Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Not everything is about you, Hollander!”

“Stop fighting.”

“Shane!” Hayden tries louder right next to his ear. A firm hand grabs the back of his neck. 

“I can't lose.”

The crowd is loud behind the door, footsteps pounding non-stop just a few meters from him. His heart is going wild in his chest, the adrenaline rushing in his veins. His hands are shaking and he feels like a bull about to step into the Arena. 

“Talk to me” 

The door handle moves.

“Please, Shane”

“Hey, don’t let that motherfucker get to you” Hayden whispers hot in his ear and the door suddenly opens wide. 

The crowd roars.

Flashes blind his vision, the lens of a camera right in his face. Shane can feel the warmth of Hayden’s hand on his back, pushing him forward. It’s bright, too fucking bright and hands starts to grab his arms, slap his back.

The scale sits in the middle of the stage like an altar. Journalists are pressed against the barriers, shouting words, names but Shane can’t hear anything except the beating of his own blood crashing against his temple. 

He feels the sweat prickling at the back of his neck as he starts stripping. The heat from the spotlights burns his skin and he takes a slow, quiet breath. 

It’s okay. You’re okay. 

He steps on the scale.

A number settles on the screen before him and his heart drops. 

He knew what was going to appear on that screen but a small, stupid part of him wished that he would’ve been different, he hoped for a different number, an easy out. 

His mouth is dry and the crowd erupts even louder. He keeps his eyes forward, barely reacting. Everyone is watching, trying to read his face, trying to decipher a glimpse of fear, of intimidation but Shane has spent years learning how not to look away, how to shut things down before they show on his face. He keeps his jaw tight, his shoulders squared. 

Then the noise around him shifts. It sounds like an ocean of whispers, the whole room holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just Shane. 

He can feel him walk out of the doors behind him and his brain starts screaming, his heart ripping out of his chest. 

He’s here. 

He’s right here. 

Shane keeps his eyes on the screen. He doesn’t want to turn around just yet, delaying the moment when he will have to look at him, to swim against the flow of his own feelings.

Ilya Rozanov steps on the stage.

He probably smiled or winked at the crowd because the cheer got even louder and Shane is fighting really hard not to look, to see if he’s also looking. He sees movement and he knows that Ilya is undressing, slowly, so slowly like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Is his heart as loud as mine? Is he drowning in the noise too? 

Ilya steps onto the scale and Shane holds his breath. 

The same number appears and the crowd reacts instantly.

“LET’S GO”

FIGHT! FIGHT!”

The official waves them together for the face-off. Shane turns slowly, the adrenaline blurring his thoughts and beating heart. He straightens and their eyes finally meet. 

They’re close, already too fucking close. There is so much to take in that his eyes struggle to land somewhere. His lips, his eyes, the mole on his cheek. Shane kissed them all and yet he needs to hate it all. 

Ilya looks calm, his clear eyes staring right into his soul. His mouth curves into a snarl as they get even closer, standing inches apart, an invisible wall between them.

Cameras flash and the crowd chants both their names in an overlapping, messy chorus.

Rozanov!

Hollander!

Ilya tilts his head slightly, studying him like a puzzle and Shane can almost feel his breath on his face. Ilya’s eyes flick down slowly to Shane’s mouth, then to his chest, watching the way his breath rises and falls.

He looks back up, a smile ghosting across his lips.

Shane keeps his chin level and his eyes steady. He’s done this a hundred times. Intimidation doesn’t work on him. Not even coming from Ilya. Fuck him.

“You look smaller” Ilya says calmly, accent thick, voice low enough that only Shane can hear. “More fragile”

Shane smiles, mean. “Funny. You look slower”

Ilya huffs a quiet laugh, low and amused. His gaze drops again, deliberate and Shane has to fight the urge to push him away. 

“Such a shame” he says lightly. “To break that pretty face.”

Shane’s jaw tightens but he keeps his eyes hard on him. He’s been doing it for years now, he knows the sport and the words fighters throw around to provoke, to dominate. Shane knows Ilya just loves to run his fucking mouth every chance he gets but a small part of his brain lights up. 

“Suck my dick Rozanov”

That does it. Something sharp flashes in Ilya’s gaze. He won. He got to him. 

The official shifts between them, tense.

“So fucking easy” Ilya smiles and Shane snaps, his skin is burning, the adrenaline ravages his whole body. 

“Fuck you”

The crowd explodes.

Hands separate them before it escalates further. Shane steps back, his pulse hammering and his jaw clenched so hard it hurts.

Ilya pushes forward against the official’s hand, trying to get closer again. 

“Make it worth it”

Shane wants to jump forward but they’re being pulled apart and the crowd is screaming now. 

Ilya is still looking at him. He’s not smiling anymore, he just watches like he’s waiting for Shane to add something but there’s nothing. He’s got nothing. Every single thought is lost in a painful blur.

Shane feels Hayden grab his arm and he takes a step back but he doesn’t break eye contact.

If Ilya thinks he just started a war, Shane’s been fighting it for a long time. 

ONE YEAR EARLIER

“Finish him!” Hayden screams from the corner but his voice feels like it’s underwater, the sound muffled by the pounding in Shane’s ear. Every breath burns his lung, the sweat falling down his forehead to his eyes. 

Mendes is still standing but he’s swaying, his guard too low and his face is already swollen and bloody.  

They circle each other in the middle of the Octagon as the crowd screams for more blood. 

Mendes lunges in a desperate last attempt at Shane’s temple but it’s sloppy. The glove grazes his ear, snapping his head to the side and pain flares in Shane's skull. 

Now.

Shane plants his left foot, ignoring the pounding in his head and he pivots, throwing his whole body into a punch. It connects with Mendes’s jaw with a sickening crack that echoes loud in the arena. His eyes roll out instantly and he goes limp, collapsing forward on the canvas. 

Shane stumbles but manages to catch himself before the referee dives in and pushes him away. 

“Stop! Stop! It’s over!”

There's silence for a second and the arena erupts. Flashes lights up and Shane forces himself up. His arms feel too heavy but he raises them and the screams go louder. 

He fucking won.

Again.

Shane looks up at the giant screen above the cage and is faced with his own reflection. His face is covered in blood and dark bruises, he is smiling, that serial killer smile. This man looks brave, fucking dangerous and just like every time, Shane doesn’t recognize him. 

“Hollander! Hollander! Hollander!” The crowd chants his name and Shane forces his arms even higher. 

I’m the fucking king. 

His eyes finally adjust to the darkness once they finally reach the locker room, everything becomes too quiet and Shane needs a second for his heart to settle. 

He spits in the sink, watching the bloody saliva slide down the drain. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits on the bench, dropping his head against the tiles. He takes the time to feel the cold bricks against his back and he closes his eyes. 

JJ joins him, taking the bandages off his right hand. Shane opens one eye and Hayden is in the corner, frowning at his phone. 

“Hayd” He tries and his friend shakes his head without looking up.

“Nope, not now buddy”

Shane quickly looks at JJ who just shrugs before getting to his left hand. 

“I won” Shane tries, a lazy smile on his face. The adrenaline is starting to run out and he can slowly feel the cuts on his face. 

“That knee was fucking stupid” 

“It landed” 

JJ pads on one of the cuts near his eyebrow and he winces. Hayden shakes his head.

“That’s not the point. You keep throwing borderline shit like that, they’re gonna notice”

“So what?”

Hayden finally looks at him. 

“Dude don’t play dumb, they’ll take that belt away from you.”

Shane doesn’t say anything, the pounding in his skull is getting ridiculous now and he can’t have this, not now. 

“They’re not gonna do shit.”

The door opens and Farah walks in. She is frowning, her hair tied in a tight ponytail. She always looks like she’s the one who’s about to step in a cage but she also has this tenderness that reminds him of his mom.

She studies Shane’s face and body with a concerned look on her face and Shane can tell that it mustn't be that bad with the way her shoulders finally relaxes. 

“Medias are ready for you outside, they’re starving”

Of course they are. 

“Good”

The flashes are back immediately, blinding. Someone shoves a microphone under his chin before he even has time to blink.

“Shane, great fight tonight. Another dominant finish.”

“Thanks” he says easily, wiping sweat from his brow. “I did what I came here to do”

“What do you have to say about that move? Do you think you might have aimed too high with your knee?”

Farah gently pinches his arm. 

“It was just fighting. I saw an advantage when he was leaning in and I took it. I don’t think I did anything wrong there”

The guy nods and another voice cuts in.

“Shane, there’s been a lot of talk online already. Fans are asking the same question—”

Shane feels it before he hears it and Farah’s weight shifts.

“Rozanov.”

Of course. 

Shane knows the name, everyone does. He has watched some of his fights but tried really hard to ignore the headlines, the tweets, the noise that keeps growing louder since his arrival in the UFC. 

Ilya Rozanov.

Some say he used to do illegal fights in Russia, others say that it’s the Bratva that paid for his license but Shane never really cared. Why would he?

“What about him?” he asks, calm. 

“He’s been tearing through his division. A lot of people think you two are on a collision course.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for the cameras to lean in.

Shane shrugs.

“He’s a great fighter, different style. I don’t spend my time worrying about hypotheticals”

The journalist nods and Shane can tell that this was the right answer by the way Farah seemed to relax behind him.

“So you’re saying you’re not afraid that he might be coming for your belt?”

That almost makes him smile.

“I’m saying I prepare for whoever’s in front of me. That’s it”

New questions are popping up from all sides and Shane tries to keep his face steady. He spent his whole life fighting in and out of the cage, he’s not scared. especially not of Ilya fucking Rozanov. 

A hand grabs his hair, yanking his head back. Shane closes his eyes, arching his ass to meet the guy’s thrusts. His heart is wild and he tries really hard to focus on his own release. 

“Come on,” he grunts, his hand fisting the sheets as the man pounds into him. “Come on, harder”

The man chuckles against his neck and obliged, the bed hitting the wall.

Shane knows he should be more careful, his whole body still sore from his last fight but the adrenaline crash is always brutal. His heart still races long after the crowd disappears, his body still at war. He’s learned over time that if he doesn’t replace that feeling with something else, it eats him alive, his thoughts taking the upper hand and he can’t have that, not anymore.

Every fighter has their own way to cope with that fall from adrenaline, some get back in training as soon as possible, some choose drugs or alcohol and Shane chooses sex. Sex with strangers, quick and fast, trying to let them take what’s left.

“You’re such a slut for it” The man breathes against him and Shane closes his eyes, ignoring the way his neck starts to hurt. 

“Yes” he moans, “please fuck me” 

The stranger didn’t really seem to mind the fading bruises on his face and body when he got undressed and Shane was relieved when he didn’t even ask about it. He always has the lies prepared just in case but he usually chooses carefully, trying to find men that would not recognize his face. 

Shane Hollander, the UFC champion. Shane Hollander, the fag. 

The guy suddenly turns him around, pushing him on his back and settles between his legs. He sinks back into him quickly and Shane whimpers. The stranger puts a hand on his neck, the pressure just tight enough for Shane to see stars and that does it. 

He gasps, but it’s not a plea for mercy. It’s a surrender.

“Choke me,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. “Harder.”

The stranger doesn’t hesitate and leans his weight forward. There’s no strategy here. No footwork, no need to watch for a knee coming at his ribs or a fist aiming for his jaw. In those moments, he doesn’t have to protect himself. 

He just has to take it. To let someone else decide how hard, how fast, how deep.

“Fuck,” the man grunts, feeling Shane go limp beneath him, feeling the way his hips stutter. “You like that, huh? Like being broken?”

Shane can’t answer. He can only nod, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, his fingers still holding the man’s wrist.

