and concerned. It still surprises him sometimes how well Ilya can read him so fucking well. “You are thinking very loud, солнышко(little) sun.”
“I am not.” The name makes him shiver again, and not from the biting cold that’s still haunting his bones.
Every time Ilya speaks Russian around him Shane can feel himself actively losing his mind.
Ilya just huffs and shakes Shane’s face a little, just once back and forth, “You are and I can see you are convincing yourself of something bad.” Those fingers dig in a little bit more and Shane opens his eyes again to look, following the silent command. Ilya is looking at him like he’s a puzzle, “tell me.”
“No.”
Shane doesn’t like being a puzzle. He doesn’t like being something other people have to ‘figure out.’
It fucking kills him when he notices it.
But Ilya doesn’t have that constipated look about him that people normally sport when he does something ‘odd’ or weird. He’s looking at Shane, eyes bouncing between the points of his face, and he just looks concerned.
He looks like he’s missing something, not Shane.
He’s pouting. He can feel the way his lips are turning down in a way that never fails to prompt Ilya into cooing over his ‘angry kitten’ look and he tries to control it.
Lips brush against his, barely enough to even call it a kiss and Shane catches himself swaying forward into Ilya.
The touch brings him back to the present – when had he spaced out again?
Their chests are touching now. His heart feels all fluttery and faint about it.
“Stop it,” but he doesn't mean the words and Ilya doesn’t pay them any mind.
His cheeks get squeezed again and flutters more kisses along the bones. “You are scared, yes? You have already said this. We are both scared; is scary thing, любимыйbeloved. But you are brave-”
“Shut up, no I’m not.” Fuck his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest.
If this goes on any longer, if Ilya keeps manhandling him and loving him and kissing him, his heart is going to keep beating so hard that Ilya will eventually be able to hear it.
Another shake, another kiss for each cheek, another painful thump of his heart, “yes, you are. You are brave. And you are thinking very bad things very loudly and you must tell me what they are so I can tell you how stupid you are being, yes?”
Fuck Shane wants to laugh at that. And he wants to cry.
He’s so fucking tired and emotional and he kind of just wants to crawl back into Ilya’s bed and pretend it’s four hours ago and he’s taking a midday, post sex nap.
It’s not though, and they have a fucked up situation to address.
Shane feels strung out and like maybe he’s been up all night watch back footage of a terrible game. “I’m not like you. I’m not fun. I don’t like to go out and I hate clubs and crowds and when too many people are near me and I can’t leave.”
“Yes. I know these things.” Ilya cocks his head, like he really doesn’t understand where Shane is coming from, “I know you are boring, Hollander, why are you thinking so hard about these things? I thought you knew this already?”
Still Hollander.
Ilya glanced over his point though, “yes, that! Exactly that; I’m boring, Ilya. I’m boring and you’re not, right?”
Ilya does not look like he’s understanding a single thing coming out of Shane’s mouth, but his fingers are still moving in a slow pattern, stroking along Shane’s cheekbones. It’s really fucking distracting.
“What the fuck are you saying, Shane? I know I am not boring and you are. Why is this. . . uh, what is word? Revelation?” his finger tighten, digging into the hinge of Shane’s jaw. It doesn’t seem intentional.
Shane is breathless anyway, “yeah, revelation.”
“Ok, yes. Why is this such revelation for you, солнышко(little) sun?” Shane wants to pull back and drag his fingers over his face. If only it didn’t mean Ilya would stop touching his face, he might have.
How is he supposed to explain this to Ilya when he doesn’t know how to fucking understand it himself?
At the root of it all it comes down to: “I don’t want you to regret this.” He pauses, letting the pain and hurt of the words wash over him, then he keeps going, “I don’t want you to look at this – at us – in five years, ten years, fuck, in fifty years, after your career – or mine – is in the fucking toilet and, realize this wasn’t worth it at all. I don’t wat you to get bored of me. . .” and quieter, maybe hoping Ilya doesn’t hear it, “like everyone else does.”
Several minutes pass them by as a heavy silence reigns and Ilya process the latest load of verbal diarrhea Shane has dumped onto him in a very short span of time. Shane bounces on his toes, entirely unable to stand still and wait for the verdict.
Ilya’s hands are still on his cheeks, his fingers stroking along the high of his cheekbones and under his eyes, and Shane kind of never wants them to stop. He leans into the touch more.
Slowly, Ilya pieces through the words until he’s moving Shane’s face up to look at him again, “so, let me make sure I am understanding: you think I will get bored of you and want to leave, but by then it will be too late and we will have no careers to fall back on or secret to keep us safe?”
Well. . . “yeah, pretty much.” In so many words. . .
“Oh my god, любимыйbeloved, you are so boring.”
Yeah. . . that’s kind of the point.
Ilya apparently not done, bowls over Shane’s snarky reply, “do you want this?”
In the broadest sense of the statement; the all-encompassing ‘this,’ “yeah.”
Yeah, he does.
Ilya nods with finality. “Then we do.”
And Ilya look so sincere and soft and he’s leaning in to kiss Shane but he can’t stop the- “but-”
“Ah, ah, no buts,” instead of lips, fingers smush his lips together as Ilya lectures him, “who gives a fuck about this untrue, impossible, very bad future your brain has given. It will not happen. This, us, we are good. Will always be good, even when you get old and bad at hockey and have to retire so early-”
“You think they’ll keep letting us play hockey is this gets out?”
Ilya’s grin is feral, “how will they stop us?”
That is a very good point.
Spotting instantly that his point has landed, Ilya uses the considering silence to pull Shane flush against him, “now, will you finish what you started, мой возлюбленныйmy beloved? I am very curious where this will go.”
Very much on board with this new plan Shane only pauses briefly at the last niggling thought plaguing him: “what do those words mean? The Russian ones you keep saying?”
Ilya doesn’t miss a beat, “they are insults. Calling you boring, котёнокkitten-” and he says it slowly this time, stressing the word like he might actually be making fun of Shane- “one language simply isn’t enough.”
Shane knows him better than that, though.
He’s lying.