Archive of Our Own

The first fight Shane lost was with his bedroom wall. 

For as long as he could remember, he was always the weakest link in the chain. You shouldn’t stare, it’s rude, people were always telling him. But he didn’t know how to talk to people; he only knew how to watch. Don’t play with your food, Shane. Some kids are starving, you know. He’d stay at the table for an hour after everyone else finished, tears in his eyes as he choked down the amount his well-meaning parents had deemed acceptable to be excused. And, his personal favorite, the words the drywall had taunted him with that day after school, when he’d barreled past his parents in the foyer with a red-streaked face and a buzzing fist. Why don’t you ever talk, faggot? Afraid the dick will fall out of your mouth?

He didn’t expect it to hurt when he made impact. He expected the plaster to give way to his knuckles like an eggshell on the side of a bowl, to crumble like brittle powder around his fist. To pull his wrist out afterwards and admire the neat little hole it made, as long as he could, before he got put in the corner to think about what he’d done. 

But he’d howled and cried and clutched his hand to his chest when he made contact with a hidden steel beam instead. His mom was so concerned about the bruises on his knuckles and the pain in his eyes, that she forgot to be mad about the wall. 

The second fight he lost was with a boy on his little league hockey team.

At thirteen, his shoulders hadn’t yet filled themselves out, and neither had his instincts. He didn’t even see the hit coming until he was already laid out flat on the ice. He remembers voices floating over him as his coach and a few teammates hovered above his limp body. Some light reprimanding, a slap on the wrist, then his coach’s face coming into soft focus as he helped him up. That’s the sport, kid, better get used to it. 

His wounded ego hurt more than the punch. He wouldn’t stop at just getting used to it. He’d teach himself how to like it, too. 

He knew it broke his mother’s heart when he asked to quit hockey and join martial arts instead. But, as an only child, and an ostracized one, he usually got what he wanted. He started with Muay Thai and Jiu-Jitsu, and later, after a few years of lifting weights in his basement until he stopped fitting into his clothes, he dabbled in wrestling. At seventeen, his mom finally let him join boxing, too. He didn’t like wearing the gloves, but the skills were crucial. It would round him out, give him the edge he needed to be a real fighter, if he worked himself hard enough. Gradually, he transformed his body into a weapon, a steel trap of tender flesh, waiting for the catch. 

The punching bag his dad hung in the garage for his birthday one year became something like a friend to him. The old basement VCR was a close second, where he’d spend entire nights rewinding every UFC fight he could find until the tape got jammed. He’ll never forget how seeing the blood on the mat for the first time made his dick harder than any girl he’d ever seen. 

He trained four days a week, sometimes five, starting at the age of fourteen, and still counting. He discovered quickly that he preferred using his feet over his fists. Less predictable, easier to stick the landing. And, so what, he didn’t like getting his hands dirty. 

Brute strength wasn’t his best asset, anyway, although he had plenty of it. He believed in doing his research, in carving out his technique with a finely chiseled knife. Fighting wasn’t about defense or offense; it was all about strategy. He learned how to identify his opponent’s moves before they ever came, and he learned how to counter them with a swift kick to the head, a surprise takedown, or, if he had to, a fist clean across the jaw. Within six months of competitive sparring in his local club, they were calling him “Sideswipe.” It was the first nickname he’d ever been given that made him tear up with joy instead of sickness. 

He won his first amateur middleweight championship at nineteen. The Polaroid photo of him brandishing the gold-plated belt above his head was pinned proudly on his parent’s fridge with a note of finality, almost like they hoped he’d stop there. That same belt hangs on his wall now in the study of his small two-bedroom apartment in Ottawa. 

The day he’d held it in his hands for the first time, he vowed to never lose a fight again — unless he was getting paid for it. 

*

Ilya Rozanov’s opponents would describe him as a brutal savage with a dirty record, known for hitting after the bell’s gone off. Spectators would describe him as a cocky spitfire with the stats to back it up, dollar bills passed around like candy whenever he was in the cage. Commentators would describe him as a barreling force of nature with a promising legacy; weighing in at a hundred and eighty-five pounds of raw muscle, he was the son of Grigori Rozanov, notorious Russian street fighter, and he pulled no punches, so to speak. 

The question wasn’t if he would knock out his opponent, should he gain the upper hand — it was how many hits it would take. More often than any other current fighter in the middleweight class, that counter stopped ticking at one. 

Shane would describe Ilya Rozanov as a fucking asshole with, admittedly, a pretty clean uppercut. Hardly any of the matches he’d watched him win had lasted the full five minutes. 

He noticed two weaknesses right away. His stance was shaky whenever he was moving, making him susceptible to a surprise attack, and he wasn’t a strong grappler, relying too much on his signature heavy hits. His losses seemed to occur whenever his opponent managed to get him down onto the mat. If Shane couldn’t take him out with a well-targeted roundhouse kick, a smooth takedown and a firm chokehold should do the trick. 

Up close, in the dim light of the league’s chosen venue of the night – a swanky casino in a sleepy town just east of Beverly Hills – he’s less threatening than he was in the videos Shane had binged in secret.

Physically imposing, sure. His arms bulge out of a tight black tank top when Shane introduces himself ten minutes before their first scheduled match, cornering him in a booth where he sits alone, puffing leisurely on a cigarette. His bandaged fists are littered with bruises across the dips of his knuckles, in varying stages of healing, a layered asteroid belt of purple and yellow-ish green. A pale scar cuts through his left eyebrow, extending all the way to the top of his cheekbone. 

But Rozanov’s face is softer than what he expected, almost cherubic, with baby blue eyes framed by delicate lashes, and a pronounced heart-shaped mouth that Shane’s throat closes at the sight of. Never in his life had he seen a mouth he wanted to kiss, until now. The fleeting thought makes his stomach ache and his palms sweat. 

When he stands, crowding into Shane’s space a little closer than he’s comfortable with, he almost mirrors his exact height, their eyes level when he gives Shane an obvious once-over, smirks, and doesn’t shake his offered hand. 

“Shane Hollander.” He repeats his name slowly, like he’s testing it out. His slavic accent is immediately noticeable, commanding Shane’s attention like a whistle on an army base. “I know who you are.” 

“Me, too,” Shane says awkwardly, unexpectedly thrown off by his intensity, and not in the way he anticipated. He tries not to look at his mouth. “I mean, I saw some of your fights. You’re fun to watch.” 

He’d seen all of them. The best ones, multiple times. He didn’t mean to compliment him, but he means it, a little too earnestly. 

“Hm. I didn’t see yours. I like surprises.” 

He winks, the fucking asshole. Shane’s skin prickles, but he keeps his composure, unwilling to let any vulnerability shine through the cracks of his carefully constructed armor. 

“Lucky you, then. I have a few,” he says coolly, or at least he hopes it sounds cool. He means it sincerely when he adds, “Good luck out there.” 

He turns to walk away, but he hears Rozanov call after him. 

“You will not be so nice when I beat you.” 

He shakes his head, waves his hand awkwardly, and leaves to get changed, not daring to glance behind him. 

*

The mat buzzes under Shane’s feet with the booming murmurs of the crowd, hundreds of voices vibrating the walls of the building. Guitar with a heavy bass booms through a speaker suspended from the ceiling above him, bright lights overwhelming the rest of his senses. 

He always starts by grounding himself. He treats the cage like a lion circling its prey through the prairiegrass, only the prey is another lion, with sharper claws. Call it playing it safe, but his strategy is to think first, and hit later. The king of the jungle was easier to dethrone when he never saw it coming. 

He shakes his fists in his open-fingered gloves, lowering his chin to focus on his own bare chest, counting the bruises. He makes it to four before the music lowers. 

The echoing voice of the ring announcer takes over all of the noise in the room, each word dragged out with exaggerated bravado. Shane lifts his chin and locks eyes with his opponent across the mat. He’s shirtless and smirking, a barbed swirl of black ink crawling up his spine and between his shoulderblades when he turns to shake his fists at the cheering crowd. 

Ladies and gentlemen, the main event of the evening, two of the most talked-about amateur fighters are going at it tonight for the championship belt. This is one that fans of the league have been absolutely frothing at the mouth to see go down in the cage. If you’re squeamish, you might wanna close your eyes for this one. On second thought, if you’re squeamish, go the fuck home! 

Shane’s eyes drop back to the vinyl, channeling his focus into something – anything other than crooked teeth, heart-shaped lips, and long, bandaged fingers, curled and charging up for a head-on collision. 

Coming in from the blue corner, we have who some are calling the apex predator of elite amateur fighting. He’s on a winning streak, holding a career record for the most one-hit knockouts in the league, and looking to add another victory to this year’s 3-1 roster. He stands at an even seventy-two inches, weighing in at one-eighty-five, all the way from Moscow, Russia…tonight’s challenger, Ilya Rozanov! 

Roars from the crowd. Rozanov raises his arms and absorbs their ferocity, raising the charm of his necklace to his lips and pressing a kiss to the metal. He then pumps his fists to get the crowd going, putting on an exaggerated performance of bestial rage. Shane fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

And now, in the red corner…Ottawa, Canada’s scrappy sweetheart. Don’t let those puppydog eyes fool you, he’s mastered the art of the subtle takedown, with an iron-clad defense strategy and an undefeated record this season. Rozanov holds the reach advantage by the skin of his teeth; his opponent stands just a few centimeters shorter, and weighs in at one hundred and ninety pounds. Presenting…reigning middleweight champion, Shane “Sideswipe” Hollander! 