He learned pretty early in his career and in his journey through his sexuality that sweet and tender doesn’t do it for him. It never did. Shane needs it violent and messy, he needs it to hurt.

In the cage, violence is calculated around points and rules, it’s a performance for the crowd. Here, violence is honest. It’s just flesh on flesh, a desperate attempt to feel something real enough to overwrite the adrenaline.

When the release finally comes, it’s a complete crash, a violent shudder that racks through his sore frame, leaving him hollowed out. The man releases his neck and air rushes back into Shane’s lungs in a ragged, painful gasp. He coughs, his throat burning. 

“You’re wild. Next time I should put you on a leash” 

Shane winces but doesn’t say anything and the guy finally pulls out. He falls on the bed next to him, the mattress shifting under his weight. He grabs his phone on the nightstand, the condom still around his softening dick. 

Shane stays sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving as he drags air back into his lungs. His neck throbs and his body feels heavy  but at least the noise in his head is gone. It’s just silence and Shane finally closes his eyes. 

The sun is already setting by the time he pulls into the driveway. Shane unlocks the door and kicks off his shoes, leaving them abandoned in the entryway. He walks to the open kitchen and drops his keys on the marble counter, the sound echoing in the big empty house. The light coming from the big window is golden and Los Angeles stretches below it, infinite and glittering. 

Shane opens the fridge but there’s not much to look at and to be honest he’s not even hungry, he just feels empty, used. He grabs a can of ginger ale and heads to the living room, collapsing onto the designer sofa. He closes his eyes for a second, listening to the quiet around him. The house always feels too big after the long weeks of fight camp. It’s like all of his effort, nerves and hope evaporated the moment the referee waved his hand. He knows this house was probably built for a family or at least for parties he never throws but it’s just him.

Just him and his dreams which are supposed to be enough. 

Shane sighs and pulls his phone from his backpocket. Notifications flood the screen and he takes a long sip before getting into it.

He’s got a text from Farah about press obligations, a few texts from Hayden but he scrolls to the WhatsApp conversation with his parents instead. 

There’s a new picture of them, wrapped in puffer jackets. They are smiling at the camera and they look happy.  

DAD
It’s getting cold here!!! Miss you kiddo 👍

MOM
I sent you an email for the Reebok contract! Please check it when you can! ❤️

Shane stares at the messages, a familiar hole tightening his chest. It’s in those moments that he misses home the most. Sometimes he just wishes that he could go back, just for one night. He would lay in his childhood bed, listening to his parents’ voices downstairs in the living room. Maybe the TV will be on with some hockey game, maybe his mom would laugh and it would just feel warm, safe. 

He takes another sip and stretches his neck. His whole body hurts and he can still feel the ghost of the stranger’s hand around his neck. His eyes drift to the X app icon. He knows he should avoid it, Hayden tells him every day but he can’t help it and his thumb clicks on it anyway.

Dannyyy @danielw_88
@ShaneHollander24 still fights like he’s scared or smth. That belt won’t save him forever. 

JuliusIV @Centaursiq
I’m sorry but how did @ShaneHollander24 get away with that knee??? it was borderline illegal imo 

ZIZOU @domiberry
I can’t wait to see someone take @ShaneHollander24 for real. Cmon that dude is a joke. Enjoy your 15 mn of fame little man. 

↳ Maxxx @Huntersbitch
Rozanov is coming and it’s done for him #RozanovEra

JohnwayneMAGA🇺🇸 @Alpha71
Let’s be real @ShaneHollander24 is too asian for this. Go back to doing yoga and let the real men fight #UFC #HollanderIsAFraud

KevinR @kevinruss
@ShaneHollander24 got the belt again buut if Rozanov keeps climbing like this, that gold’s already on borrowed time 👀

Shane quickly locks his phone before he can read more and throws it on the cushions next to him. 

It hurts, it fucking hurts and he knew what he would found but still. 

He spent his fucking life trying to prove to the rest of the world that he was good enough, he has the belt now, what more do they want? 

Shane takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the cold can against his palm. He thinks about his mom’s voice, soft and gentle, helping him through his panic attacks. 

It’s okay. You’re okay.

And that fucking Rozanov. He may be good but he is still just a fucking rookie compared to him. Rozanov is too aggressive, too fucking violent and in the cage you need to be smart. Shane is smart. Shane takes months studying the moves of every single of his opponents. He just doesn’t throw random hits, it’s choreographed, prepared. Fuck that guy. 

He takes another breath. 

It’s okay. You’re okay. 

He takes one sip of his ginger ale, letting it sit on his tongue for a second. 

You have the belt and one is taking that away from you. 

No one.

10 MONTHS EARLIER

“You’re the fucking champ Hollander. Act like it” Scott Hunter slurs the words into Shane’s ear, his grip firm on the back of his neck. Shane forces a smile, his fingers tightening around his empty drink. 

He hates those stupid fucking parties, he hates being in the middle of all of these bodies, those half-drunk influencers covered in sequins and sweat. But Scott insisted, it was his own private party so Shane couldn’t find a good enough excuse. 

He used to idolize the guy. Shane watched every fight and spent hours replaying it on the TV, analysing every knockout, every brutal finish. Now Scott Hunter is retired and became this great media personality who got third place on Dancing With The Stars. 

Hunter always looks happy and proud but Shane can tell that these parties are now his own sort of cage, chasing the adrenaline wherever he can find it. 

It’s kind of sad and Shane hopes that his out will be smoother, calmer. He hopes that he can retire back in Canada where he will build his own private cottage next to his parent’s. He hopes he will be proud. Maybe that’s what Hunter was hoping for too.

Rose comes back with a tray of shots and the whole table cheers. Shane already feels pretty drunk but he knows those Hollywood parties and he knows he’s not allowed to be home just yet. 

He takes the small glass that is being handed to him. Rose slides beside him, grabbing her own. 

“Rozanov is here” She says and Shane freezes at the mention of his name. He frowns, getting closer.

“What?”

“Rozanov is over there” She nods towards the far side of the club and Shane’s eyes immediately start scanning the room, his heart loud with anticipation. He starts searching through the crowd, trying to find the man that’s been chasing him for months now, trying to see if—

He’s there, seated deep in a booth fully crowded. He’s right here, for real. This time he’s not on a screen, or under the flash in a press conference, he’s right there. 

Shane’s heart misses a beat. 

Rozanov has an arm around some model’s shoulder. He is kissing down her neck, while her hand is caressing his thigh. 

Like a magnetic pull, Shane can’t take his eyes off him. He is real, of course he is, but Shane never thought that he would see him like this, outside the cage. 

Everytime he tried to picture him it’s always in the Octagon with his eyes hard and violent but he never imagines him here, out in the real world, whispering something in a woman’s ear. 

She laughs, throwing her head back and he smiles at her. 

Ilya Rozanov smiles. 

Is he funny? What does he talk about? What does he do when he’s not fighting? Does he also feel that crash of adrenaline? 

Shane never really thought about the person behind the fighter, but seeing him here, just a few meters away, feels too weird. 

He looks taller in person, broader. Rozanov runs a hand through his hair, then rests it on the woman’s shoulder, caressing it and Shane still can’t look away. 

He has curls, fingers. 

Ugh, of course he has fingers but Shane never really saw them before, not like this. Not the way they caress the woman's skin, delicate, precise. 

He is real. 

“Such a show-off,” Rose snorts and Shane drags his eyes back to her. 

“Have you seen his fights? That’s all he does” He smiles and Rose takes down her shot with a wince, dropping the glass loudly on the table before them. 

“You know I don’t really care about men full of testosterones fighting each other” 

Shane smiles “But you watch me” 

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, knowing damn well that he just handed her a pass to get closer. He just opened a door that he tries really hard to keep close. As on cue, Rose rests a hand on his leg and he tenses. 

“Yeah but you’re different” She whispers in his ear and he closes his eyes. He knows what this means, he knows where this should be going. 

He tried, he really tried to give it to her. To be the person every one expects him to be, the golden boy but he’s not even sure he’s got the strength to pretend anymore, to faint the gasps and the moans, wishing a stronger figure was holding him down instead. 

“Lucky me” He tries awkwardly downing his shot. The alcohol burns down his throat. “I’m going to get another drink”

Rose’s hand leaves his pants and he can’t help but feel relieved as he stands up. She looks disappointed and Shane bites his lips. “Do you need anything?” He asks and she smiles sadly. 

“No, don't worry. I’m fine” 

Shane nods, ignoring the guilt creeping up his chest. 

He makes his way through the crowd, finally reaching the bar. He takes a moment to breathe, leaning his forearms against the cool counter. No one around him seems to recognize him, or care that he is just standing there. The bartender is on the other side, laughing with a group of girls. Shane takes a deep breath, stretching his neck. 

“Shane Hollander.” A voice comes from behind him and Shane stills, his whole body suddenly on high alert. This accent, this voice. 

He turns around slowly and Ilya is next to him, close, too close. Shane straightens, slamming his guard back up, his face tight, ready for a fight. 

“Rozanov,” He nods simply, barely meeting his eyes. His heart is wild against his ribs but he can’t show it. He’s just another fighter, who cares?

Ilya leans on the counter and Shane can almost feel the heat radiating from him. He swallows, he can’t look at him just yet and forces himself to look at the bottles behind the bar. 

“You look like you’re at funeral,” Ilya finally says, the accent sharpening every word. 

Shane scoffs, finally turning his head. “What?” 

Fuck he is close. 

An amused spark flashes in Ilya’s eyes and Shane’s breath falters. Ilya leans even closer and Shane is scared that Ilya is going to notice his pulse jumping wildly under the skin of his neck. 

“I know Hunter is old,” he adds calmly, “but he’s not dead yet.”

Shane raises his eyebrows. Who the fuck does he think he is?  “Wow, you really are an asshole”

Ilya chuckles and the sound is softer than Shane expected. It's calm, quiet and it vibrates in the small space between them. His pale eyes are locked on his face, it’s intense, dissecting and Shane takes an involuntary step back. Ilya clears his throat, shaking his head slightly. 

“Have a drink with me, Shane Hollander” 

“Why would I do that?”

He shrugs. “Or go back there crying, I don’t care.” 

“Fuck you.” 

But Shane doesn’t move, he can’t move. Ilya makes a sign to the waiter, the man bends down and Ilya murmurs something in his ear. Shane can’t hear the words but the waiter nods and scurries off. 

Shane just looks at him again, really looks. The way his black shirt clings tight to his body, the mole on his face. The curls at the nape of his neck, his collarbone disappearing under the collar, a thin golden chain glinting in the strobe light. 

The bartender drops two glasses in front of them and Shane just stares at it. 

“What? Is vodka Hollander, not poison.” Ilya says, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“Why are you doing this?” Shane asks, his voice tight. Ilya shrugs. 

“You’re the champion, you deserve a drink”

See? He’s just another fighter, he just wants your crown. 

Shane can’t help but feel a little disappointed by it. What the fuck was he expecting? 

For a moment, neither speaks and Shane almost regrets agreeing to this, he should have been back with Rose and Scott. Back to pretending that he’s the luckiest man around. 

The club is dark but the strobes keep catching on Ilya’s face. His jaw, cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. Every flash makes him appear somewhere else, like different versions of the same man stitched together.

Shane notices his hands resting on the counter. His knuckles are swollen, his skin is split across two fingers. 

“You fought last week” Shane says before he can stop himself.

Ilya glances at him, surprised. “You watched”

It’s not a question and Shane doesn’t answer, of course he watched. The admission makes him feel stupid. He clears his throat. 

“Your left hook drops when you’re tired” Shane adds, quieter. “Third round”

He immediately regrets saying it. It was too much, too interested but Ilya doesn’t react. He just studies him. 

