Chapter Text
Shane isn’t an easy person to like.
He does his best to appeal to those around him, but he always somehow falls short.
He’s fundamentally “other”. It’s one of those things that is woven into his very being, factual and insoluble. No matter how hard he tries, he can never fit into the mold others were born into.
And he was at peace with that.
Most of the time.
People generally tolerated Shane. The guys on his team tolerate him, at least, because he’s good at hockey. Which, again, is fine by him. He’s grateful.
But, that does mean when they’re in the middle of a brutal losing streak, like they have been for the last three miserable games… they get a bit terse with him.
It’s an especially bad night for the team because they lost to Boston.
After the game, they ignore him more than usual, meaning no one except Hayden even acknowledges he exists.
After losses like these, Shane showers and leaves the locker room before most of the guys have even taken off their padding. They didn’t want him there anyway.
Shane then spends the next several hours reviewing footage of the game in his hotel room, only pausing to nod at Hayden when he enters the room. Hayden stays silent, but nods back. Shane’s shoulders loosen a bit at the simple reciprocity. It’s more than he deserves, but he’ll take it nonetheless.
His phone never leaves his sight. He glances at it occasionally, anticipating and hoping for a text to come through. Well, not just any text.
~
When Shane first met Ilya Rozanov, he was blinded.
Ilya is bold, unapologetic. People hated him. People loved him. He spoke freely and laughed easily.
Ilya is easy to like.
To Shane, he is, at least.
Liking Ilya is like being on the ice. Effortless, like it was something Shane was born to do. Just another strand of truth woven together at Shane’s core being.
Ilya doesn’t like Shane.
Shane is boring.
Ilya doesn’t need to like someone to fuck them, not like Shane does.
Shane only sleeps with Ilya. Well, Shane only sleeps with Ilya when Ilya allows it. If Ilya beckons, Shane will come running to him. Every time. He can’t help it.
So when he finally gets a text from Lily, a room number, he slips on his shoes, utters a quick excuse to Hayden, and exits their hotel room in search of the elevator. Butterflies fight against a wave of nausea in his stomach, leaving him unsteady on his feet.
His fingers tingle in anticipation. They’re almost numb when he knocks on the door of Ilya’s room.
The door opens, and before he can register anything, he’s pulled inside and shoved against the other side of the door. It’s dark in the room, and Shane’s eyes struggle to adjust. He can’t make out Ilya’s facial features, but when Ilya kisses him… his lips, his nose, his hands, they’re all where he expected them to be.
Kissing Ilya is Shane’s favorite part of their arrangement. It makes him greedy. One of his hands grabs a handful of blond curls, while the other latches onto the curve of Ilya’s waist, both pulling him closer to Shane until they’re flush chest to chest.
“So eager,” Ilya whispers against Shane’s lips. Shane shudders, his stomach turning.
“Please,” he whines the way Ilya likes, “please fuck me.”
Ilya inhales sharply and pulls back just far enough where Shane can finally see his face. His lips are slightly parted, and his eyes are wide. For a brief second, Shane worries he’s said something wrong, maybe laid it on too thick. But then Ilya pulls him deeper into the room and tosses Shane onto the bed as if he weighs nothing.
Shane scrambles back further onto the bed, just out of Ilya’s reach.
There is a deep ache inside his chest.
He dutifully ignores it.
Fighting against the distinct feeling of embarrassment, Shane trails his hand down his clothed torso and slips it under the waistband of his pants to squeeze himself, his grip almost painful.
Ilya is frozen at the foot of the bed, but visibly affected by the display. “Fuck, Hollander,” He groans. He doesn’t stay still long and is soon crawling up the bed and caging Shane in with his body.
“Did you miss my cock this badly?” He grins down at him.
I missed you.
Shane nods emphatically regardless, before burying his face into Ilya’s neck, licking the salty skin he has access to.
The ache in his chest grows.
Shane’s clothes are soon tossed across the room, left to wrinkle on the floor. He vaguely hears Ilya teasing him about ironing them later.
He’s on his stomach before he knows it, his face is pressed against the mattress, and his hips are in the air. He feels exposed, vulnerable.
Usually, he likes that feeling.
Usually, he likes laying himself bare before Ilya.
But not today. Not now.
Something is wrong.
Slick, warm fingers are entering him just as the thought crosses Shane’s mind. A distressed sound escapes his lips.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” Ilya presses deeper. Shane feels sick, but he pushes back against Ilya’s hand nonetheless. “Do not worry, I will give you what you want.”
Ilya can never give Shane what he wants.
“Please,” he groans, “just do it already. I can take it,” I can be what you want, Shane silently adds.
Ilya curses behind Shane, and he hears the sound of his pants being undone. Shane hadn’t even noticed that Ilya was still fully clothed.