Shane lifts his chin, circling his corner of the ring and thumping on his chest. Grits his teeth, ignoring the flight response that the thundering swell of voices always triggers somewhere deep within him.  He’ll feel better when they’re quiet and murmuring, biting their nails at who will throw the first swing. 

“Cute nickname. Did your mom pick it?” Rozanov chirps from his corner of the cage, teeth reflecting the white light when he flashes them at Shane like a threat. 

“Fuck off,” is all he can think to say. 

He doesn’t usually talk on the mat. Most of the guys he fights save the snark for before or after, especially if he beats them, and he’s always weathered that well. Kill them with kindness, his parents told him. No use going apeshit on a man he’d already knocked the teeth out of. 

He should’ve expected this from him. They don’t compare Rozanov to an unleashed rottweiler for nothing. He’s known to bark as much as he bites. 

The announcer has nearly finished his spiel, listing off the names of judges and sponsors. Rozanov skates closer, shuffling on his feet, like a well-practiced dance. His fists are raised against his chest, bruised knuckles covered by dark red gloves, golden cross glinting in the dip of his throat. 

Shane tears his eyes away from his chest and sharpens his chin, leveling him with a stoic gaze, giving him absolutely nothing to work with. No threatening smirk, no anxious flicker crossing his features. Of course, Rozanov still takes this as an invitation to taunt him. 

“Are you nervous?” he purrs, so quietly that Shane barely hears it. 

He takes his stance, lip twitching with a suppressed grin. 

“Nope.” 

“Ready to break your winning streak?” 

Ready to break your pretty face. Shane does let himself smile, this time. “Not gonna happen.” 

Suddenly, the cacophony of the room fades from his ears like someone had turned down a dial in his brain. The ref is getting into position. His opponent’s smouldering eyes burn icy holes into Shane’s retinas, watching his pupils enlarge like he’s a raw cut of meat on a silver plate. He looks dangerous. He looks provocative. 

Shane feels ashamed at the wave of arousal that pulses all the way to his clenched fists in response. He doesn’t break their impassioned staredown, no matter how much he wants to look at the bulging vein in his left arm instead. The buzzer echoes in his eardrums.

Annnnnd, fight! 

*

First round underway… Hollander starting off quick on his feet. Cool and collected, maintaining his composure. Rozanov charging forward with that lead left hand. Hollander backs away, nice leg kick to the left side. We’re seeing some trepidation; he’s really trying to feel him out. 

Both guys struggling to jockey for position here. Hollander going in for the takedown, with four minutes left on the clock, and who can blame him? Rozanov’s been landing some serious blows as of late…Hollander and Rozanov trading knees against the cage, looking to make each other pay early on here.

Rozanov landing some nasty knees to the inner thigh, and he lands a devastating blow to the jaw, but looks like Hollander’s holding on for now. Let me tell you, this guy can take a hit, but Russia’s greatest love machine is known for getting the job done quick. 

Hollander backs Rozanov up with the leg kick. He’s really stringing together his movements, now looking for the takedown, and he scores with it! Making Rozanov pay with some short elbows to the forearm, Hollander really investing his power here. A minute-forty on the clock, both of these guys looking to land the big shot, and a nice knee to the body by Rozanov! 

Back on their feet, Rozanov going in for the kill. He’s brewing up a storm, landing those body hits, staying right in his face. Hollander holding on for dear life, avoiding the head strikes, looking for an opening… and Rozanov lands the takedown! 

Unusual move from him, but this is the title on the line, and he’s giving Hollander a taste of his own medicine, looking to rip that championship belt from him with his teeth. Rozanov gets on top, and with a lethal head blow, it’s lights out for Shane Hollander! 

*

It’s true, what they say about hindsight. Shane cannot believe he didn’t see it coming. 

He knows how to land a takedown, and he knows how to avoid them. He knows how to dodge a swing and how to use his body as a battering ram, all in the same swift movement. He always goes for their weakest side, which he always had figured out by the time he struck the maneuver. He never goes for the shoulders. Too easy to see him coming. 

He knows he can’t win every fight, but losing to his own signature move is a form of ritualistic humiliation that he wasn’t quite prepared for. By the time the ref gets him to his feet, shaking him out of his stupor, Shane has already added bold-faced liar to the growing list of compliments he has to spit at his opponent’s feet. In the same bandwidth of thought, he crosses off the word predictable. 

“Surprises, huh?” He feels blood gush from his lip as he speaks, dripping in a steady rivulet down his chin. He doesn’t bother to wipe it, letting it land in a fat drop on the white foam near his feet, like the end of a sentence. 

“Surprise was for you. Not for me.” Rozanov’s chest heaves, his teeth bared in a shark-toothed grin. Too white, Shane notes. He’ll be sure to paint them red next time.

He holds out a hand for Shane to shake. Shane does, reluctantly, still processing the fact he’d essentially lost the championship by default. Losing round one by submission, or even a TKO, meant he still had two chances to take the win. Getting decked into another realm of reality before they’d even gotten started was a one-way ticket to a temporary medical suspension, starting right now. 

On one side of the token, the on-site medics clear him of brain trauma, he still gets paid, and no law would allow Shane to make the mistake of underestimating Ilya Rozanov twice. 

On the other, he barely makes it through the door of his hotel room before he’s scrambling for his laptop, typing their names into the search engine, and melting his eyes to the screen with a fucking blowtorch. 

He’s uncomfortably hard by the time he’s fed through the highlight clips, and – even though he shoves the computer far away before he dares to wrap a hand around himself – his thoughts are an inescapable prison of rippling muscle, gauze-wrapped fingers, and large, dilated pupils, swallowed in a ring of blue. He comes to the feeling of his own teeth sinking into his split bottom lip, mouth filling with the taste of bitter metal. 

Basically, all roads lead to hell. He doesn’t need hindsight to tell him that. 

*

On paper, the stakes are lower the second time around. Nothing more than points on the roster, which ticks to the rhythm of Shane’s personal vendetta. 

He’d spent the last six months crossing names off his list, reminding himself what this is all for. Not for the money, which, contrary to popular belief, was not enough to afford his lifestyle on its own. Not for fame, which the concept of filled him with cold dread. It was hardly even for glory, although winning was sort of a mandatory prerequisite to the ultimate goal — which was, of course, the internal validation of being the best, at least in his own league. For as long as he’s known, he’s patted his own back. Easier to do that while raising his arms in victory. 

Beating Rozanov at his own dirty game, in which rules are unspoken and ever-changing, is a challenge. That, or a rippling fantasy trapped in barbed wire. Maybe the countless head injuries had something to do with it, but Shane has never been known to pick his battles wisely. 

This time, he doesn’t even hear the static buzz of the crowd, only the steady rhythm of his bare feet hitting the vinyl, his heartbeat in his own ears. 

He moves like he choreographed it, and in a way, he had, countering Rozanov’s moves with sharp-clawed and practiced precision. After two minutes of blocking his swings and grappling for the upper hand, Shane lands a solid left hook to his mouth, the blood spraying the mat like juice from a tart black cherry. That ends round one, when it sends Rozanov stumbling into the side of the cage, half-conscious, the ref waving a hand before Shane can finish him off with a well-targeted knee to the ribs. 

Round two is a sluggish blur, a lot of dodging, sweat dripping from Shane’s hairline in steady currents. Rozanov is relentless in his attacks, but Shane blocks the hits that he can and trusts his body to absorb the rest, his stance hardly wavering. The buzzer sings with his second victory, when he kicks Rozanov to the ground and is awarded another technical knockout when he takes a second too long to recover.

Rozanov’s bare chest is glistening by the third face-off, his ribs stippled with red-violet hues, ghosts of a flowering bruise stamped on from the impact of the push kick that had sent him to the mat with a sickening thud. His pupils are dark and rigid, face drawn into a taut scowl, like he’s attempting to explode Shane’s head with his mind. 

Shane won’t let him win, even if he’s already taken the title for the night, if only in name. He still kind of hopes that the look in Rozanov’s eyes is some indication that he might end up laid out flat on his back at some point. He loads up the thought like ammunition. 

They dance around each other in some sort of intimate ritual. Two tigers in the bush, four eyes glowing orange under the fluorescents, endless limbs tangling together like battling shoelaces. By the three-minute mark, Shane feels dizzy, adrenaline and endorphins mixing together in his bloodstream, a toxic cocktail laced with kerosene. Whatever wounds Rozanov had inflicted upon him are nothing more than a vague memory, the cage an isolated vacuum of skin-on-skin and hot, labored breath. The clock ticks with vengeance, sinking down to double-digits, the numbers blinking red in the corner of Shane’s flickering field of vision. 

It ends with a simple stapling maneuver, Shane’s left knee pinning his elbow, right leg caging in his torso, both of his arms dead weight under the pinpointed pressure of Shane’s body as he hovers over him like a shield. 

Beneath him, Rozanov flashes him a grinning mouthful of bloody teeth, the vein on his forehead purpling with the effort of his attempts to escape Shane’s ironclad hold. As the last few seconds drain from the timer, Shane finds himself resisting the urge to clean up the red seeping between his gums with his tongue. 

The buzzer rings in his ears. The crowd rages with overzealous frenzy. Consider it a flashbang novelty – for the first time in his career, Ilya Rozanov had lost a fight by submission. Something about seeing him wave the white flag fills Shane with more pride than any trophy ever could. 

*

The club bathroom smells like sweat and Lysol, the air visibly foggy with moisture when Shane ducks inside and knocks the back of his head against the metal door. He stares at the single row of lockers, littered with colorful graffiti and several crude drawings, then takes a few slow steps to stand in front of the sink. 