“And you overcommit when you are angry” Ilya replies calmly. “You stop breathing”

Shane frowns. “That’s bullshit”

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “Second fight against Mendes.”

Shane goes still. He really has been watching. The music swallows the silence between them.

Ilya turns his glass between his fingers.

“I think you don’t like losing control,” Ilya adds, taking it in one go. 

Shane looks at him and shakes his head. He doesn’t know him, fuck him. 

“You don’t know me”

Ilya shrugs again, his body turned to him. “Maybe” His eyes are so intense now that Shane feels too small, stupid and that annoys him more than it should. “But you make me curious”

“Fuck off”

“Hollander, why so defensive? We are just talking. Relax”

Relax, he can’t fucking relax. Everything is too loud, too close, too hot. He can’t breathe, the alcohol rushing in his brain. Fuck. 

“I don’t want to talk to you.” He snaps and Ilya stills. He holds his gaze for a second longer, then just nods.

“Okay fine.”

Shane wants to add something but Ilya just turns to the bar, signaling the waiter for another drink, dismissing Shane as if he were just another guy at the bar he’d analyzed and filed away. 

“Enjoy your night, Champion,” Ilya says, his voice flat now, devoid of the previous intensity.

Shane stands there, frozen, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He feels exposed. 

He doesn’t say goodbye. He can’t. He can’t do anything and just turns on his heel and walks away, ignoring the wave of feelings crashing on him as he makes his way through the crowd. 

When Shane closes the door, the house is even more quiet, only lit by the cold blue glow of the city filtering through the windows. Shane doesn’t bother to turn on the lights and heads straight to his bedroom. His body feels weird, something buzzing under his skin, like an electric anxiety. 

The room is dark and Shane strips quickly, tossing his clothes on the floor and climbs into bed. His heart is still too loud in the quiet surrounding him, his thoughts going in circles. He closes his eyes, trying to take a big inhale but it just burns his chest. 

Fuck. 

He feels hot and grabs his phone, opening his private browser. He needs a release, something, just something to relieve that tingling sensation in his stomach. 

Shane opens one of the first videos, lowering his hand from his chest to his underwear. One of the guys on the screen is already on his knees and Shane caresses the head of his dick with his thumb.

“Good boy” The other man says and Shane closes his eyes, his hand sliding along his length. He focuses on the noise, the gagging sound, the slaps. 

“You don’t like losing control” 

Shane’s hand falters. He frowns, trying to push the image away. 

No. Don’t do that.

He opens his eyes and tries to focus on the two strangers, his hand holding his phone tighter. The same guy that was on his knees is now sprawled on a table, trying to grip the edges while the other man pounds into him. Shane’s hand goes faster. 

“You stop breathing”

The accent, the lips. 

Shane’s breath hitches and his hands move even faster, desperate to override the thought but then he pictures his hands. Strong, bruised. He imagines them on his body, pinning him down, holding him, making him take it. 

A groan tears through his throat, it’s strained, almost angry and his hips buck off the mattress, chasing a friction that suddenly feels too specific. The phone is long forgotten and his mind takes him to the way his chest rose and fell, to the mole on his cheek.  

Shane moans, his mouth wide open. He imagines Ilya’s voice, hot against his ear. 

“You make me curious” 

Fuck, he’s so fucking close. He goes even faster. 

“You’re the champion.”

A warmth takes his lower abdomen and his hips buckle, the orgasm heating hard and Shane screams, coming all over his stomach. 

Shane keeps his eyes closed, he is panting and his heart is racing. 

The room is silent again, the video on his phone still playing. Shane drops his hands, his chest heaving. 

What the fuck have you done? 

“Fuck,” he whispers, covering his eyes with his arm. The itch under his skin is gone but is now being replaced with the sour feeling of guilt and shame. 

What the fuck Shane? 

He lies there in the dark for a long time, listening to the silence of the house, trying to ignore every feeling crossing the border of his heart. Trying really hard not to think about the fact that he just came thinking about the one person who wants to take everything away from him 

Fuck. 

The TV glows in the dark living room. Shane bites nervously at his hoodie’s string, while Hayden gets closer to the screen, the remote in his hand. 

Ilya hits with a clean hook, short, almost lazy. The opponent is forced to take a step back before he even understands what happened.

Hayden touches the screen. He pauses the fight and Shane tries really hard not to roll his eyes.

“Right there”

Shane doesn’t answer and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes are fixed on Ilya still frozen mid-movement on the TV but his mind is struggling to focus. He used to just feel some irritation watching him fight, a professional annoyance, but since their encounter a few weeks ago now it’s something deeper that settles in his chest. It’s not curiosity, Shane is definitely not curious but still, he feels something and he doesn’t know what it is and he hates it. 

And it definitely has nothing to do with the fact that he hasn’t touched himself since that night, too scared that his mind is going to betray him again. 

Hayden rewinds a few seconds. 

“Look at his feet. He’s not faster than the other guy — he’s earlier”

He presses play again.

Ilya barely moves. He takes a small step outside the lead foot, his shoulder turns and the punch lands.

Hayden pauses again.

“He doesn’t react. He waits for you to commit and he punishes the first honest move you make”

He glances back at Shane.

“You do that a lot.”

Shane hums, distant. “Everyone does”

“No” Hayden shakes his head. “You bait reactions. He baits intention.”

Another rewind. The image stutters then settles. 

On screen Ilya is breathing slowly, relaxed, hands low, almost careless.

Hayden points at him. “See this? That’s not confidence. That’s patience. He’s comfortable losing minutes if it means he wins seconds.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. On the screen, Ilya wipes blood from his lip with the back of his glove and smiles at his opponent. Shane swallows. That smile is so different from the one he gave him at that club, his eyes look darker as well. It’s crazy how the cage can change a man. 

Ilya really looked intrigued under the strobe lights, amused even. Maybe he was just making fun of him?
But then he also looked a bit hurt when Shane walked away. And he bought him a drink, he wanted to know him. 

Maybe that’s just what he does with every fighter that he comes across. Maybe he also bought a drink to the other guy on the screen. Maybe he told him that he was curious as well.

Or maybe he does this with everyone in general. The women must love it, his flirty smile, his fucking big hands that caresses their skin, his accent in their ears while he fucks them and—

“Shane? You’re not listening buddy.” Hayden says in front of him and Shane clears his throat. 

“I am,” he lies, his voice rough. 

Hayden looks like he doesn’t believe him but presses play again.

On screen, Ilya slips a jab by millimeters, it’s not fast, just… gone. The counter lands immediately. His coach screams something behind him in Russian and Ilya doesn’t react.

“His defense is weird,” Shane mutters, the analyst in him taking over despite the noise in his head. “He doesn’t reset after exchanges.”

Hayden nods slowly. “Yeah. Because he stays in range. That’s the danger. You disengage to think and he thinks inside the pocket.”

Shane leans back, crossing his arms. “So?”

“So if you fight him like everyone else, you lose rounds. If you force entries, you give him exactly what he wants.”

The crowd roars from the TV as the referee stops the fight. Shane’s chest tightens, he doesn’t want to think about the possibility of their fight. He doesn’t want to think about what he’ll have to do when he’ll have to face that wicked smile, that fucking proud posture. He knows what Ilya is after and he knows he’ll have to fight for his belt but right now, pressed against the cushions it feels too far.  

Hayden lowers the volume.

Shane doesn’t look away from Ilya, chest rising, calm even after the finish.

Shane knows how hard Ilya’s heart must be beating through the screen, he feels it too when the adrenaline takes control. He knows how alive he must feel because Shane also feels the same, right now, just watching him. 

Hayden presses pause again and the screen freezes on Ilya’s face. Shane closes his eyes. 

It’s okay, you’re okay. 

8 MONTHS EARLIER

He is okay, he’s doing great even. Shane feels the sweat dropping down his spine and rubs the back of his neck with a towel. The gym is completely silent now, the hum of the ventilation the only sound left. He walks over to his bag, his legs feel heavy and the muscles in his shoulders are burning. He pulls out his phone. He has a missed call from his mom and unanswered messages in the family group chat. 

MOM
Hi baby, can you call me back? We should discuss Christmas plans

DAD
Just wait a little, the Metros just lost 👍

MOM 
I’m not mad!!! 

DAD
😂😂😂

Shane smiles, gosh he misses home. He misses the simple moments, the laughs by the fire, the shouting at the TV during hockey games, the smell of his dad’s cooking.

But he’s just here, in the cold of the AC. Shane shivers and grabs his bag, heading to the exit. It is late, the night has fully settled outside and he feels empty, drained. He tries to make a mental list of everything left in his fridge but nothing seems good enough for his growing hunger. 

Jackie left some macrobiotic meals in the freezer. Ugh no wh–

Thump.

Shane stops mid-step. A dull thud echoes from one of the rooms down the hall. 

Then another.

Thump thump. 

He frowns, his grip tightening around his bag and slowly follows the sound. He rounds the corner, peering into the open door and his whole body freezes while his heart bursts into flames. 

Ilya Rozanov is on his own, hitting the heavy bag. He’s wearing shorts and a black tank top, his breath is focused, steady, his eyes hard in front of him. His curls are sticking to his forehead with sweat, his face red from the effort. 

Shane doesn’t move from the doorway. He should leave, go back to his car but he just watches him, his body not responding to his screaming brain. 

Ilya’s feet are agile, light and he moves like a dancer, his hits are fast and precise. He circles around the bag until he is facing him and Shane’s heart misses a beat. Fuck. 

Ilya doesn’t see him right away, his stare still locked on the bag but Shane shifts his weight and the floodboard creaks softly. Ilya looks up. 

Fuck.

He looks surprised for a split second and Shane thinks about just leaving, but then Ilya’s whole face relaxes and he lets out a breathy laugh. 

“Hollander” He says, his voice rough. “You’re spying on me”

Shane clears his throat, straightening up. “Wh– No, I–” Was he? Of course not. “I was just leaving”

Ilya chuckles and shakes his head. “Okay.” His eyes go back to the bag in front of him and Shane doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Since when do you train here?” He asks without meaning to and Ilya looks at him again. He shrugs, his body glittering with sweat. 

“I don’t know, maybe two or three weeks” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why? Is there problem?”

Shane frowns. Yes it’s a fucking problem, that’s his gym. This is his place. There must be at least 550 gyms in LA, why the fuck does he have to choose this one? 

“Kind of, I don’t think we’re supposed to train at the same place”. 

Ilya raises his eyebrows. “Oh sorry, maybe I didn’t see your name on the door” 

Shane frowns. What a fucking asshole. “Yes maybe.” 

Ilya stretches and takes a step away from the bag. “Okay, your turn” 

Shane is startled and laughs nervously. “Wh– No I was leaving and I’ve already trained” 

Ilya sits on the ground, breathless. He shrugs. 

“So? Show me what you got Hollander”

Shane knows he should leave, rest, eat something but his pride takes the upper hand and he drops his bag by the door, coming closer. 

He tries not to look at him and to think about his body so close to him as he takes the roll of tape and wraps his hands again. Ilya watches him carefully and Shane steps in front of the bag. 

“What do you want to see?” He asks and Ilya smiles, scratching the back of his neck. Shane tries his best not to look at the way his muscles flex, at the sweat rolling down his arms and chest. 

“Show me everything” 

Shane lets out a short laugh. “That wouldn’t be fair” 

“What fair? you watched me, now I watch you” 

Shane bites his lip to stop from smiling. He stares at the heavy bag in front of him. He takes a deep breath and starts with a left jab. It’s fast, he knows what to do. The bag swings but he doesn’t let it. He steps in, resets. His feet start to move by itself, fast, precise and he ignores the stir in his tired muscles. He puts his chin down, his body low and hits it with his knee. 