Before Shane can brace himself, the fingers disappear, and Ilya enters him in one smooth motion. It burns more than usual, and he grinds his teeth to avoid making a sound.
He likes this, Shane reminds himself. If Ilya likes this, Shane likes it.
“Harder.”
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya’s hands have Shane’s hips in a vice grip.
“Harder,” he begs.
It hurts.
“Please,” tears gather in the corner of his eyes. Shane rubs his face against the rough hotel sheets, leaving behind small streaks of moisture.
Ilya sets a brutal pace, fast and unrelenting. Shane knows he will feel it for days, along with the bruises he earned just hours prior.
Ilya’s hand wraps around Shane’s front.
Ilya’s breath hitches. His hips stutter and then stop altogether.
Shane is soft in Ilya’s hand.
“Hollander?” Shane barely registers Ilya’s voice. He says nothing, the pain in his throat making it a near-impossible task.
“Hollander,” he repeats, concerned, “Are you-.” Ilya pulls out slowly. Shane knows he should say something, do something. Otherwise, Ilya will make him leave, and Shane will have to wait another month to see him again.
“No,” he chokes out, his voice gravely, “keep going. Please. I can-”
“No, Hollander, I won’t-” Ilya starts. Shane turns and grabs Ilya, shutting him up. He rolls them over until Ilya’s back is on the bed and Shane is straddling his thighs. His lack of arousal is even more obvious in this position. He grabs at Ilya’s chest, his nails leaving crescent markings on the flesh.
“I said, fuck me. You like it rough, right? You like this.” Shane’s voice is even and low despite his nerves.
Ilya’s face is terrifyingly blank. He opens his mouth to speak, but Shane attacks him first. The kiss is brutal and dirty. Ilya kisses back on instinct, but tries to pull away after a beat. Shane refuses, his right hand coming to grab at Ilya’s jaw, forcing his mouth to stay open.
Shane’s heart is beating wildly against his chest, and he’s sure Ilya can feel it where their bodies touch. He squeezes his eyes shut as he puts his all into the kiss, hoping it will be enough to get Ilya going again.
Ilya’s arms, which had been still and useless from the shock of it all, finally moved. His hands grazed up Shane’s torso before wrapping around his biceps and gently pushing Shane off of him. Shane stubbornly resists, and his face ends up hovering just an inch over Ilya’s, eyes still shut. If he opened them, he knew tears would spill out, and the thought of Ilya Rozanov watching him cry in the middle of sex makes him want to die a little bit.
“Hollander. Stop,” Ilya’s voice cracked.
An ice-cold shock travelled down Shane’s spine. His eyes snapped open, blinking the moisture away to see the face of the man below him.
Ilya looked… terrified.
There really was no better word to describe it. He was breathing heavily, his head pressing back against the mattress to get as much space between them as possible.
It was a face Shane had never seen on him, and the fact that Shane was the reason he was making it made him feel suddenly and violently ill. He scrambled off of him, stumbling off the bed until his back hit the wall.
Ilya was resting on his elbows, staring at Shane silently with that same awful expression. Tears were definitely streaming down his face at this point.
He needed to leave.
Ilya watched him silently from the bed as he threw on his sweats, t-shirt, and shoes, ignoring his boxers and hoodie entirely before bolting out the door.
He stumbled down the hall and into the stairwell. He collapsed against the wall, sliding down to sit on the first step. He wasn’t sure where else he could go. He couldn’t bother Hayden like this, so his own room was a no-go.
Shane couldn’t catch his breath.
He had fucked up the one good thing he had going for him.
Which really shouldn’t have surprised him at this point.
God, Shane had essentially forced himself onto Ilya when he had clearly stated that he didn’t want that anymore.
Ilya probably hated him.
Shane never thought he would pray for Ilya’s indifference towards him.
He’d be okay if Ilya never kissed him as long as he never made that face again.
God…He was never going to kiss Ilya again.
He was never gonna hear Ilya’s voice at the end of the night again. Impossibly soft, as he whispered Russian phrases into his skin. When he would treat Shane like he was something worth taking care of, where Shane could pretend that Ilya liked Shane in a way no one else has.
Shane was full-on sobbing at this point, and he doubted he could stop it even if he tried. And he was much too tired to try. His fists would intermittently fly to his head, alternating between tugging harshly at his hair and hitting himself with closed fists.
If Shane had any capability for rational thought at the moment, he would no doubt be mortified. He prided himself on being able to control his emotions, both off the ice and on. His control was one of his greatest selling points to fans and brands alike. And here he was, reduced to tears in a dirty stairwell after a hookup with his unrequited crush gone wrong.
Although calling Ilya a crush didn’t do justice for how much Shane lov–
“Shane?”
Shane lifted his head from between his knees.
There, crouching in front of him, was Ilya.