His reflection sneers at him in the dirty mirror. His left cheek has already started to swell and bruise from the right hook he’d taken to the face, and he can see broken blood vessels in the shape of Rozanov’s palm circling his left bicep, from when he’d briefly had him pinned against the wall of the cage. 

It’s a miracle he was able to take the upper hand after that, considering the rush of poorly-timed hormones that had pulsed through his groin at the feeling of the arm wrapped tight around his chest, the hot mouth at his ear, the hand gripping Shane’s shoulder like it was an apple he was trying to crush. In the same moment, he’d been given a cluster of small lesions a few centimeters shy of his eye, from Rozanov’s opposite palm slamming his face into the chain link. He thumbs at one, hissing at the sting, and ignores the twitch in his boxers. 

Shane jumps when the door swings open, thumping as it bangs against the wall. He thought he’d locked it. A lilted voice drifts into the air behind him, his gaze dropping from the mirror to focus steadily on the rusty drain. 

“Don’t worry, you still look pretty.” 

Shane grimaces, muttering a curse under his breath, and turns to face him. Rozanov makes no move for the single stall, instead crossing his arms and leaning against a locker behind him, hands once again wrapped in bandages and track pants hanging low on his hips. He raises an expectant eyebrow, smirking. 

Shane suddenly feels like a cornered rabbit, staring into the unblinking eyes of the snake. Somehow, despite losing all three matches, Rozanov is the least battered of the two, nothing but a fat lip and a sweaty flush up his neck to prove he’d fought at all.

So do you, he wants to say, because I don’t rely on cheap hits.

Never mind the frenzied way he’d jerked off, countless times now, to the blurry memory of Rozanov knocking him out cold on the mat.

“What the fuck do you want?” he finally sputters.

If he were a dog, his ears would be lowered, and his haunches would be visibly rolling in threatened spikes up his back. And somehow, remarkably, some small part of him still wants to put his tail between his legs and bow his head to him.

He could walk out, right now. If Rozanov so much as twitched in his direction in an attempt to stop him, he’s already planned three different ways to throw him into the concrete. 

To his surprise, it’s Rozanov that steps toward the door. Shane braces himself for his departure, and shuts out the part of his brain that feels disappointed. Something is wrong with him. He’s clearly had one too many concussions. 

He moves so slowly, like he’s waiting for Shane to protest. When his fingers touch the metal plate, he looks at Shane for a long, deliberate moment, and pulls the deadbolt. 

Shane can’t hold in the nervous laugh that bubbles up in his chest. He hopes he doesn’t sound as hysterical as he feels. 

“What, are you gonna kill me? Didn’t take you for a sore loser.” He crosses and uncrosses his arms, chest tight like someone has wrapped a ziptie around his diaphragm and pulled it taut. 

Rozanov grins, shaking his head, and inches closer to him, until they’re sharing air. Shane’s heart pounds, and he knows his flush is visible, but he keeps his eyes hard on him, his gaze made of steel. 

“I just wanted to ask you something,” Rozanov says innocently. His sweaty curls are still drying at his temples, necklace twinkling against the grey tank top stretched across his broad chest. 

“And what is that?” Shane manages weakly. 

When Rozanov speaks again, his breath lands on Shane’s ear, and he has to grip the countertop behind him to hide the tremble in his fingertips. 

“Were you as hard as I was, when you were holding me down?” 

Somehow, Shane still doesn’t flinch when he leans back, lifts his palm to his chin, and peels his bottom lip away from his teeth with his thumb. 

What happens next is a knee-jerk reaction, that he would soon come to regret. His defensive mind twists the words into an accusation of something he’s never admitted, hardly even to himself, and Rozanov has called him on it, after spending no more than twenty minutes in his presence.

In an animalistic show of dominance, overtaken by his superego, the same one that had made his fist collide with the beam in his wall  — Shane gathers saliva in his mouth and sprays it at his cheek. 

Rozanov takes a startled step back, blinking. His eyes darken, and Shane silently makes peace with the fact that he’s about to get his head smashed into the mirror. He still makes no move to flee. 

Rozanov’s gaze flits past him, glancing briefly at his own reflection, and then he looks at Shane again, flashing his teeth like he’s won a prize. 

He parts his lips, tenses his jaw, and drags the knuckle of his thumb across the wetness on his cheek. Shane expects him to scrub it away. Instead, he watches with a hot twist in his gut as he pulls it into his mouth, and sucks. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane mutters under his breath. 

Famous last words. He’s not sure who closes the gap between them, in the end, but he doesn’t push him away. 

Rozanov’s mouth tastes like the burning embers of a cigarette, a muffled sound escaping against Shane’s lips when he buries his fingers into his curls and flattens him against the side of the stall. Shane can’t help but melt into him a little, his limbs like jelly as calloused hands come to steady him at the waist, thumbs brushing below his t-shirt. 

Rozanov draws Shane’s tongue into his mouth, sucking it between his teeth hard enough to throb. Shane can feel the hard line of him where their hips meet, hot and thick against his thigh, and it’s like he has no control over his own body when he breaks the kiss and drops to his knees on the filthy floor. 

Shane waits for some snarky comment, a dig at his desperation, a poke at his weakness. All he gets is a shaky groan and fingers threading through his hair, emboldening him further, so he bends forward and mouths at his cock through the thin nylon of his pants. 

Shane has never done this. He’d thought about it, sure, but mostly banished those thoughts to the back of his mind, tucked away for late nights when he couldn’t sleep and had to wrap a hand around himself. Now, he isn’t thinking at all, all five senses clouded and occupied by the body in front of him, luring him in with its chiseled perfection. 

“Stop teasing,” a deep voice rumbles above him, clipped with arousal. It’s only because Shane needs to feel the weight of him on his tongue that he obeys, hooking his thumbs into his waistband and pulling his cock free. 

He tastes salt when he licks at him tentatively, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps his lips around him and swallows as much of him as he can, huffing out a shaky breath through his nose. Slowly, he works up a clumsy rhythm, relying on nothing but raw instinct and pent-up desire. 

“Yes, that’s it. So fucking needy for me, fuck,” Rozanov grits out, voice cracking on the syllables. Shane is surprised by his reserved posture, seemingly content to let him slobber all over his cock with little technical flair. His hand stays a firm presence on the back of his head, holding steadily, moving with him, but not pushing. Shane finds himself wishing he would shove him down and take whatever he wants, doesn’t care if he chokes on it. 

His fingers scramble at Rozanov’s ass, pressing in, flesh giving way under his thumbs like an overripe piece of fruit. He hopes he digs in hard enough to send the message, picking up speed with the steady bobs of his head, but he gets pulled off by the hair instead, whimpering pathetically at the interruption. 

“Open your mouth,” Rozanov demands. Shane does it without thinking, earning a string of curses, some of which he doesn’t understand. Rozanov pushes the head of his cock against his flattened tongue and starts to jerk himself off in quick strokes. Shane watches his face contort beautifully, lips parted and gaze flickering between his eyes and his open mouth. 

Shane can’t help it; he takes the tip between his lips again and hollows his cheeks around it, Rozanov’s knuckles grazing his chin on the upstroke, his own cock straining against the material of his sweats. 

“Fuck, I’m going to — ah, fuck, Hollander.”

The hand that grips Shane’s hair yanks him off suddenly, a low groan spilling out of Rozanov’s mouth as he paints the floor with his release, while Shane watches on in what he can only describe as bewildered awe. He feels a flash of disappointment that he didn’t get to taste him, staring at the mess on the tile with a deranged sense of envy. 

“You going to stay down there all night, or you want me to get you off?” 

He sounds almost bored, condescending, and weirdly enough, it goes straight to Shane’s cock. He starts to wonder where his odd sexual quirks end, and where his acute, bizarre attraction to Ilya Rozanov begins. If there’s anything he could say or do that wouldn’t liquify Shane’s insides like a scoop of ice cream dropped on hot pavement. 

Nonetheless, he scrambles to his feet, making a noise of surprise when Rozanov spins him around and presses him against the sink, caging him in from behind while his mouth finds the soft spot behind his ear. Shane watches him slowly unwrap the bandage in the mirror, revealing the raw patches of skin dotting his right knuckles from where they’d littered Shane’s body with matching marks. 

“Are you always such a whore for a dick in your mouth?” Rozanov murmurs, voice vibrating against Shane’s skin. He wants to feel embarrassed, wants to feel bubbling anger at the degrading words being spoken to him, yet he feels nothing but hopelessly turned on as he absentmindedly grinds his crotch against the cool porcelain. It doesn’t go unnoticed, but Rozanov seems to take pity on him, snaking his bare, bruised hand down the front of Shane’s pants, and thumbing at the wetness pooled at the tip of his cock. He nips at Shane’s earlobe, prompting him. “Hm?”

“I don’t know, I’ve — never…” he trails off, stuttering out a moan as Rozanov begins to stroke him in torturous increments of fast and slow. 

“Are you saying what I think you are saying?” 

Again, Shane can’t find it in him to feel embarrassed as he nods, Rozanov’s other hand coming to rest gently around his throat. His hand starts to work faster, like a reward for giving the correct answer. 

“And? How did you like it, sucking my cock?” 

He drags his index finger up Shane’s chin, forcing it into his open mouth, pressing down on his tongue. Shane feels himself slump forward over the sink, his body weightless and at the same time made of lead. 

“Made me so fucking hard,” he mumbles around the digit. Rozanov sucks his earlobe into his mouth, drawing a moan from him as he tightens his fist and twists it around the slick head of his cock, the rough drag sending pulses of white-hot pleasure down his spine. 