He does it all in a quick choreo until his knuckles are hurting and his lungs are burning. He hates himself for having wanted to show off. He hates that he’s doing it for Rozanov. 

He finally stops the bag from swinging and turns to Ilya who is smiling at him. 

“What?” Shane snaps

Ilya shrugs “Nothing” 

Shane simply nods and gets his water bottle out of his bag, taking a long swig. 

“Is funny how you move, it’s like a deer” 

Shane frowns, swallowing the water and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Like a what?” 

“A deer? The animal, yes?” Ilya puts his hands on the top of his head, fingers splayed, mimicking antlers. 

Shane laughs, putting the bottle back in his bag. “When did your English get so good?” 

It’s Ilya’s turn to laugh and his whole face lights up, his eyes sparkling. Shane’s whole body stops responding, his heart hammering in his chest. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Shane straightens, he can’t have this, this is wrong, he needs to leave. “I should go” 

Ilya looks at him for a few seconds and nods slowly. Shane turns to get his bag, his hands are clammy and he can feel Ilya’s eyes on his back, burning through his shirt. 

“Do I make you curious too?” Ilya asks suddenly and Shane freezes, he turns to look at him.

“What do you mean?” He asks, his mouth dry. His heart is beating so loud now that he’s scared that Ilya might hear it. 

“Is a simple question, Hollander” 

Shane frowns. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? He shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. 

“Not really”

Ilya chuckles. “You’re a terrible liar” 

“Wh– I watch your fights, yes but just like every other fighter”

Ilya hums, unconvinced. “But still, you are here” 

What the hell? Shane can feel the heat creeping up his neck and he swallows. 

“Get over yourself Rozanov, I was just leaving”

“Sure.”

Ilya doesn’t push, he just rubs his hands across his face and through his dump curls. “Do you think about us? In the cage?” 

Of course Shane thinks about it, he can’t fucking stop thinking about it. He takes a deep breath, gathering all that’s left of strength in his body. 

“Yeah, sometimes” 

Ilya hums and pushes himself up from the mat. He grabs his own water bottle, taking a long swing, the water falling from his mouth down his chin and neck. Shane can’t help but look, he wants to get closer and lick it, bite it. He shakes his head, this is so wrong. Fucking leave already. 

“Do you?” He tries and Ilya’s eyes are back on him, staring. 

“Yes of course” Ilya replies casually. 

Ilya thinks about you. 

His heart gets wild at the thought and Shane clears his throat. 

He’s just thinking about hurting you. 

“And? How does it end?” Shane finally asks, his eyes locking onto Ilya’s. He can’t show any weakness, not now. 

Ilya smiles, confident. He seems even closer now and Shane has trouble breathing but he keeps his chin high, not backing up. 

“With one of us losing.”

“Yeah. No shit,” Shane scoffs. “And it’s gonna be me, right?”

Ilya’s eyes are searching his face, his body so close that Shane can almost smell the sweat on the crook of his neck. The thought makes his dick twitch in his shorts and he inhales shakily, drunk on the adrenaline, the buzzing of the gym no longer existing. He’s too aware, too stupid, he can’t move.

“I guess we will see” Ilya says, his voice low and Shane has to fight really hard to stop his eyes from falling to his lips. 

Fuck. 

Shane takes a step back, straightening up, putting distance between them.

“Okay, good talk Rozanov” 

Ilya’s eyes are still on him, dark and unreadable. “See you tomorrow, Hollander”

Shane frowns. “I won’t be here tomorrow.”

Ilya laughs quietly. 

“What?” He asks and Ilya shakes his head. 

“Do you ever stop fighting?” 

Shane takes another step back. Fuck him. 

“Goodnight Rozanov” 

He forces himself out the door and into the hallway, away from that smell, away from him. 

When he finally reaches the parking lot, the fresh air hits his face and he takes a big inhale. He gets in his car, slamming the door shut. He sits there for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his heart still racing. 

What the fuck just happened? 

And Shane doesn’t come back the next day and the day after. He tells himself it’s about strategy. He can’t let Rozanov get inside his head so he trains at home instead, trying to keep busy and focused. 

On the third day, he even goes running but he hates it. It’s too linear, just the endless pavement scrolling beneath his feet and his thoughts going around in circles. It’s terrible and it feels like a punishment. 

On the fifth day, Shane decides to go back. It’s his gym, where he always went to and he shouldn’t be changing anything because of a stupid Russian man who happens to be super annoying. 

When he steps out onto the main floor, Ilya is there.

Of course he is.

He is stretching near the cage, one leg hooked over the railing, looking effortless. He catches Shane’s eye and he lowers his leg. He doesn’t look surprised and just nods slowly. Shane can’t help but feel disarmed by it. He was expecting a smirk, a nasty comment or just his last name but nothing. Shane nods back stiffly and moves to the farthest heavy bag. 

They don’t speak. Not that day, not the next.

They fall into a strange, silent orbit. They arrive at similar times and warm up on adjacent mats. It’s a tense, electric coexistence. Shane becomes hyper-aware of everything, the sound of Ilya’s skipping rope cutting the air, the low grunt of effort when he benches, the way he towels off his hair and he hates it. It’s maddening, intoxicating but Shane always comes back. Hayden, however, is reaching his breaking point.

They’re in the middle of pad work when Ilya walks in, barely looking in their direction. Hayden lowers the pads suddenly and Shane almost hits him in the chin. 

“That’s it. We’re leaving.”

Shane smiles, pulling his mouthguard out. 

“Come on Hayd, who cares?”

“He’s lurking!” Hayden throws his hands up. “He’s practically breathing down our necks. Look at him!”

Shane hits his shoulder with his glove and Hayden turns back. “Hey!”

“Is it me that you’re training or Rozanov?” 

Hayden lets out a frustrated groan and picks up the pads again.  

At the end of the week, Shane steps out of the gym and the sun is already low, casting long shadows across the parking lot. The heavy door clangs shut behind him and Ilya is here, leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. 

He’s wearing a cap pulled low over his wet curls, the same golden chain glinting on his black t-shirt. His long fingers tight around the filter of his cigarette. 

Ilya smiles when he sees him, still looking so calm and unbothered.

“I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here” Shane tries, his voice sounding tighter than he intended. 

Ilya just looks at him, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He blows the smoke directly in front of him, the cloud hanging between them. 

“Okay”. 

He keeps smoking, a lazy smirk playing on his lips and Shane doesn’t move. He knows it’s weird but maybe it’s just the way the late afternoon sun falls on his skin or the terrible smell of the cigarette. He just stays there. 

“Where is your little dog?”

“My what?”

“The guy who follows you everywhere”

Shane lets out a small laugh. “Fuck off, where’s your trainer? I’ve never seen him around here.”

Something flashes in Ilya’s eyes and he clears his throat, taking another drag of his cigarette. 

“He lives in New York.” 

Shane frowns.  “So you train alone?”

Ilya shrugs. “Yes, is fine. I always trained alone”

“Do you have someone here?” 

“So many questions Hollander, are you immigration police now?

Shane shakes his head, he doesn’t even know why he cares. He hits the key fob in his hand and his car lights flash in the distance.

“This is your car?” Ilya asks, nodding toward the black Jeep and Shane turns back, defensive instantly. 

“Yeah, why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’? Is a terrible car.” 

“Wh– no it’s not. It’s a normal car!” 

Ilya chuckles, taking another drag, his eyes bright.  

“Why? What's your car?” 

Ilya nods toward the sleek, low-slung Mclaren parked a few spots away. 

Shane huffs. 

“Of course” He turns back to Ilya. “You know what they say about sports cars, right?”

An amused smile stretches across Ilya’s lips. “You think I have small dick?”

Shane’s eyes widen. Heat explodes in his cheeks, spreading down his neck instantly. 

“I’m not saying anything.” 

Ilya chuckles, crushing the cigarette under his shoe. He steps closer and leans in slowly. The tobacco smell is suffocating, mixing with the smell of Ilya’s skin and Shane can’t move  

“It’s not small” Ilya whispers and Shane’s brain short circuits. He suddenly feels hot. Images start to flood his brain and he has to fight the urge to get even closer. 

He takes a step back. 

“Just the fact that you have to say it proves my point.” 

Ilya laughs softly, a genuine sound that makes Shane’s stomach flips. “You asked” 

“I clearly didn’t.” 

“Okay, well, now you know is big” Ilya turns around, walking casually to his car without looking back. “Bye Hollander”

Shane doesn’t move right away, watching him walk across the parking lot, his whole body vibrating with fury or something that looks a lot like want. Maybe both.

What a fucking asshole. 

When Shane finally gets home, he undresses quickly and steps into the shower. He scrubs his skin, trying to wash away all the dirty thoughts, the smell of cigarette and ignoring the pull in his lower abdomen and the hardness of his dick whenever his hands get lower. He can’t have this, not now, not ever. 

7 MONTHS EARLIER 

The Arena roars again and Shane circles left, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts through his mouthguard.

Troy Barrett is still standing in front of him and this is a fucking problem.

On paper, Barrett was supposed to be a guy Shane could dismantle in two rounds to keep his ranking warm but Barrett isn’t reading the script.

Shane’s left eye is already swelling, the skin tight and stinging where a looping overhand right caught him in the first round. His ribs ache from a body kick he saw coming but couldn’t quite evade. He’s not dominating as he should be and that makes him mad. 

“You overcommit when you’re angry. You stop breathing” 

Shane shakes his head quickly to get rid of Ilya’s voice. 

Breathe, 

Reset.

He wipes the sweat from his brow with his glove, keeping his eyes locked on Barrett’s chest. 

Two minutes left.

Troy is breathing heavy now, his mouth open, shoulders rising and falling. He’s strong, terrifyingly so, but he’s burning oxygen at a rate he can’t sustain. He’s waiting for Shane to back up against the fence again, waiting to unload another barrage of power shots.

But Shane doesn’t back up.

He steps in.

Barrett’s eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting this. 

Shane’s mind races through the data he’s consumed for weeks. When Barrett misses a power shot, he drops his left hip to reset and it takes him 0.4 seconds to recover his guard. 

As on cue, Barrett swings a massive hook at Shane’s temple. 

Shane doesn’t flinch and ducks. He bends at the knees, keeping his eyes up, sliding under the punch by a margin so thin, the air of Barrett’s glove ruffles his hair.

There.

Barrett’s left hip drops and Shane sees the gap between his glove and his jaw.

Pivot on the left foot. Rotate the hips. Transfer the weight. Drive through the target.

It’s not a real fight anymore, it’s math mixed with anger and adrenaline.

Shane plants his left foot, ignoring the scream of protest from his tired muscles. He pivots, turning his body into a coiled spring, and unleashes his right hand.

He throws an uppercut to his chin and Troy’s head snaps back. He stumbles and Shane follows instantly with a short hook to the soft spot under his ribs. 

Barett falls on the canvas, clutching his side and gasping for air. Shane moves in, his instinct screaming to finish him but he stops, one foot hovering over Troy’s body.  

The referee dives in, pulling him away. Troy tries to stand up but finally collapses for real, his blood dripping on the dark floor. 

Someone screams something into a mic and the crowd reacts instantly but Shane can’t hear anything. He stands over Barrett, chest heaving, waiting for his senses to come back.

The referee grabs his arm and raises it high. Shane lets him, everything too heavy. He tries to force a smile, the mask of the champion sliding back into place and his eyes find the camera lens hovering above the Octagon.  

Hayden is screaming too but Shane can’t look at him just yet. 

You almost lost. You're weak.  