“I am impressed. I would have guessed it was at least your third blowjob.” 

That’s a step too far. Even knocking on heaven’s door, Shane will not accept a blow to his skills, nonexistent as they were. “Shut the fuck up, Rozanov.” 

“If it makes you feel better, I keep your post-fight picture from the Chronicles in drawer next to my bed,” he says, referring to the photo attached to the magazine article that was published two years ago, after Shane won the amateur championship belt. The same one hanging on his parent’s fridge. “You look so pretty when you’re bleeding. I wanted to fuck you senseless before I ever met you.” 

Shane lets his head fall back on his shoulder, a dirty blond curl tickling his chin. It does make him feel better, actually. His wounds from the match had been oversaturated by editing in post, glistening on the page. He’ll carry the mental image of Rozanov coming on his battered, embossed face to an early grave. 

“I bet you’d like that, too.” 

It takes Shane a second to connect the dots, but luckily, Rozanov does it for him, his fist still working him over in steady, bristling strokes. 

“Hm? Wouldn’t you like to feel my cock splitting you open? You’ve been needing it for a long time, yes?” 

Shane hasn’t come yet, but he might black out if he doesn’t soon. He blinks his eyes open, daring to glance at himself in the mirror. 

He makes a noise like a strangled cat at the image reflecting back at him, his skin flushed and sweaty, his wet mouth hanging open. Rozanov’s fist moving beneath the fabric of his sweats, his glassy, feline eyes boring right into Shane’s glazed expression. His free hand drops to his stomach, pushing up his t-shirt, revealing the rest of the bruise across his sternum from the chest lock maneuver. Suddenly, his grip loosens and slows to an excruciating pace, and Shane feels like he’s going to pass out. The only thing stopping his legs from giving out from beneath him is Rozanov’s firm body holding him up. 

“Would you like it like this? Slow and romantic?” 

He tugs Shane’s pants down, revealing his wet, pink cock in the mirror, and the gentle, leisured way he’s stroking him. His lips brush Shane’s neck, and his hand caresses his chest, thumbing softly over a nipple in a way that makes Shane’s entire body tense up, a whimper escaping his lips. His fist curls up on the porcelain, dull sparks of pain shooting up his knuckles from the weight of both of their bodies bearing down. 

“Or would you want it to be rough? So hard and fast that you feel me for days afterwards?” 

He retightens his grip and tugs at Shane’s cock, his strokes turning violent and bullying. His fingers dig into Shane’s pec, making white indents in the bruised flesh, and then he pinches his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and twists. 

Shane’s orgasm hits him like a freight train, spurting thick ropes of come into the bowl of the sink, some of it painting the fresh bruises on Rozanov’s fist. He bites his own knuckle to keep himself quiet, while Rozanov milks him through it, squeezing out every last drop like he’s saving it for later. 

“You’re right, that was a stupid question.” 

He runs his fingers under the faucet, washing away the evidence. Shane’s body is still pressed against him, chest convulsing with stuttered breaths. 

He can’t bring himself to look at him, feeling the warmth disappear from his back as Rozanov pulls his sweats back up, pats his hip, and releases him. Shane’s legs shake as he absentmindedly tears a paper towel from the dispenser and starts wiping at the mess. He hears Rozanov laugh behind him. The click of the deadbolt unlatching. 

“See you in a few months, Hollander,” he says, and then he’s gone, as quickly as he’d appeared. 

*

It’s funny how pulling one little string makes the whole thing start to unravel, pooling at his feet in a threadbare illusion of self-control. 

Shane books another championship fight with him, penciled in for mid-October. Sometime in April, he gets an email inviting him as a special guest for a charity event in Boston. Three matches, three different opponents, an old-school fight club showdown. No winners, no losers – only bragging rights, and a jam-packed crowd, thirsty for blood. 

Generally, Shane avoids this type of thing. He prefers structure and regulation, something that’s notably absent whenever the league sponsors weren’t involved. But, when he follows the link to view the roster, Ilya Rozanov is third on the lineup. His final opponent, to be determined. Shane accepts the invitation within the hour. 

Two weeks later, he’s drumming on his leg in coach, headphones hanging from his ears with no music playing, wondering when the fuck he became this pathetic. 

He thinks about his head snapping back from the whiplash of Rozanov’s flying fist, the shrill ringing in his ears, the swollen black eye he’d marked him with, that Shane had secretly admired every day until it went away. He thinks about Rozanov’s filthy mouth muttering obscenities in his ear in that dingy bathroom, how he’d described in graphic detail the things he wanted to do to him, like he’d thought about it a hundred times before. He wonders if they were all empty threats, or if somewhere in the thick of it, he’d hidden a promise. Either way, Shane’s stomach churns with curiosity. The kind that killed the cat. 

He’d tried to squash the urge with an online purchase. Late-night. Impulsive. Curious. The package arrived in a discreet black box with only his name and address typed on the front. He wanted to hate the way it felt when he sank down on the fake cock later that night, loosened by his fingers and the lazy orgasm they had drawn from him while he worked himself open. 

Unfortunately, long before this, there had been a time or ten where he’d been jerking off, and became overwhelmed by a heady sense of too-much-not-enough, and before he knew it, his spit-slick middle finger had found its way inside of him, helpless moans spilling from his lips while he painted his stomach with an overdue release. 

Maybe he should’ve included that in his hypothesis. It goes without saying that the experiment hadn’t produced the result he hoped for. 

After all, he’s still on the plane. 

* 

Shane recognizes the feeling in his gut, but he refuses to give it a name. 

Inside the club is dim and murky, long leather couches and velvet ropes, juxtaposed with concrete walls and floors littered in neon graffiti, loud rock music from the early aughts piercing Shane’s ears, and a giant metal octagon in the middle of an open room. It has the same ambiance as a dirty video Shane watched once, where two guys in banana hammocks had wrestled for dominance on a rubber mat and violently forced themselves onto each other in increasingly creative ways, with Limp Bizkit playing in the background. Or maybe that’s just him. 

Shane never really understood the macho frequencies of the fighting scene. Most guys overplayed the performance of masculinity, which he, too, was guilty of at times. But not in the ways that mattered. He didn’t get pumped full of ink every weekend; he saved his skin for temporary marks, better to see them with. He didn’t listen to raucous music and flex his muscles at innocent bystanders, hoping to catch a stray. 

And he most certainly didn’t smoke cigarettes indoors and swirl bitter amber liquid in a short crystal glass, scanning the room like some sort of juiced-up mob boss. Much like Ilya Rozanov was doing now, leaning against the bar in a loose tank top that looks like it was mauled by a grizzly bear, full of holes and slashes, the sides exposing his ribs and the dip of his waist. 

Shane’s eyes dart away when Rozanov catches him looking, his eyebrows shooting up and his mouth curling into a smirk. Shane himself is tucked away in a corner, hunched over a small table, nursing a gin and tonic that he normally wouldn’t allow himself to have. But he’s crawling with nerves, like a prized hog up for slaughter, and anyway, he needed something to do with his hands. 

Still, his skin flushes with anticipation, his senses fine-tuned and buzzing, and he spends the whole ten seconds that it takes for Rozanov to cross the room sucking down his drink as if the glass is a puddle in the desert. 

Shane stares straight ahead, the gold of Rozanov’s necklace reflecting the dim blue lighting in the corner of his eye. He slides into the barstool next to him like he’d been given an invitation, waving a hand in front of Shane’s face. 

“You missed me, or what? Don’t look so sad, Hollander, I’m right here.”

Shane scoffs, finally turning his head to look at him. Rozanov seems pleased by this, his chest twisting to face him, blocking the mostly empty room from his view. 

“I’m not sad. I’m just…getting into the headspace.” 

He realizes too late that he forgot to deny the other thing, and there’s no way to roll back on it now without making it weird. He curses himself silently. If Rozanov notices the slip, he doesn’t comment, but his mouth crawls into a smirk. 

“Loosen up, this is friendly match. We are wonderful people, getting beaten up for free. For charity,” he says instead, with a dramatic sweep of his hands in front of his face. Shane’s mouth twists into a grimace to hide his smile. “When did they tell you we fight together, anyway?” 

Shane’s brow furrows in suspicion. Is he making small talk? 

“I guess I just assumed, when I saw you’d be here. Why, when did they tell you?” 

Rozanov's mouth quirks, and he shrugs.

“No, they told me nothing. They let me choose. My father is friends with people who organized this.” 

He gestures to the room with one hand, fingers of the other tracing the rim of his glass. 

“So it’s rigged, then?” Shane jokes, his shoulders relaxing a little. He tries to ignore the warm ball of want that threatens to crawl into his gut and settle there, at the thought of Rozanov cherry-picking him from a long list of potential opponents, experienced fighters with more grit and less travel distance. 

“Doping is forbidden, if this is what you mean. Though, it could be fun to try,” Rozanov says, punctuated by a wink and a pointed sip of his drink. 

“I’d never do that. Against the rules or not,” Shane deadpans. 

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “God, you are boring. What, you couldn’t use a little extra stamina?” 

Shane visibly flinches when his hand circles his thigh under the table. It sends a hot flash of energy zipping up his spine, like a current through a live wire, the brief warmth of his palm on his bare skin, his fingers teasing at the hem of his shorts. 

“Not what you said before,” Shane remarks boldly, pushing his empty glass away, the bitter punch of the last swallow settling warm in his chest.

It vaguely registers to him that they’re flirting, then, the notion of which wrenches him back to reality. His stare hardens, and he brushes Rozanov’s hand away with a flick of his wrist. 