Shane can't find sleep that night, turning in the hotel sheets, his whole body exhausted while his mind spins in endless circles in the cage. He keeps replaying the whole fight in his head. He sees the openings he missed, the seconds where he hesitated, the moment when Barett almost had him. The journalists and the fans saw it too. They asked about it, tweeted about it and Shane heard it all. 

You could have lost this one. 

He didn’t but still. He is supposed to be the champion, the one everyone fears, the untouchable king but instead he was messy, human, weak. 

You’re not good enough. 

He turns again, the mattress creaking under his restless weight. His chest feels too tight, his skin too small for his body, like he’s about to burst out of it. He needs a release, an out from the crumbs of adrenaline eating his brain. 

He grabs his phone and opens the Grindr app. 

Pictures of faceless bodies cover his screen. It’s a grid of chests, torsos and dicks and he scrolls mindlessly. He needs it, he needs the release and the submission. 

As he scrolls past the different profiles, the anxiety comes creeping in. 

They’re gonna know it’s you. They know you. 

He’s used to this kind of thoughts. Usually, he can push them aside, bury them under the promise of a quick, dark encounter but tonight it seems louder.

They’re gonna tell everyone. 

Look at you, so desperate for it. 

You’re a fucking loser, a coward. 

You’re disgusting. 

Shane closes his eyes, clenching his jaw until it hurts. He tries to take a deep breath through his nose. 

It’s okay, you’re okay. 

It comes back right away, relentless. 

You’re gonna end just like Hunter. You’ll never fight again. 

They hate you Shane. 

You’re almost done. 

The pressure in his chest spikes, a physical pain radiating down his arms. Shane suddenly rolls onto his pillow and screams. The sound hurts his throat but he screams again, pouring every ounce of frustration against the fabric. 

He feels the tears start burning his eyes and presses his harder into the pillow, trying to suffocate them. 

Don’t fucking cry. 

Don’t you dare. 

He takes a ragged, shuddering breath, his whole body shaking. 

Fuck. 

He’s grateful to be on his own when he pushes the door of the gym. The lights are dimmed, all the machines powered down, the low hum of the AC and the soles of his shoes echoing.

It’s peaceful and Shane drops his towel and shaker bottle near a bench press station and sits down, rolling his shoulders once. His body is still aching from the fight a few days ago. 

He still hasn't slept much but the intrusive thoughts are quieter now, a little more manageable. 

He puts his earbuds in and looks at his reflection in the mirror. The bruises under his left eye have darkened, ugly and sharp. Shane sighs and lies back, his fingers wrapping around the cold steel bar. 

He’s just unracking the weight when the door opens. Shane doesn’t acknowledge the person who just came in and focuses on the weight in his hand. He lowers the bar with control, then pushes it up again in steady reps.  

Footsteps cross the rubber floor and Shane curses in his head, trying not to react to this stranger intruding his quiet moment. The person sits on the bench beside him and Shane racks the bar with a sharp exhale. He slowly turns his head and Ilya is here, watching him. His eyes are lost on his face and Shane squirms under his gaze, pulling his eyes back on the bar above him. 

“What?”

“Barrett’s fists are still strong, huh?” He says, tapping softly under his eye where Shane’s bruises are, in case he didn’t understand. 

Shane frowns. He can’t have this, not now. He knows he sucked, he knows it was bad, he doesn’t need the reminder. 

“Well he fucking lost so…” He says quickly and grabs the bar back, tightening his grip around it. “Guess mine are stronger” 

Ilya doesn’t say anything and Shane sighs. 

“Rozanov, I don’t need to hear about your precious takes on my fight. Get lost” 

He doesn’t even sound angry, just tired. 

“That last move,” Ilya says, his voice calm, cutting through the silence. “It was smart.”

Shane turns his head again, his palms clammy around the metal. 

Is he making fun of me? 

But Ilya’s eyes are calm, still focused on his face. 

“Yeah, well, it still took three rounds” Shane mutters

Ilya smiles softly, shaking his head. 

“And? Barrett is good, really good but you were still better”

Shane drops the bar, his hand falling limp on his shorts.

“I don’t need your pity”

“Is not pity”

Shane takes a deep breath, staring at the ceiling tiles. “You loved it didn’t you?”

Ilya still studies his face for a long moment. He shrugs and under the white artificial lights,  he looks beautiful.

“Of course. It was a good fight, very…” he searches for his words, his brows furrowing slightly. “Entertaining”

Shane huffs. “Glad to know I kept you entertained”

Ilya groans, running his hand through his curls. 

“Hollander wh— You still have the belt, who cares about fucking Barrett?”

Shane sits up, looking at him. “Why are you being nice to me right now?”

“I don’t know” Ilya leans back, crossing his arms. “I wanted to say congratulations but apparently you just want to be sorry for yourself”

“I—” Shane cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. His shoulders drop. “I should’ve done more”

He has no idea why he is telling him this. Ilya probably doesn’t care or he’s loving it and is going to use it against him but there’s something so quiet and fond in his eyes that Shane just feels like telling the truth.

“More like what? Kill him?” Ilya teases, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re Canadian, I’m pretty sure is not even in your DNA.”

Shane bites down a smile, unable to stop it. “You’d be surprised” 

Ilya smiles back. He looks breathtaking. 

They stay silent for a minute, listening to the quiet hum of the ventilation. It feels nice, kind of. It mostly feels calm for the first time in days. Shane feels something unclench in his chest and he takes a deep breath, letting the air rush in. 

“You're fighting Dallas Kent next, right?” Shane asks and Ilya nods. 

“He is such a dick. Breaking his face is always a satisfaction.”

Ilya chuckles next to him. “Are you saying you hope I win, Hollander?”

“No, but I still hope you hurt him good”

Ilya grins, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. Shane feels a pang of disappointment at the loss of proximity. 

“I will throw one for you then” Ilya says, grabbing his water bottle. 

Shane nods, laying back against the bench. 

“Maybe on the second and last round” Ilya adds and Shane lets out a small laugh. 

“Get out, Rozanov”

Ilya laughs again, a warm sound that echoes in the empty gym. He walks toward the heavy bags and Shane grips the bar tighter, fighting the smile on his face, his thoughts suddenly very quiet. 

The fork clinks against the plates and Shane takes the last bite of his salad, leaning back in his chair with a sight.

The sun is pretty hot and the fresh breeze rushes through his thin shirt. He watches the kids running in the back of the garden. 

Jackie takes a sip of her wine. 

“We watched Rose’s new movie last night on Netflix” She says and Shane freezes for a fraction of seconds. He’s grateful that he’s wearing sunglasses. 

“Oh yeah? How was it?”

He’s proud of the way his voice didn’t even shake. 

“It was good. I’m not really into action movies, but it was pretty good” 

“Cool,” Shane says, picking at a leaf of lettuce on his plate. 

“Hm” Hayden shoves a massive forkful of steak into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Have you talked to her lately?”

“Hayden” Jackie warns and he shrugs. 

“What? Isn’t that where this conversation was going?” 

“Wh– Hayd, I just said we watched the movie. That’s it.” 

“It’s fine,” Shane cuts in quickly, taking a sip of his warm ginger ale. “And no, we haven’t really…talked”

It’s not a lie, sort of. They texted after Hunter’s party but Rose is smart; she’s probably guessed that he was not looking for a repeat performance of their last night together.

He’s also glad to see that she kept to herself how he never came despite all of her efforts. 

Shane doesn’t understand why she keeps being so nice to him when she’s so gorgeous and famous and can literally have anyone else in her bed. 

She was a great cover for a while but then he got the belt and the pressure became a convenient excuse to take a step back. 

“And are there any other nice women in LA that you might have taken interest in?” Hayden tries again and Jackie puts her glass down.

“Babe! That’s not our business. Leave him alone.”

“I’m just asking!” Hayden throws his hands up in defense. “I feel like I barely see you outside of our training sessions!”

Shane chuckles awkwardly, the sound dry in his throat. He hates those conversations, he hates how the lies taste on his tongue but again, he always has them prepared, whether it’s for his friends, his parents or the random men he sleeps with. So many lies that sometimes he wonders if he is ever telling the truth. 

“No, I haven’t really… cared about it.”

“Is this how you’re gonna be with our kids?” Jackie says to Hayden and he rolls his eyes. 

“Oh come on! Shane is my friend and my role as a friend is to make sure that he is eating good and getting laid. Basic checklist.”

Shane smiles, a genuine flicker of amusement breaking through his anxiety. “JJ is your friend too. I don't see you caring that much about his sex life.”

“Because I know he’s already got his hands full with that Russian model,” Hayden says, waving his fork. “Apparently she used to date Rozanov.”

Shane’s grip tightens on his can, the name bouncing from his chest to his heart. Images from the club floods his mind. His hands on the woman's shoulders, his whispers in her ears. He straightens, still grateful for those damn sunglasses. 

“Why? Because she’s Russian?” Shane asks, trying to sound casual. 

“No JJ told me” He says proudly and Jackie rolls her eyes. 

“Really? Sounds like you’re just finding excuses to talk about him.”

“What? No I’m not, ask him! It must be a relief for her to be done with that asshole”

“Hayden” Jackie warns again, sensing the tension building in Shane’s shoulders. 

“It’s true, have you seen his last interview on ESPN? That guy is a dick. He’s so arrogant, I’d be surprised if he even has a soul.”

“What interview?” Shane asks, his voice tighter than intended. 

“You haven’t seen it? Man you have to see this”

“Hayd” Jackie cuts in. “We’re eating!”

But Hayden is already up, striding into the house. Jackie sighs, rubbing her temple. She turns to Shane, her expression softening. 

“I’m sorry”

“It’s fine, really” Shane says, forcing a smile, ignoring his heart racing in his chest. What has Ilya said? He seemed genuinely nice the last time they saw each other and weirdly Shane kind of got used to seeing him everyday, having his presence around. 

He is still too scared to touch himself or to let his mind wander too far but it’s fine. 

Jackie looks at him for a long second. 

“You know you don’t owe us anything, right? We’re just happy to have you around”

“Yeah I know”

She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. 

“And… if there’s anything you want to talk about, you know where to find me”

Shane gulps. The air suddenly feels too thick, too hot.  What is she talking about? What does she know? He wants to ask about it but Hayden comes back with a pink IPad covered with stickers. 

“Okay, couldn’t find mine so I took the girls’ instead.”

He sits back and taps the screen. He sets it in the middle of the table, between the plates. 

Shane stares at the screen, his hand clammy against his legs. The video starts and he clenches his jaw. 

Ilya is sitting in a high-backed chair, looking effortlessly cool in a simple black tee. He is smiling, of course he is, a charming lopsided grin that makes the audience in the studio laugh before he even opens his mouth. He’s holding a microphone loosely, swinging his leg like he’s on a talk show, not a pre–fight presser. 

“So Ilya, the Welterweight division. People say it’s stacked with talent but you seem unimpressed. Why is that?”

Ilya chuckles into the mic and leans forward. Shane can’t take his eyes off the screen. 

“Unimpressed? No, no. I’m very impressed. It’s a very talented division, just not a very dangerous one". He shrugs, still smiling. “Most of them fight like they’re trying not to lose. That’s not how I fight”.

Shane feels his cheeks burn. Hayden groans. “See? What a fucking asshole.”

The interviewer presses. “Are you saying this too about the current champion? Shane Hollander?”

Ilya stops spinning the mic and he looks up. 

“Who?” 

The crowd laughs and Shane’s jaw clenches. The bastard is fucking loving this. 

“Yes, Hollander. Well he’s the best right now, no? I have to give him that. He’s good, very… how you say? Clean but sounds a bit boring to me” 

Shane knows what it’s like to be in the middle of these interviews, he knows what the journalists expects but still it hurts and he feels fucking stupid.

“So, no respect for the champion?”

“Respect? Of course I respect him. I know he works hard but I’m not scared of that”

The journalists keep asking questions but Shane can’t focus anymore, he feels betrayed. He shouldn’t feel betrayed but Ilya’s words last time felt real but maybe Shane was just too fucking stupid once again. His eyes focus on a rainbow sticker on the right corner, his heart too loud and his whole body vibrating. 

“I can’t wait to see you crush him” Hayden says and Shane raises his head. He clears his throat. 

“We’re not there yet”

“I know but when the time will come you’ll be fucking ready I can tell you that”

Shane’s throat is dry and he just nods, incapable of saying anything else. 

One of the kids starts crying and they all turn their heads. 

“Dad” Jade comes running to them. “Ruby is forcing Arthur to eat a worm, she said that he will be ban of the family if he doesn’t”

Jackie rubs her face and Hayden groans, standing up. 

“Ruby!” He screams and Shane just watches. 

You’ll be fucking ready. 

Will he really? 

The bag swings wildly in front of him and Shane hits it even harder. He does it again and again. 

He left the dinner feeling hollowed and now he just needs to get it all off his chest. He’s so tired of pretending, pretending it is all enough, pretending he’s not hurt, pretending he’s fucking strong. Fuck.

The door opens and Shane doesn’t even look up. He knows who it is, the footsteps coming closer are too heavy, too confident. 

“Not now, Rozanov.” Shane grits out, landing a vicious hook. 

Ilya doesn’t leave and leans against the wall. Shane lets out a low growl and finally stops, looking at him. His chest is heaving and sweat drips from his nose. 

“What? You have something you want to say? Guess what? I don’t care”

Ilya looks surprised for a second and quickly recovers. He frowns. 

“Hollander–”

Shane shakes his head, his eyes going back to the bag in front of him. 

“No I don’t care and why are you here anyway? Since you’re so unimpressed and bored!” He spits without really meaning to. He shouldn’t have given in so easily but everything already fucking hurts. Fuck him. “Go be this amazing fighter you think you are”

Ilya hums. “Oh, so this is what it is about”

Shane looks up. “No, as I said, I. Don't. Care!”

Ilya pushes himself off the wall, taking a step closer. 

“Well, clearly you do”

Shane doesn’t say anything and goes back to the bag in front of him.  

“Hollander, you know what they want. Is just stupid press”

Shane still doesn’t respond.

“Why are you so serious about this? You would have said same thing!”

Shane stops, holding the bag with his hands. 

“No, I would’ve…” What the fuck does he even want to say anyway? Why would it matter? “You think you’re so much better than everyone, huh? Ilya Rozanov, The guy who just made it to the UFC and thinks he has it all. Congratulations, I’ve been there too and you don’t know shit.”

“Not everything is about you, Hollander!” Ilya screams and Shane freezes, his heart pounding against his ribs. Ilya’s eyes are hard on him, he gets even closer. 

“You think you just win by being nice? I can’t be nice. That’s what they expect of me! What everyone expects of me! And I wasn’t talking about you, they talked about you! They’re obsessed with you, everyone is obsessed with you. The golden boy”

Shane swallows, still holding his gaze. “Fuck you”

Ilya runs a frustrated hand on his face. He sighs. 

“Ugh, okay. Fine, ask me”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“If you think I’m such an asshole. Ask me.” Ilya gestures vaguely to the room. “Pretend you’re journalist. Ask me again what I think about you.”

“I don’t care what you think about me”

“Ask,” Ilya demands, his eyes intense. 

Silence stretches between them, heavy and thick. What the fuck is he playing at? Shane looks at Ilya’s defiant gaze. He finally sighs, defeated.  

“What do you think about me?” He asks, his voice small. 

“Come on Hollander, we’re at press conference. Ask better”

Shane wants to argue but he sighs again. This is ridiculous. 

“What do you think about Shane Hollander?”

“Shane Hollander? Hmm” He pauses and tilts his head, pretending to think about it and Shane tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “He’s pretty boring and I think he is too angry”

Shane opens his mouth but Ilya isn’t done. 

“And he drives this terrible car”

“Okay we’re done”

Shane grabs his bottle on the floor and starts walking away.

“But he is funny and he has those beautiful freckles and I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Shane freezes, his heart exploding. Did Ilya just— No he can’t be. He turns slowly and Ilya’s eyes are hard on him, steady. Shane swallows hard. 

“You’re just making fun of me,” he whispers, his voice shaking. 

Ilya takes a step forward. “Shane”

“Don’t…” He inhales sharply, everything mixing and crashing in his brain and in his chest.  Everything pushing and pulling at the same time. “You’re trying to get inside my head. You just want the belt and…  I’m fine. I don’t care about your stupid jokes, I don’t care about anything you do. You just want to win but guess what? I’m still the fucking champion. You’re nothing, nothing!”

The words hang in the air between them and Shane can see the impact instantly as Ilya’s face hardened. His posture straightens, the violent fighter from the cage returning. A wave of guilt crashes into Shane’s chest, mixing with all those confusing and hungry feelings. 

Ilya just nods. “Okay, fine. I leave you alone.”

He walks past him, brushing his shoulder and heads to the exit without saying anything else. Shane doesn’t move and the door clangs shut behind him. 

He stands alone in the silence, his hands are shaking and his heart hurts every time he tries to take a breath

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

But Ilya was just playing, right? Ilya likes girls, he fucks models. He doesn’t care about Shane, stupid little Shane. 

He can’t unsee the hurt on his face. Did he really mean it? 

“You’re nothing, nothing.”

Fuck, you’re such an asshole. 

Shane doesn’t know how long he stays in the silent gym, his hand clutching the water bottle in his hand. 

He finally gathers the strength to move and slowly walks out. The sun and the fresh air hits his face and he takes a deep breath. He turns his head and Ilya is here, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. 

Shane can’t help the little part of him that feels relieved at the sight. He slowly gets closer. 

Ilya looks up but doesn’t react, blowing the smoke thoughtfully in front of him. Shane leans next to him. They stay quiet for a moment, listening to the traffic, the smell of tobacco settling between them. 

Shane has so many things he would like to say but he doesn’t trust the words brushing against his lips. He clears his throat. 

“I’m sorry” He mumbles and he feels even more stupid. He feels like a kid and he hates it. Ilya is still not reacting and Shane really thinks about just leaving but he can’t move. He hates the idea of getting away. He pushes himself off the wall and brings the water bottle closer to his mouth. 

“Ilya Rozanov,” He starts and Ilya finally looks up. He raises an eyebrow and Shane can feel the heat spread on his cheeks but he keeps going, holding his made up microphone even closer. “Did you mean what you said about Shane Hollander?”

Ilya is still looking at him and a slow, small smile tugs at his lips. He shakes his head, amused. Shane brings the ‘microphone’ to Ilya’s face. 

“You said you think about him. Is that true? You can’t lie to the fans. It’s bad for the image.”

Ilya chuckles softly and leans in, speaking directly to the plastic bottle, his eyes not leaving Shane. “Yes” 

Shane doesn’t say anything, the butterflies eating down his stomach, his heart jumping so loud, he’s afraid that he might just die. 

Ilya straightens up and gently takes the bottle from Shane’s hand. Their fingers brush and it sends a chill down his spine. He holds the bottle up. 

“Shane Hollander” Ilya says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you think about Ilya Rozanov?” 

Shane looks at him, the sun catches Ilya’s eyes and he can’t breathe. The words fight against his lips. He suddenly feels terrified, defenseless. He swallows, his whole body trying to block the warm waves coming from his heart. 

“Stop fighting, Hollander” Ilya murmurs, stepping closer. 

Shane takes a deep breath, looking at the water bottle between them, then back up into Ilya’s eyes. Fuck this. 

“Yes,” he whispers, closing his eyes. It feels like a dam just opened in his chest and all of the feeling hiding there just starts floating out in his veins. His whole body is drowning in this new terrible feeling. Ilya closes the distance and he’s right there. Shane can feel him, smell him and his head starts spinning. He grabs the front of Ilya’s shirt, closing his eyes even tighter. 

Ilya raises his hand, his fingers brushing softly against Shane’s cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. His touch is tentative and Shane leans into it. Ilya leans in and he can feel his breath on his lips. 

“Ilya…” he whispers but nothing else comes out. Just his name. It feels like it’s the only thing he will be able to say for the rest of his life. He opens his eyes and he is just there. So fucking beatiful. Ilya’s lips brush his and Shane takes a small step back. The reality slowly crushing in. 

“Not here.” 

Ilya frowns and looks around the empty parking lot. “Where?”

Shane is still fisting his shirt, keeping him close. He tries to think about a place where they could go but his mind isn’t working properly. “Just– not here”

Ilya lets out a small laugh and takes a step back. “Oh my god Hollander, you really are boring. Give me your phone.”

“What?” 

He takes out his hand. “You have phone? Give.” 

Shane finally obeys, pulling it from his pocket. Ilya taps quickly on the screen, entering his number. When he hands it back, Shane sees the contact name. 

“Lily?” He asks and Ilya nods. 

“Text me your address” He says, turning to walk toward his Mclaren. 

“No” Shane says automatically, panic flaring again. 

Ilya sighs, stopping by his car door. He looks back, his expression softening.

“Hollander.”

Shane is pacing in the living room. He doesn’t know what to do about himself. He had time to take a quick shower, to change three times but right now he just feels stupid standing in his living room with his white shirt and jeans. Fuck maybe he should change again? 

And what the fuck is Ilya doing? He said ten minutes but it’s almost been twenty minutes now. He rubs his clammy hands on his pants. 

Maybe it was all a joke? Maybe he was really trying to get inside his head? Shane’s chest tightens at the thought, the panic rising. What if he called the press or the cops? 

Why would he call the cops, Shane? 

He tries to breathe, closing his eyes. 

It’s okay, you’re okay. 

A car engine cuts the silence and Shane feels a wave of relief crash into him immediately followed by fresh panic. His heart is hammering in his chest when he hears the car door closing and he opens the front door. 

llya is here. He is really here. 

He smiles and Shane can’t breathe, still not sure if it is a trap or not, still waiting for Ilya to laugh in his face but Ilya enters like he’s never been crossed by doubt once in his life. He looks directly into his eyes and Shane doesn’t know what to do with himself, his hand gripping furiously at his pants. 

He’s never had someone here, not someone he wanted to have sex with. 

Especially not Ilya fucking Rozanov. 

They stare at each other in silence, assessing. The whistle must have been blown because they start circling each other, waiting for the first one to break. 

Ilya takes a step forward and Shane’s heart explodes. He shoves Shane against the wall, the force making the framed pictures rattle. Shane grabs Ilya’s collar, yanking him forward to crash their mouths together. Their teeth clash, their tongues fight for dominance. Shane tastes blood—maybe his lip, maybe Ilya’s. He doesn’t care. Ilya’s hands start wandering under his shirt, taking control and Shane’s insides are screaming, his whole body refusing to surrender.

“Get on your knees” Shane orders, his eyes hard. He needs to see if Ilya means it, he needs him to give up. 

Ilya pauses for a second, his eyes searching his face and finally drops to his knees without a word. Shane’s breath catches in his throat at the sight but Ilya is fast and strips off his pants and underwear in one swift motion. 

He looks up and takes him in his mouth and Shane’s hand grabs his hair, biting his lips. He can’t show him how good it feels. Fuck, it is so good. 

Ilya starts bobbing his head, his eyes still on Shane and he can’t get enough of the sight. 

Ilya Rozanov is on his knees for you, sucking your dick.