Both of his palms go up in mock surrender. “No, no, you must focus, I get it. Just try not to get yourself too worked up in the meantime, yes?” 

“Fuck you,” Shane grits through his teeth, ignoring the twitch in his pants. Rozanov moves to stand, his mouth split into a devilish grin. 

“Later. If you’re lucky,” he drawls, his uncouth gaze dropping to Shane’s mouth briefly before he saunters off toward the thickening crowd. 

*

The energy in the room is thick and nebulous, rife with danger like a bad neighborhood in the dead of night. The noise rages loud enough to trap Shane into a headlock and split an eardrum, if his first opponent doesn’t get to it first. 

He gives the impression of a chihuahua with a nasty bite. Short, slender, and truly ripped, his small frame made more threatening by angular bulges of muscle beneath his skin. He goes by Taco, aptly fitting the image of an ankle-biting dog subconsciously folding itself into Shane’s mind. He’s scrappy, and quick, and it hurts when Shane drives his elbow into his abdominal muscles, razor-sharp. But then, he loses consciousness when Shane finishes the fight with a nasty right hook to the jaw, because the crowd wants a show, and he’s feeling a little rambunctious. 

Maybe the easy win gives him some false illusions. Up next is someone who had a Wikipedia page, which is how Shane knows he’s local. His reputation rivals that of his own, an up-and-coming name with a winning streak. Although, Shane has never fought him before, because he is definitely not a middleweight. Loose game, loose rules. All is fair in love and war. Shane never really understood the phrase, but it’s starting to make sense to him now. 

His name is Cliff Marleau, he looks like an ancient Roman warrior reborn with a nineties heartthrob haircut, and he probably trains with Rozanov on the weekends. He’d seen them hamming it up after Rozanov’s fight with Taco, but he was too focused on the swirling ink crawling up Rozanov’s bare, glistening back to pay attention to what their conversation might have been about. 

It was the first time he’d gotten a proper look at it, an abstract nest of barbed strokes starting at the bottom of his spine, then crossing and intertwining, like perfectly symmetrical branches, around an intricate orbed shape right in the middle of his shoulderblades. Shane wants to trace the sharp outline of it with his fingernail, leave thin white lines in its wake. 

Shane shakes himself from his stupor, gaze darting away, thoughts diverting to analyze his approach. Marleau easily has five or six inches on him, and he’s built like a tree trunk. Shane doubts his classic move will work; the proportions are all wrong. He’ll have to rely on something he normally doesn’t – his punches. His strategy is to whittle him down slowly, a page from Rozanov’s book. Hit hard and quick, don’t give him time to think or block. When he’s dizzy, malleable, go for the takedown. 

At first, it works. Shane is able to corner him and land some dirty knees in quick succession. His shorter height turns out to be an advantage when it comes to ducking his swings. But, somewhere around the two-minute mark, he takes a brutal kick to the ribs, and then, seconds later, he miscalculates. Fatally. 

The room tilts, and then he’s sent into oblivion, a blank space in which his body and mind are both immaterial. The funny thing about getting knocked out is that it doesn’t hurt until after he wakes up. The only sensation he has is the taste of blood on his tongue as his head hits the mat. 

It all happens in seconds, the transition carrying him through disorienting wavelengths of buzzing adrenaline, to grey, planar negative space, and back to a room thrumming with violent zeal, where he blinks against the throbbing pain in his temple.  

Afterwards, he’s assessed. He follows the light with his eyes, he touches his right ear with his left glove, he walks in a straight line, toe to ankle. The physician clears him, while telling him it would be unwise to fight again. But, without the league to oversee a medical suspension, and a crowd of bloodthirsty donors desperate to see him battle it out with Rozanov, it’s merely a doctor’s advice that Shane can choose to follow. 

Or not. 

Unfortunately for his health, he has something in common with the chanting masses. Against his better judgment, he’s been looking forward to this for a week. Sunk cost fallacy rules that permanent brain damage would be better than going home without getting what he came for. 

The buzzer throbs in his eardrums when it signals the end of Rozanov’s second match. Shane leaves the dressing room and weaves through the crowd, thick with smoke and sweaty bodies, just in time to see Marleau stumble off of the mat with a shattered nose, fingers raised to his face. Blood seeps through the cracks like viscous rainwater from a drainpipe. Apparently, Ilya Rozanov’s fists knew no mercy, even amongst friends. For charity. 

Shane wishes he could’ve seen the hit. 

*

The center of the ring filters through Shane’s retinas in vivid technicolor, blurred and grainy like an old television screen filled with static pixels. He only vaguely registers the echoing sound of the announcer’s voice, and the booming cacophony of the rabid audience, their teeth bared and snarling in the corners of his vision. He can hardly zero in on anything other than the fact that Rozanov is holding out on him. 

Shane knows it by the way that he dodges his swings, but only returns them at half the frequency. When he does land a hit, there’s a lack of force behind it that only Shane would recognize. He’s sure he could pick out Rozanov from a lineup while blindfolded, just by the feeling of his fist colliding with his flesh. He’d committed the grooves between his knuckles to memory, the exact amount of space between them, the distinctive imprints they left behind, like handwriting – only easy to mimic to the untrained eye. He’s hitting hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to make him stumble. Not hard enough, period. 

Shane is slow, too slow to be taking the lead. When he’d stepped onto the mat, he’d felt the throb of his heartbeat in his eyeballs, and he’d accepted his loss before the buzzer even went off. Now, the clock bypasses the halfway mark, and the mockery makes his blood fizz beneath the surface of his skin like pressurized bubbles in a shaken-up soda can. 

Shane knees him in the abdomen, hard, then leaves his block wide open, just to see if he’ll retaliate. Shane catches a flash of vengeance in his narrowed gaze, his lip curling into a snarl, but all he gets is a weak swing to the shoulder. The force of it feels hindered and dull on impact, like a bullet shot into the ocean. Shane spits at his feet. He’s done playing this fucking game. 

The seconds seem to drag on at a glacial pace. With only a fraction of the effort it should take, Shane gets Rozanov into a rear chokehold, his bare, inked back pressed to his front, their writhing bodies practically parallel to the floor. His forearm is wrapped tight around his throat, while Rozanov claws — or pretends to — at the other wrist pinned at the base of his neck. Shane could end the match right here, if he hooked his chin down and made the hold unbreakable, until Rozanov was forced to pass out or tap out. Instead, he intentionally loosens his grip, daring him to shoulder him out of the way.

Rozanov’s performance of a struggle is convincing, at least, but Shane knows what his muscles feel like when they’re really straining against his hold. He knows that if he were trying, he’d yank Shane’s wrist from behind his head with both hands, knock the breath out of him with his elbows until he was free enough to roll out, and then finish him off with a solid right hook to the jaw. 

Even though Shane is hardly even restraining him, he doesn’t let himself out. It’s like Rozanov has clipped himself to a leash, held tight in his own grasp even as he strangles himself to keep tugging forward. 

Then, against all paradigm and precedent, a minute and a half still left on the timer, Rozanov removes the fist wrapped firmly around Shane’s wrist, and slams his palm down twice on the mat.

*

Shane’s blood curdles wickedly in his veins as he plows through the back door into the frigid night air. He’d seen Rozanov slip out just seconds ago, jacket squared tightly around his broad shoulders, and he hears his voice before he sees him, quickfire Russian echoing loudly in the empty alleyway. 

He’s leaning with one shoulder against the brick, shouting into his phone, hands gesturing wildly. It’s the first time Shane has heard him speak in his native language, and it makes his gut twist with sudden arousal, just before the anger takes over again, a dark vignette that washes over the corners of his vision. 

He lurks, sight unseen, until a few moments later when Rozanov punches his thumb into the screen with a few colorful-sounding words. He kicks up gravel with the point of his shoe, tiny pebbles spraying upwards near his feet. He looks like he wants to punch the wall next, but Shane is already making his presence known, offering himself up as a softer target. If he’s lucky. 

For once, the arrogant smirk is wiped off of Rozanov’s face, replaced by startled surprise when Shane suddenly appears in his space, grips his lapels, and pushes him flat against the brick. 

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was about in there?” 

Rozanov recovers quickly, lips splitting into a cold, toothy smile. 

“Careful, Hollander,” he purrs. “You want me so bad you are going to give yourself stroke.” 

Shane bristles, curling his lips into a sneer. 

“Is everything a fucking game to you? Why’d you throw the match?” he demands. He releases him, only to shove at his chest when Rozanov takes a step forward. His solid body only absorbs the inertia of the push, unmoving and still as a boulder. 

“What is problem? I thought you liked winning.” He pouts mockingly, his voice like syrup, sweet and sickening. There’s a hard edge to it, too, like he’d done Shane a favor that had gone without gratitude. As if he’d be thankful for a victory that he hadn’t earned. It’s a fucking insult, really, to assume Shane could only win against him in an unfair fight. 

“The problem? Are you fucking serious? If I wanted to beat up some weak pussy who couldn’t fight back, I’d go to the fucking country club.” 

His chest heaves, the insults rolling off his tongue like sour, spilled milk. He raises his palms to shove him again, but Rozanov’s fingers circle his wrists, his grip tight enough to hurt. 

“I said,” he starts, voice low and threatening. “Be. Careful.” 

“Or what?” Shane challenges. He lifts his chin stubbornly, feeling his eyes sting with frustration, Rozanov’s heartbeat steady beneath his curled fists. “You think I can’t fucking take it? They cleared me, asshole. You had no reason to - ”

“Not everything is about you, Hollander! Fuck,” Rozanov hisses, forcibly releasing his wrists. His head shakes slightly, and Shane’s arms drop like dead weight at his sides as Rozanov sucks in a steely breath. It comes out as a fine mist in the space between them, merging with Shane’s own in one homogeneous cloud, backlit by the amber glow of a lone streetlight. 

“So what was it about, then?” Shane insists. 

Rozanov pinches his nose, huffing through his nostrils.

“I broke my friend’s nose tonight. Do you want to know how it felt?” he says, avoiding the question. He seems to be somewhat of an expert at that. 

Shane can’t tell if it’s a threat or not, but he sees a flash of something hidden in his eyes, a look he hadn’t seen before, something raw and forlorn. He doesn’t wait for Shane’s response, his voice still piercing into him like jagged nails protruding from a floorboard. 

“It felt fucking good. Too good. They think of me like machine, that I feel nothing when I hurt people, but is not true. I fucking love it. More than sex, more than anything. I lost control, and I liked it. That is why I could not hit you.” 

Whatever his point is, it flies right over Shane’s head. All he hears is the persistent buzzing in his ears, like the crowd is still right there, ruthless, egging him on. All he hears is Rozanov’s deep, controlled voice, translating desires he’s been afraid to tap into for his entire life, and dangling them in front of him, like he knows exactly what Shane followed him for. All he hears is that he'd tied a bone to a string and wrenched it away, just before Shane could catch it in his mouth. 

“Why the fuck not? You never had a problem with it before,” he asks, his tone rough and demanding, because it’s not good enough. It’s humiliating, how badly he wants it. How much he was willing to expose himself in order to get it, peeling himself back layer by layer until all that was left of him was a pulpy lump of flesh and a still-beating heart, ripe for Rozanov to sink his canines into. 

Rozanov shoulders past him, the tension snapping like a string held taut. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and he’s never seen him look more predatory than he does now, the scar that splits the right side of his face in two catching light and shadows in a menacing dance. His jaw clicks when he opens it, his voice a low rumble. 

“You really want to know?” He lets out an ugly, bitter chuckle, and it’s a little frightening how quickly it turns to a grimace. “My life is going to shit, he hit you so hard that I thought you broke your neck, and if this is not enough, you are making me feel fucking crazy. I did not hit you because I was afraid I would fucking kill you.”

Shane’s eyes widen, incredulous, and he snorts in disbelief. “Oh, yeah? I’d like to see you try. Fucking do it. Hit me.” 

He forces down the millions of questions that flood his brain, quietly filing the words away for safekeeping, until he’s alone, until he can analyze them until he gives himself a throbbing migraine. 

Then, he meets Rozanov’s eyes, and sees his own cracked, distorted reflection staring back at him. 

“Hollander.”

He says it like a warning. Shane thinks of the moths in summertime, so drawn to ultraviolet light that nothing, not even a hundred insect carcasses trapped in a metal grate, could stop them from frying themselves alive.

“Come on, I know you want to. You owe me a fucking fight, Rozanov.” 

Rozanov laughs again, shaking his head. Asshole. 

“I have better idea.” He presses in closer. “How about you get on your knees, and suck my dick?”

In some other circumstance, Shane would obey so quickly one would think Rozanov held a gun to his head. The thing is, obedience won’t get him anywhere near what he wants this time, and the words send his blood to a rolling boil. His mouth drops open and his fists clench at his sides, instinct overriding all sense of self-preservation. 

“You fucking asshole,” Shane grits through his teeth. He lunges forward, head first, like a young buck with budding antlers competing for a mate. Rozanov grunts at the impact, and has no choice but to put his hands on him, the two of them grappling for dominance for a few long, frenzied moments. 

It ends when Rozanov gets the upper hand, slamming Shane into the brick so hard that he sees stars when he closes his eyes. He’s temporarily immobilized by the searing pain at the base of his skull, clenched fists gripping handfuls of his jacket and crazed eyes boring into him. He’s sure he lets out a quiet noise of submission — half pain, half pleasure. Then, Rozanov’s gaze lands on his mouth, swollen and bruised. Shane watches beneath hooded lids as he stumbles backward, then takes three calculated steps. 

One in the other direction, his hands flattening the hair on the sides of his head. Another to pivot back towards him, arm raising to press his palm into the brick inches from Shane’s head. And a third, achingly slow, to close the space in the middle. 

It hurts when Rozanov’s mouth smashes into his, and Shane lets out a whimper, helpless but to kiss him back just as violently. Rozanov licks into his mouth with fevered precision, and then sharp teeth find the cut that he’d bitten into his inner lip when he’d gone down. Shane tastes blood again when they clip through the wound, splitting it open. 

Sensation blooms over every inch of his body, and he feels hot under his jacket even though the cold bites at his fingers, which twist themselves into Rozanov’s hair, still tacky with dried sweat. He feels his lip pulse as the blood flows back to the surface, staining both of their mouths crimson when Rozanov wrenches himself away to press their foreheads together, chest heaving. 

He untangles one hand from Shane’s jacket and lifts it to grip his chin, thumb pressing in hard enough to feel the soft give of his own cheek between both rows of his teeth. 

“This is what you want? For me to hurt you?” Rozanov asks, his irises darting wildly while his pupils stay fixed, searching for something in Shane’s expression. Signals of protest, maybe. Or a rippling white flag. 

Suddenly, sinking to his knees right here in the alleyway doesn’t seem so ludicrous. He nods vigorously, ashamed to admit it, but afraid he won’t get it if he doesn’t. 

Rozanov mutters something he doesn’t understand, and Shane sees a slight shake in his fingers when he releases him to wipe at his own mouth, smearing Shane’s blood across the back of his bruised hand. 

He takes a step back. Shane stumbles forward to follow the movement, involuntarily, an invisible magnetic force dragging his body towards him. He feels reckless, disheveled and untamed, and he’s sure he looks the part. A cautious thumb brushes through the blood on Shane’s lip, and he pulls it into his mouth instinctively, tasting iron and salt. 

“Fuck,” Rozanov breathes, averting his gaze in silent consideration. Finally, he nods, mostly to himself, his throat bobbing with the movement. But when Shane wrings his hands together and prepares to take his stance, he shakes his head, and gestures for Shane to follow him. 

“Not here.” 

*

The walk is probably only fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours, cold air nipping at the tips of Shane's ears. Rozanov stays two steps ahead of him, hands shoved in his pockets. Shane feels watched. Curious eyes follow them as they stalk past a bustling street with their chins tipped down, probably looking like members of a street gang fresh from a brawl. 

Finally, they arrive at a nondescript building on an empty sidestreet, and Shane watches uneasily while Rozanov pulls a switchblade from his pocket and wriggles it into the door jamb of a side entrance. Shane swallows, eyes darting nervously while he desperately tries to swallow thoughts of how attractive he looks doing something that is almost definitely illegal. 

Something clicks, and metal creaks loudly as the steel door swings open slowly on its hinges. Shane once again feels like prey, walking straight into the mouth of the beast. To say he was lured would be too generous; he’d pried apart the teeth and nested himself there willingly, curled up on a bed of soft tongue. 

The heavy door swings shut with an echoing thud, and he feels Rozanov’s looming presence behind him, cloaked in shadow, close enough to make the hairs on his arms stand up straight. 

A single yellow bulb hangs above a four-sided ring in the corner of the room, framed with red rope and flanked by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. To the right of it, a black punching bag hangs eerily from its chain. There are a few metal chairs stacked alongside the wall, next to a shelf stocked with equipment and another steel door with a small square window leading to somewhere unknown. 

“Is where I train. Sometimes I sneak in after hours. Coach would not give me the key.” 

The sound of Rozanov’s voice dropping into the darkness startles him, and Shane’s eyes dart nervously around the room as he feels himself naturally start to seek out escape routes. Or ways they could be seen. 

“There aren’t any cameras?” he asks, stepping further into the room, closer to the light. 

“Mm, no, is mostly private. Nothing to watch for.” 

Shane turns to see him leaning against the wall, watching him with an intensity that makes his stomach churn and his dick twitch. His head feels so much clearer now, all of his rage and adrenaline having faded to a static hum in his chest. He clears his throat, but says nothing, unsure how to proceed. 

Rozanov takes a step in his direction, his lips tugging up at the corners. “Why, did you want to keep the tape for later?” 

Shane flushes down to his toes. He feels caught, like Rozanov somehow knows how many times Shane has rewinded the clip of him laying him out flat on the mat. 

“No. Fuck off, I just don’t want to get arrested in a foreign country,” he responds with a tight jaw. 

Rozanov’s lips split into a wide grin of genuine amusement, like Shane has said something hilarious. Somehow, it makes his heart beat faster than the looming threat of what’s to come. 

“Probably best. You are too pretty for jail.” 

“Shut up,” Shane says weakly. He feels the need to change the subject. “Are we doing this or not?” 

“Relax, Hollander. I thought maybe if we talk first, you would loosen up a bit.” Rozanov is already reaching for two pairs of fingerless gloves, tossed carelessly on the corner of the mat. 

Shane stares at them. Either he wears his thoughts on his sleeve, or Rozanov can read him like a book. He cocks a brow. 

“What? You want to go bare hands?” 

“I prefer it when I’m sparring.”

He seems to consider it, then shakes his head, tossing Shane a pair, white leather, scuffed and worn. 

“I prefer not. Put them on.”

Then, he begins to peel off his clothes, layer by layer, tossing them in a haphazard pile on the floor, until he’s left in only thin black briefs. Rozanov jerks his chin as if to tell him to do the same. Shane’s throat dries. Bossy, he thinks, not entirely upset about it.