Shane lets out a strangled moan and pushes forward. Ilya takes him deeper, like he’s been doing this all his life.

Ilya has been here before, how many men did he get on his knees for? How many times did he—

It’s too much and Shane pulls on his curls to force him up. Ilya doesn’t fight and stands, out of breath. 

Why isn’t he fighting this? 

“See this? That’s not confidence. That’s patience. He’s comfortable losing minutes if it means he wins seconds.”

Hayden’s voice comes back to him and Shane pushes Ilya backward, stumbling toward the living room. “Bedroom,” Shane gasps against his mouth, trying to take charge, trying to lead. “Now.”

Ilya lets himself be pushed, but his hands are already working at his own belt, rough and impatient. When they reach the edge of the bed, they are both naked and Shane tries to spin him around, to push him down, to take the top position. It’s instinct, control.

But Ilya doesn’t go down. As Shane shoves at his shoulders, Ilya plants his feet. He uses Shane’s own momentum against him and in one fluid motion, he twists, grabbing Shane’s wrists and slams him onto the mattress.

Shane snarls, thrashing instantly. 

“Get off,” he grits out, trying to buck his hips, to roll them over. His muscles coil, screaming with effort. He’s strong, furious, and desperate to reclaim the hierarchy. “I said—”

“Shut up,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dangerously low.

He pins Shane’s wrists above his head with one hand, pressing them into the cushions. With his other hand, he presses flat against Shane’s chest, holding him down with a weight that feels immovable. Shane struggles, his legs wrapping around Ilya’s waist, trying to squeeze, to unbalance him but it’s like fighting a wall. Ilya doesn’t even breathe hard, he just looks down, his eyes dark, dilated, watching Shane fight with a mixture of amusement and hunger.

“Stop fighting,” Ilya says calmly. 

“Fuck you,” Shane spits, arching his back, trying to free a hand. 

“Let me up. I’m not— I’m not doing this like… like this.” 

“Like what?” Ilya leans down, his lips brushing Shane’s ear.  “Look at you,” Ilya whispers, biting lightly at the shell of Shane’s ear, sending a jolt of electricity down his spine. “Look at you, trembling and sweating. You want it, Hollander. You need me”

Shame springs in his chest and Shane fights even more. Fuck him. 

“I don’t need you,” Shane growls, his voice cracking. He tries to knee Ilya off, but Ilya simply shifts his hip, blocking the move effortlessly, pinning Shane’s legs down with his own weight. 

Shane is trapped. Completely immobilized. The realization hits him like a cold bucket of water. In the cage, he could find an opening. Here, against Ilya’s raw, deliberate strength, there is no opening. There is only submission.

The frustration burns in his chest, hot and suffocating but underneath the anger, something else uncoils. A dark, heavy heat. The relief of not having to fight anymore. Ilya senses the shift but doesn’t move his weight. He stays heavy, dominant, waiting. 

“Tell me,” Ilya commands, his voice rough against Shane’s jaw. “Tell me what you want.”

“No,” Shane chokes out, tears of frustration pricking his eyes. His ego is screaming at him to keep fighting, to never yield. Ilya grinds his hips down, just once, a slow, deliberate friction that makes Shane’s breath hitch in a sob. 

“Tell me,” Ilya repeats, harder this time. “Or I stop. Right now.”

The threat hangs in the air. The silence stretches, filled only by their ragged breathing. Shane looks up at Ilya, at the mole on his cheek, the sweat on his brow, the absolute certainty in his eyes. Shane knows he’s beaten. He knows that if he wants this, if he wants him, he has to surrender.

He is drowning and he is exhausted, so fucking tired of fighting. He closes his eyes and his body goes limp beneath Ilya’s. The fight drains out of him and he bites his lips. 

He feels stupid, weak but Ilya presses against his crotch again and Shane clutches his fists. 

“Please,” Shane whispers, the word tasting so bitter in his mouth. 

Ilya doesn’t move. “Louder.” 

Shane closes his eyes even tighter, shame and desire warring in his gut. He swallows hard. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes, his voice breaking. “Please. Fuck me.”

The change in Ilya is instantaneous. The tension leaves his shoulders. The predatory focus softens into something hotter, deeper. He releases Shane’s wrists, but instead of pulling away, he uses his freed hand to cup Shane’s face, his thumb brushing over Shane’s swollen lip. 

“Good boy,” Ilya murmurs.

He shifts his weight, not to let Shane up, but to settle between his legs, claiming the space Shane had tried so hard to defend.

Ilya starts kissing his neck and his chest. 

“Where is…?” Ilya doesn’t finish and Shane opens the bedside table, taking out condoms and a small bottle of lube. He waits for a comment, something about how ready he was for it but Ilya doesn’t say anything and grabs the lube from his hands. 

Ilya opens his legs wider and starts opening him up, slowly, so slowly. Shane is panting, his hands gripping the sheets, trying to focus on Ilya’s fingers inside of him. 

Ilya finally stops. He grabs a condom and rolls it on his hard dick before positioning himself at Shane’s entrance. Shane grabs his arm to stop him and Ilya looks up.

His pupils are blown wide and his lips are slightly parted. 

“Don’t …” Shane starts and he clears his throat. “Don’t be gentle, fuck me for real” 

Ilya frowns and Shane feels even more stupid, he looks at the ceiling. “Please” he adds weakly and that does it. 

Ilya pushes into him and Shane cries out, his head falling back into the cushions, his legs wrapping tightly around Ilya’s waist, pulling him deeper. 

Ilya obeys and fucks him hard, the bed creaking with each thrusts and Shane’s nails dig into his shoulders, letting him take. 

“Fuck Hollander” Ilya groans, his hips getting restless and Shane moans even louder, the sound tearing through his throat. He no longer cares who hears, no longer cares about anything but the friction and the weight of Ilya above him. 

They are both panting, the silence of the room slowly rushing back in. Shane can still feel the aftershocks of his orgasm, his body buzzing, his release drying sticky on his stomach. 

He risks a glance at Ilya, who is looking at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling steadily. He looks so beautiful and Shane still can’t comprehend what really happened and how they got here. 

Ilya thinks about you. He wanted this too. 

But Shane can’t really trust those words yet. What if that’s what he wanted? Maybe he just fucks all of his opponents before he breaks them. 

Great, now he knows how good you are at taking it. He knows how weak you are. 

“You’re not—” Shane tries, his voice rough and Ilya turns to look at him. Shane clears his throat. “You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, are you?” 

Ilya frowns, then lets out a short dry laugh. “Yes Hollander, I’m going to tell everyone”.

Shane’s heart speeds up, he opens his mouth to argue but llya swings his leg out of bed, standing up naked and unbothered. “Of course not,” He grabs his jeans on the floor. “I won’t say anything”

Shane almost relaxes and simply nods, sitting up against the headboard. He feels small, naked and still ashamed. 

Ilya retrieves the rest of his clothes in the corridor and Shane straightens when he comes back into the bedroom. He thinks he is about to leave but to his surprise, Ilya comes closer and leans in slowly, giving him time to pull away. But Shane doesn’t move, his heart wild in his chest. Ilya presses a kiss to his lips, it’s not rough or demanding, just soft and tender and Shane’s whole body shuts down. 

What the fuck? 

“Bye” Ilya whispers against his lips, his breath warm. Shane nods and Ilya straightens, leaving the room. 

He hears the front door click shut and he drags a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes. His body aches in places he didn’t know could ache, his mind in a whirlwind of confusion, fear mixing with a terrifying, glowing warmth in his chest. 

“Holy shit,” he whispers to the empty room. 

He falls back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. 

What. The. Fuck. 

For reasons Shane can’t really comprehend, it keeps happening. 

Ilya still shows up at his place and they quickly get undressed. It’s always rough, always violent. The trust between them is still too thin for either of them to fully give up the fight and Shane is grateful that Ilya never asks why he needs it like that, why he needs it to hurt.

Shane is pressed against the living room wall while Ilya pounds into him. They didn’t even make it to the bedroom this time. Ilya kept barging in in the middle of his training with Hayden, taking off his shirt, wiping the sweat off his neck, his chest. At one point, he even winked when Hayden wasn’t looking and Shane couldn’t help but feel annoyed and extremely aroused at the same time. All these things led here, against the plaster, in a record time. 

Shane drops his forehead against the cool wall, Ilya’s hips pushing him further into it with every thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, Roz, I–” 

Ilya goes even faster, wrapping his large hand against Shane’s mouth to keep him quiet. 

“Shhh” He whispers in his ears and Shane’s eyes roll back, letting Ilya fuck him and take control. 

It’s the only time his brain shuts up and It’s weird how he also feels more relaxed these days, his thoughts quieter. The anxiety still creeps in at night when he’s alone in his big, empty bed but it feels manageable now. Less scary. 

Shane tries really hard not to think about what it means, enjoying the few private hours they share together. 

He is lying on his stomach on the bed when Ilya comes back from the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his waist. He sits next to him and water from his wet curls drops on the sheets. Shane bites his tongue not to say anything.  

Ilya caresses his shoulder and Shane tries to ignore the tenderness, the intimacy that scares him more than the sex.  

Suddenly, Ilya pushes hard on a knot in his muscle and Shane hisses. 

“Ouch, Rozanov. What the fuck?”

“You are very tense here,” Ilya says, pushing again. Shane rolls onto his side, glaring. 

“Because you’re hurting me.”

Ilya chuckles, his eyes glittering. “Come on, Hollander. I know you’re not soft, let me help you”

Shane swats his hand away. “No! I have a physician for this” 

“But does your physician know how to touch you?” Ilya counters, voice low. 

“Well, yes, that’s his job”

Ilya laughs, looking at him. “You are like angry kitten all the time, is cute” 

Shane feels the heat rush to his cheeks and pushes Ilya off the bed. 

“No one here is cute. Get out”

Ilya laughs again, standing up to get dressed, looking way too proud of himself.

It’s been almost two weeks now. They still don’t know a lot about each other, not really, but Ilya’s presence feels weirdly comforting. 

Shane opens his legs wider, meeting Ilya’s thrusts. He is really close, teetering on the edge and he needs more. He takes Ilya’s hand and brings it to his own neck. Ilya’s rhythm falters. He frowns, his palm warm and hesitant around Shane’s neck. 

“Hollander…”

“Choke me,” Shane tries, his voice ragged. Ilya doesn’t respond right away, his eyes widen for a second and confusion flickers across his face.  

“Please” Shane pushes, closing his eyes tight.

Look at you. He thinks you’re a freak. 

But then Ilya’s hand finally tightens around his windpipe. Not enough to hurt but enough to claim and Shane gets lost in the feeling. The pressure grounds him, silencing the voice in his head. He focuses on his own release, on the fingers holding him down. 

They are both seated in the kitchen and Shane drops the plates on the table. They usually don’t really hang out outside of the sex, but they were both hungry and Shane offered to cook something. He could’ve just let Ilya leave but he suddenly didn’t feel like being alone in his big, echoing house. 

And Ilya agreed so there’s no problem, right? 

Ilya is watching the plate in front of him, playing with his salmon softly, ignoring the brocolis next to it.

“You don’t eat broccoli?" Shane asks, amused and Ilya looks up, shrugging.

“Not really” 

“It’s good for you. You have a fight in what? Two months?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, pushing the green florets around with his fork. 

“When I was little, my mother took them all from my plate when my father and my brother didn’t look.”

Shane stills, surprised by this sudden offering of information. Ilya just gives him a glimpse of what’s inside and Shane wants to see more but he’s not sure of what he is allowedto ask. He tries anyway. 

“She still lives in Russia?”

Ilya shakes his head.  “Uh uh, no. She’s dead”

The air in the kitchen thickens. 