“Just a friendly match, right?” Shane says, sarcasm dripping from his tone. 

Rozanov’s eyes shimmer with mischief, his eyebrows crawling up to his forehead. “Is that what you want? Friendly?” 

Shane swallows. 

“I just want — fair. You’re the only one in my league who can beat me. I was bored of winning until I beat you. I wanna know what it feels like. Again.” He stumbles through the sentence, unsure what he’s even saying, unsure which result would make him feel strongest. 

He then follows his lead, tugging off his own clothes. He figures it’s close enough to how they fight anyway. It’s not like they could move swiftly in sweatshirts and jeans. He folds them into a neat pile and sets them on a shelf, ignoring the amused chuckle he earns from Rozanov as he watches him. 

“So, what are the rules?” Shane asks, if only for something to say. He’s not sure why he always feels the need for them, but right now, they feel crucial. Like lines begging to be crossed. 

“Rules? So it’s like that, Hollander?” Rozanov scoffs.

Shane laughs, only internally, at the bitter irony. Playing to his image, telling Shane he’d wanted to hurt him in the ring. But he hadn’t; he chickened out. Shane wasn’t good at reading people, but everyone knows the proverb about actions and words. Now, even though Rozanov is the one that said it, he has the audacity to sound genuinely offended at the request. The facade is so thin, he himself doesn’t even believe it. 

“Like what? Boring?” Shane slides his hand into a glove, flexing his fingers in the worn leather that feels made to fit him. He keeps his gaze trained on Rozanov long enough to see him laugh and nod, shaking his hands with his own gloves already pulled on. 

“Listen. I know limits, I am not monster. The thing is, I know what you want, and I think I can give it to you. Are you scared of me, Shane Hollander?” 

Shane firms his gaze and shakes his head. It’s true. The only thing he’s scared of is how good it will feel. 

“Good,” Rozanov says. “So, rules. I will not play nice, but I will not hurt you. Not that badly, anyway.” He winks. Shane tears his gaze away. “I will make sure you get good rest and catch your flight tomorrow. And if you lose consciousness, I take you to hospital, so better to tap out, if it comes to that. Deal?” 

Rozanov swings his legs over the rope, then offers him a gloved hand, bare fingers wiggling in invitation. Shane eyes him curiously as he takes it and lets himself be pulled up onto the mat, letting go to climb over the side. 

“Same rules for you, then?” he asks, just to be sure. Rozanov shrugs. 

“You can do whatever you want. I’m pretty sure I know how this is going to end.” 

Shane doesn’t even want to know what he means by that. Only he does, badly enough to make his veins thrum with electricity and warmth. Not badly enough to ask. 

“One more rule, yes?” A playful grin tugs at the corners of Rozanov’s lips. 

Shane fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Who’s the boring one now?” 

“No, no, you will like this one.” Rozanov’s eyes darken, still smiling devilishly, and he bends both knees, taking his stance. “If I win, I get to fuck you.” 

Shane’s breath quickens, and he tenses his jaw. “And if I win?” 

Rozanov grins. His eyes are like the skin of a chameleon, taking whatever color the light reflects into them. Right now, they glow amber, his pupils ringed with flecks of gold. 

“We will see about that, Hollander.” 

*

Shane’s chest glistens with sweat and his heart pumps loudly in his throat. Rozanov circles the ring, blood trickling down his temple from an old gash that Shane had split open again when his fist collided with bone, just hard enough to send him stumbling into the ropes. His lips are curled into a grimace, and he looks every bit the ruthless fighter that Shane had faced three times now in the cage, no sign of backing down. 

He’d carefully avoided Shane’s head, but landed heavy hits everywhere else. Every breath pierces his lungs like his skin is lined with needles, ribs already stippled with broken blood vessels and nebulous purple shadows. The coursing adrenaline keeps him moving, taking rhythmic steps in an attempt to conceal his next move. 

Rozanov gets to him first. Shane blames the concussion, or the dizzying sensation of heat building up in his gut ever since Ronanov’s lips had curled around the word go. Suddenly there’s a body careening into his side, and the world tips sideways, his abdominal muscles crunching like an aluminum can to stop his head from hitting the mat. 

Rozanov’s biceps circle his abdomen, and Shane bucks upward with as much strength as he can muster, as he hooks his ankles between his shoulder blades in an attempt to take control. He feels hot breath on his thigh, hears Rozanov grunt as he realizes his mistake and unsuccessfully strains against the hold. His gloved fist meets the soft flesh of Shane’s stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs and tearing a loud groan from his throat. 

Shane fights to keep his arms at bay, and he manages to pin one to Rozanov’s chest, crushed between their bodies. He’s momentarily distracted by Rozanov’s lips grazing his skin, his traitorous cock twitching in interest. As he struggles to get a grip on his other wrist, he feels Rozanov smile against his leg, and then his vision goes white when he sinks his teeth into the softest part of his thigh, hardly an inch from the growing bulge in the front of his briefs. So much for rules, then.

Shane moans pathetically, and feels his bones start to melt under the searing throb of Rozanov’s teeth latching onto him like the jagged steel jaws of a closed bear trap. He’s sure his grip must loosen enough for him to escape, but he stays there, long enough that Shane feels every warm drop of blood rush to his core. Long enough for his cock to stiffen fully, forming a hard line along his hip.

His hips jerk involuntarily, and when Rozanov finally lets up, he leaves behind a red welt and a ring of puckered indents, a perfect imprint of his teeth, the skin broken where his sharp canines had sunken into the soft flesh. Blood forms in tiny needlepoints on the surface of the wound, and then Rozanov traces it with a pointed tongue, drawing out a shuddering groan as Shane dissolves beneath him. 

“Giving up, Hollander?” 

He runs a finger along the ridges, feather-light, his gaze fixed on the puckered flesh as if to admire his work. 

“Fuck you,” Shane grits through his teeth. If they’re playing dirty now, he may as well go in for the kill. He leverages his position and presses his thighs against Rozanov’s ears, squeezing them together. 

Rozanov’s eyebrows draw together as Shane effectively cuts off the blood flow to his brain, his forehead reddening and his teeth bared, landing bruising punches to the backs of Shane’s thighs as he fights the hold. But his eyes are hooded and glassy, and Shane swears that, as their eyes lock with fevered intensity, he sees him wrap his lips around the word more. It’s like staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He’s so fucking hard he could be sick. 

He only lets himself enjoy the power for a few seconds, then uses his heightened advantage to force him onto his back and pin him down with the weight of his body.

Rozanov curses and gasps for breath, his face twisting up and his lips pressing into a tight scowl as he huffs through his nose. He throws a weak punch to Shane’s shoulder, and then drives the same clenched fist into the mat when Shane rolls his hips forward, nudging their clothed cocks together. They’re both hard and panting, and Shane quickly loses himself to the heady sensation, rutting against him helplessly like a dog in heat, driven by pure lust and instinct. 

He’s not even surprised when Rozanov takes the upper hand again, easily rolling Shane onto his back. Before he can make a single move of protest, rough hands are dragging his briefs down his thighs, pooling around his knees as Rozanov reaches to press down on his chest and takes Shane’s cock into the wet heat of his mouth. 

Shane surrenders to it instantly, the fight the farthest thing from his mind as his hands scramble for purchase, sweaty gloved palms flattening against the rubber at his sides. His mouth drops open on a moan, eyes fluttering shut. Red-hot flashes of light dance behind his closed lids, screwed up tight as Rozanov takes him deep in the back of his throat, vibrating around him when he hums in quiet satisfaction. 

He jerks when a curious thumb presses into the cleft of his ass, finding his rim and pressing lightly into the sensitive, puckered skin. Rozanov pulls off with an obscene wet sound, his lips brushing Shane’s stomach when he speaks. 

“You ever touch yourself here?” he asks, his voice deep and gravelly, his thumb circling Shane’s hole. 

“Fuck,” Shane gasps. He can’t even feel embarrassed as he nods, delirious with need. “S-sometimes.” 

“You like it?” 

Shane thinks it’s obvious. His skin begins to prickle at the questions, wishing Rozanov would stop asking and just do. Still, he answers anyway, his brain a muddled pile of mismatched parts and his voice thick with desire. 

“Yeah, I mean, I - I guess,” he manages. Rozanov responds by pressing the tip of his thumb inside, working it in up to the first knuckle. He feels the soft scrape of leather against his rim. Shane lets out a string of curses, his balls drawing up tight and his cock blurting precome onto his stomach. 

Rozanov’s voice floats up from below.

“You guess?” 

“Yes, fuck, I like it a lot, okay? So can you just - oh, fuck.” 

A powerful forearm folds his body in half, Shane’s words replaced by a high-pitched whine as Rozanov exposes his hole and spits, then spreads the wetness with the pointed tip of his tongue. Shane’s body lights up at the sensation, and it’s so much, so good, so unlike anything he’s ever felt before, that he thinks he could come just from the soft press of his mouth against him. 

Shane feels his limbs loosen and his mind slowly untethering itself from the ropes of his body, the feeling of Rozanov’s tongue unwinding him in slow, deliberate loops. Pushing inside, testing him for resistance. When he releases Shane’s thighs to drag his fist up his leaking cock, smooth leather against skin, his legs stay exactly where he’d left them, and his trembling fingers tangle into the sweaty curls at the base of his neck. 

He’s so fucking close, his breath escaping in short, wet gasps, laced with uninhibited sounds drawn from deep in his belly. Rozanov strokes him steadily while his tongue works him open, his fingers slick with Shane’s arousal. He’s so frantic with need that he barely registers it when Rozanov lifts his head to speak, but he’s already nodding along, resolved to give him anything he asks for. 