“I’m sorry”

Ilya shrugs softly, his fork still playing on his plate, his expression unreadable. 

“Is fine, I was young.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. There are so many new glimpses about Ilya’s life in Russia that questions start to fill Shane’s brain but he clears his throat instead. 

“My mom would have let me sit for hours at the table if I didn’t finish my plate,” Shane offers, a small smile touching his lips. 

Ilya smiles at that, taking a bite of his salmon. He looks at Shane for a long second, his gaze piercing. “Does she know?”

“About what?”

“That you know…” Ilya hesitates, gesturing with his fork. “That you like men”

Shane’s smile fades as the guilt rushes back in. He shakes his head. 

“No, I haven’t really… told anyone”

Ilya nods thoughtfully. 

“Do you want to?”

Shane thinks about it. Does he? Maybe sometimes but the idea of having to explain himself, of seeing the disappointment or the confusion in his parents’ eyes, feels terrible. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles.

They fall back in a comfortable silence. Shane looks at Ilya who still hasn’t touched his brocolis. He smiles softly and slides his own plate closer. 

“Come on, give them to me.” 

Ilya looks up, surprised and smiles. He slides the vegetables onto Shane’s plate and takes a bite of his salmon, looking happy, soft. He suddenly looks like a kid who was just waiting for someone to ask questions or to care. Something tightens in Shane’s chest at the thought, it’s a  pang of affection so sharp it hurts. 

When Shane looks up, Ilya is still smiling at him. Shane shakes his head, trying to ignore the volcano and fireworks that go off in his brain and heart. 

“You’re a big baby.” 

Ilya chuckles, reaching across the table to steal a piece of Shane’s salmon. 

5 MONTHS EARLIER

“Bystree, Ilya, davai!”

His coach's scream echoes louder than the crowd, resonating through the Pike’s living room. Shane sits deeper in the cushions, tearing a small strip of skin of his thumb and the metallic taste of blood settles on his lips

On screen, Dallas Kent is stalking Ilya, circling him like a shark but Ilya stays planted in the centre, standing tall, his arms up and ready. His chest is rising and falling fast, blood mixing with sweat, glittering under the spotlights. Ilya’s eyes are mean, violent, his jaw clenched tight. 

Suddenly, Kent dives, grabbing Ilya’s legs in a double-leg takedown attempt. The impact shakes the camera.

“Here we go,” Hayden mutters, leaning forward. “Kent’s gonna slam him”

But Ilya doesn’t go down. He sprawls instantly, driving his hips back and Kent crashes to his knees. Ilya wraps his arms around Kent’s neck, locking a front headlock and drives him hard into the fence.

“He’s suffocating him” Jackie whispers, wincing as Ilya grinds his forearm into Kent’s throat against the mesh.

For thirty seconds, it’s a brutal wrestling match. Kent tries to stand, tries to shake Ilya off, but the Russian is glued to him, controlling the posture, whispering something in his ear that makes Kent’s eyes widen in frustration.

“He’s playing with him” Shane murmurs, a strange pride swelling in his chest.

“Such a dick move” Hayden huffs but Shane doesn’t react, his eyes glued to the screen. 

Kent manages to create a sliver of space, trying to spin out but Ilya is faster, he is always faster. 

The crowd is on its feet, screaming for blood and Ilya delivers. It’s violent, almost thrilling. Shane has to admit there’s something about watching Ilya fight, the way his feet move on the canvas, light and steady despite the chaos.

It’s like a whole dance in itself, a testimony of raw strength and calculated grace.

There’s something, right there, that makes Ilya even more beautiful, the ferocity in his eyes, the precision of his hands, the sheer dominance of his body. Shane tries really hard to ignore it, trying to focus on the bloodstains spreading on the canvas, the cuts opening on their face. 

It shouldn’t be beautiful. 

It can never be beautiful. 

Shane lays awake in his bed, turning for what feels like the hundredth time. He sighs, staring at the ceiling shadows, his mind racing with replays of the fight, of Ilya’s eyes. He grabs his phone from the nightstand and opens messages. He stares at the name.

Lily

He knows he probably shouldn’t, it would sound too desperate but his thumbs start typing before his brain can stop them.

Congrats on your win, Kent almost had it though. 

He stares at the words. That’s stupid, he deletes it. 

He takes a deep breath and thinks about putting his phone away but the itch in his chest is stronger. 

JANE
Congrats. 

He sends it before he can overthink it. It’s stupid and too simple but that’s all he can afford to say right now. He drops his phone on his chest. 

One second. Two seconds. Ten. Nothing. 

Of course, Ilya is probably out celebrating with his team, chasing out the rest of his adrenaline with a perfect girl, with someone who isn’t a mess like him. The thought hurts.

Ping.

Shane’s heart misses a beat and he hurries to look at it, the bright light blinding him in the dark. 

LILY
Thank you. 

Oh. Okay.

Shane feels disappointed and he hates it. What was he expecting anyway? That’s stupid.

He drops his arm on the mattress, his phone warm against his palm. 

Ping.

His heart almost explodes this time.

LILY
My plane lands at 3 tomorrow. 

Shane frowns. Why is Ilya telling him this? Does he want to meet? No, it shouldn’t be. They have a system, they meet when it’s convenient, when the urge hits. 

JANE
?

The three dots appear instantly. Then disappear. Then appear again. Shane holds his breath.

LILY 
I want to see you. 

Shane’s breath catches in his throat and he sits up, the sheets falling to his waist. What the fuck? 

Shane knows what it’s like to have an adrenaline crash, he knows the hollow feeling, the desperate need to fill the void. He knows what he likes when he feels like this but what does Ilya like? Maybe he needs to fuck too, maybe he also needs to exorcise the fight left in his body, maybe he just needs to use him. 

Shane takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. 

He knows he’s going to let him anyway, because that’s what he always does and Ilya wants to see him. 

So Shane is going to be there, hoping it is enough. 

He has been pacing the length of his living room, his kitchen, his hallway and back again for the last forty-five minutes but nothing seems to calm the storm taking his head and heart. He showered an hour ago, scrubbing his skin until it turned pink and even worked himself open in case Ilya needs it fast.

The house is too silent compared to his heart. It’s a strange cocktail of emotions churning in his guts. It’s want mixed with arousal and dread. Not a great combo, to be honest. 

What if Ilya changed his mind? What if he’s coming here to end it? What if he just realized that Shane wasn’t worth it anymore?

Shane stops, closing his eyes.

It’s okay. You’re okay. 

The doorbell rings and Shane freezes, his heart hammering in his chest. He takes one last inhale and walks to the door. 

Ilya is here, even more beautiful than before. The bruises from the fight have slightly darkened, blooming in shades of purple and angry red across his cheekbones. His lip is split, swollen. 

He takes a step forward and Shane braces. He’s ready for Ilya to push him against the door, to demand the rough, frantic release they usually share but Ilya doesn’t rush.

He walks in slowly, his eyes locked on Shane’s. Shane doesn’t know what to do with himself, his body still ready to be grabbed and handled but Ilya slowly raises a hand and caresses his cheek. 

Shane’s whole body shuts down at the contact and he closes his eyes. Ilya is really close now, his breath fanning against his face. His thumb brushes gently over his freckles and Shane has no idea what to do. 

Then, Ilya leans in and kisses him. 

It’s soft, too fucking soft. 

Ilya’s lips move gently, like he’s tasting him and Shane tenses. This isn’t the script they agreed on, they don’t do tender and soft. Ilya is supposed to be violent, his body still aching but no, there he is, still caressing Shane’s cheek like he’s something precious, fragile. 

Panic flares his chest, he doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to be held without fighting back. 

Shane pulls back slightly, his hands coming up to push Ilya’s chest, trying to create space and to regain control. 

“Rozanov, wait–” he starts, his voice rough. “We don’t have to–”

“Shh,” Ilya murmurs against his lips. He kisses him again, deeper this time but still so painfully soft. “Please, no fighting. Not today”

Shane frowns, what the fuck does that mean? How are they supposed to not fight when Ilya is going to fuck him and exorcise everything? Ilya is going to need more and what the fuck is Shane supposed to do then? 

Ilya takes his hand and leads him towards the bedroom and Shane follows like a guest in his own house. Ilya reaches for the hem of Shane’s shirt and pulls it over his head. Shane obeys, still ready to snap into at any given moment but Ilya’s hands move to his sweatpants and he slides them down his legs, along with his underwear. 

“Lay down,” Ilya says quietly and Shane almost feels relieved to be told what to do. 

He obeys and Ilya undresses himself, revealing the map of bruises on his body. 

He leans over Shane, kissing his forehead, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Shane lies stiffly, his muscles coiled tight, waiting for the impact that never comes.

“Ty krasivyy,” Ilya whispers against his skin and straightens on his elbows to look at him, really look. Shane feels even more stupid and naked than he already is. 

“You’re beautiful” 

That’s it. It’s too much, too intimate, too real. Shane squirms under him, looking away, the shame rising in his throat. 

“Stop,” Shane whispers, his voice cracking. “Please, I don’t– I can’t do this.”

Ilya pauses, resting his forehead against Shane’s. “Can’t do what?”

“This I–” He feels terrible, what does he even want to say? “It’s too soft, you fought yesterday you were supposed to fuck me, you were supposed to still be high on adrenaline not… this” 

Ilya sighs, closing his eyes. 

He can’t stand you anymore, he hates you.

But Ilya opens his eyes again, and there’s no anger there, he just looks tired. The fighter already gone.

“This is what I need” He says, kissing him one more time and his hand rest on Shane’s thighs, gently pushing his leg open “I just need this” 

His fingers find his entrance and Shane shivers. “Can you give it to me?” 

Shane bites his lips, tears pricking his eyes and nods. Ilya starts fingering him slowly, patiently and Shane gasps, his back arching, his fingers gripping Ilya's bicep. 

But Ilya stops and quickly rolls a condom on, never breaking eye contact. Shane is breathing too fast, his heart pounding against his ribcage. 

Ilya slowly pushes in and Shane moans. Ilya leans in, swallowing the sound with a kiss. It’s slow and Shane can feel every inch sinking deeper, stretching him, filling him. He grabs Ilya’s back, nails digging in. 

“Ahh fuck.”

“Shh malish,” Ilya whispers, kissing his cheek again. Shane shuts his eyes tight, his whole body crumbling in pieces, the wall he spent years building cracking on the edges, destroyed by Ilya’s gentle thrusts inside him. 

“Look at me,” Ilya whispers and Shane can’t do it just yet, it’s too much. 

“Shane.” It’s an order this time and Shane finally obeys. 

They look at each other and Ilya kisses him. “Stop fighting” 

He pushes back inside him and this is all he takes. The dam opens, pouring a wave of pleasure and terrifying feeling through his spine, his stomach, his chest, his heart. 

“Ilya…” Shane breathes and Ilya brings him even closer, his strong body holding him down, protecting him and for the first time in a long time, it feels okay, it feels safe. 

Ping

UFC @ufc 

🚨OFFICIAL: The wait is over. 

HOLLANDER 🇨🇦 VS  ROZANOV 🇷🇺

🗓️August 26th  📍T-Mobile Arena, Las Vegas. Main Event 

#UFC302 #HollanderVSRozanov

Freddi @fbasket
Holyyyyy shit! It’s happening!!!! 🔥🔥

Tornadowarrior @Watchoutforthedogs
August 26th??? Bro that’s like 4 months away!! Why make us wait that long 💀

Saintbedes @Mercedj
It feels like the end of a chapter #RozanovEra

Kjloore1452 @kjlooore
I hope @ShaneHollander24 is ready because he is about to get hurt.