“Tap out.” 

The words sound strange and echoed, as if he’s calling to him from another room. Shane’s brain short-circuits at the command, and his eyes flutter open to find Rozanov’s gaze already burning through him, pupils wide and dark, two black pits of hunger ringed in watery blue. 

“What?” he sputters, and it comes out thick and oversaturated, like his throat is filled with concrete. 

“Fight back, or tap out,” Rozanov repeats sternly. He punctuates it with a firm lick, his tongue pushing past the first ring of muscle and his fist dragging over his cock, torturously slow. Then, he rips off his gloves, and replaces his tongue with his index finger, pressing in to the knuckle, and curving down. Shane’s eyes cross at the sensation, vision hot and swimmy, and he makes a sound that’s foreign to his own ears, like a wounded animal. 

“You - fuck, Rozanov.” He thrusts in and out, licking a long stripe up Shane’s cock before he takes him into his mouth, and any words of protest instantly die in his throat. There’s no medal on the line, no belt to thrust above his head, no shame in submitting to him, this time, and it’s never felt so fucking good to lose. His sweaty palm slams down twice on the mat, echoing loudly in the empty room.

Rozanov pulls off with a satisfied hum, letting Shane’s cock slap back against his stomach, and draws his finger out slowly. 

“God, you make it so fucking easy for me, Hollander,” he says, in a tone that makes it sound like a compliment. Shane fights the flush that threatens to bloom on his already burning cheeks. 

“Everything’s easy if you’re cheating,” he bites back weakly, hardly a nip. 

Rozanov winks and picks up his arm, dead weight on the mat by now, and peels off his glove. He does the same to the other one, tossing them into the room wherever they land. Shane flexes his fingers and examines the indented lines left behind along his second knuckle, forming a barrier against the scattered bruises that he never noticed until now. 

All of his wounds seem to register to him, then, and Rozanov’s too. A purple shadow where Shane’s legs had locked around his throat. Blood smeared across his cheek, the cut on his forehead sealed over with a wet red slit. Both of their ribs demolished, the throbbing mold of his teeth on Shane’s thigh. Four trembling fists littered in angry welts, clustered and shining like mottled berries.

Shane can hardly feel any of it over the blood still stubbornly collected in his cock, made impossibly harder at the stunning image of it all. The brutal force of nature in its purest state, channeled through their bodies, the release and the comfort found in experiencing pain without fear. His fingers twitch on the mat, and he’s reaching for him, seeking the heat of his mouth, pulling his weight on top of him no matter how much it hurts. 

Rozanov deepens the kiss immediately, tongue prodding past Shane’s lips and tracing the ridges behind his teeth, dull throb in his lower lip soothed by the wet slide of his mouth. A string of spit connects their lips when they part, snapping in half when Rozanov grabs his chin to meet his eyes, and presses in once more. 

Shane stares in awe as Rozanov collapses onto his side and slides his briefs down his thighs, freeing his half-hard cock. He wraps his fist around himself and pulls back the foreskin, wet head winking at Shane as he watches him harden in his palm. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Shane asks, remembering the deal, realizing it’s all he’s wanted the whole night – or maybe since the first time he’d leveled him with that look, and left Shane’s outstretched palm hanging in the air. 

“Is what you want?” Rozanov asks. 

Shane bristles, defensive. “What do you mean? You won.” 

Rozanov’s lips curl into a smirk. He slowly sits up to pull Shane’s underwear from his ankles, joining the pile on the floor. Then, he drops onto his elbows, hovering over him, deliberately bumping their cocks together. Shane hisses at the contact, his hips angling for more. 

“Very good. I won, so you do what I want. And I want to hear you ask for it.” 

Shane has the startling thought that it would be easier to admit that he wants it if he wasn’t given the choice. But Rozanov doesn’t let him have that, either, pulling his repressed desires out of him little by little, like there’s a string protruding from his mouth that keeps getting longer the more that he tugs. 

“I want it. I want you to fuck me,” he says, the words heavy on his tongue. Rozanov’s lips ghost against his jaw, rewarding him with another firm roll of his hips, his hands gently guiding Shane’s arms above his head. 

“Shane Hollander, nice Canadian boy, with good Canadian family. All the best training, well-rounded, perfect student. Only uses his fists when he has to,” he muses, mouth moving against Shane’s skin. His voice lowers an octave. “I know you were raised with better manners than that.” 

Shane wants to snap back, tell him that he doesn’t fucking know anything about him; that stupid article in the Chronicles had hardly scratched the surface. But he doesn’t, because it occurs to him, in the same moment, that he might actually know him better than anyone else. 

A hand circles both of their cocks, fisting them together, and the words fall out before Shane can stop them. 

“Fuck me, please, Rozanov, I need – I need you.” 

There’s a hint of awe in Rozanov’s expression, his eyebrows drawn together and his lips softly parted. He lifts himself onto his knees and crawls to the side of the mat, digging through his discarded jeans until he finds his wallet, and fumbling through it until he comes up with a condom and a packet of lube. 

Shane feels his head swim at the idea that he’d come prepared, confidently lying in wait for an opportunity. And here he was, about to be deflowered on a dirty rubber mat, with a single hanging bulb casting an orange glow across Rozanov’s face. It’s almost romantic, in the sense that it’s exactly the way he’d always dreamed it, before he knew it could ever be more than a dream. 

There’s a sensuality in the way he goes about it, a stark contrast to the rough outer layers that he’d slowly begun to shed. He warms the lube between his fingertips before he lifts Shane’s leg and presses two fingers inside of him, his lips curled into an oh as he watches them disappear with studied fascination. 

Shane’s chin tips towards the ceiling, big metal air vents staring down at him as he loses himself to the feeling of Rozanov opening him up, making room for his cock. 

They feel so much better than his own, no awkward angles or dull aching wrists or distracting sensation of his own walls clenching around him. Just the sweet, decadent burn of handing over a sacred piece of himself, a foreign feeling of trust and vulnerability seeping into his bones. 

“Next time,” Rozanov is saying, inserting a third finger and drawing out a breathy moan from Shane as he adjusts to the stretch, “I take my time with this. We will see just how polite a nice Canadian boy can be.” 

Shane is too caught up in the promise of next time to take it as a threat. Then, he’s too caught up in the press of Rozanov’s thumb against a bruise he’d stamped into his thigh to respond at all, a helpless, shuddering noise falling from his lips. 

Rozanov withdraws his fingers and fumbles for the condom, tearing the foil with his teeth and rolling it on with practiced flourish. Shane doesn’t stop to think about how many times he’s done this. Egotistically, he imagines himself the only one crazy and stupid enough to fall into his wiry trap, to meet him halfway on this quivering tightrope of cold-cut depravity. The way Rozanov looks at him as he positions the slick head of his cock against his entrance, it might actually not be far from the truth. 

It feels cosmic, the way their bodies shift together, like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place. Shane wonders how many of his life’s decisions have indirectly led him here, and then wonders which ones he can make to ensure it keeps happening, again and again. 

Rozanov stills once he’s buried inside him, and Shane realizes his own eyes are screwed shut, his breath escaping in short pants. It’s so fucking good, the swell of his cock stretching him open, thick and solid and real. He didn’t know anything could feel this good. 

“Is okay?” A voice floats above him, and all Shane can do is nod. Rozanov releases his wrists and claims his chin again, forcing his eyes open. He’s met with a sight that his countless lewd fantasies could have never prepared him for – an unblinking blue stare, a flushed face close enough to count the freckles on his forehead, a bead of sweat pearling in the indent of his cupid’s bow, a golden cross suspended in air, catching the light as it sways. 

They both groan when his hips rock back and then forward again, almost involuntarily, like he can’t even help it. Shane squirms beneath him, chasing the feeling. Rozanov does it again, this time with intent. He’s being cautious, like Shane is some delicate thing that’s too precious to break, but it’s not what he wants. He’s not made of glass; he’s not fragile. He wants to be shattered to pieces anyway. 

“You can – harder,” he grits out. Rozanov grinds his hips in response, lips falling open on a moan. Then, he’s pulling back, his cock drawing out to the tip as he sits up to kneel between Shane’s legs, like a loadbearing spring locking into place. Shift, and release. 

The sound of their bodies colliding begins to echo off the walls, Rozanov’s hips snapping into him with the unbridled enthusiasm of an animal claiming his mate. He draws back almost fully with each thrust, then drills back in, each of Shane’s nerve endings burning with feverish warmth. Bruised knuckles rest on his kneecaps, white indents blooming beneath curled fingertips where Rozanov grips the skin. 

If Shane was in the mouth of the beast before, he now resides in the walls of its soft underbelly, swallowed whole and slowly dissolving. He feels him everywhere, in the blood rushing beneath his skin, in the hollow of his keening throat, in the dull ache of his bruises. Then comes his voice, and Shane feels that too, low decibels settling right in the pulse of his weeping cock. 

“Fuck, Hollander, you take it so well. Like you were made for this.” He lowers himself to his elbows again, arms framing Shane’s head like a cage he never wants to crawl out of. “So big and strong, could have anything, and all you want is to be hit hard and fucked stupid.”

Shane thinks he’s making fun of him, and the worst part is, he doesn’t even mind, dick spilling precome at the thought. 

Until he tacks on, breathlessly, “How are you so fucking perfect?” 

The word rings in his ears, repeating itself on beat with his thrusts like a snare drum. Perfect. Shane had always seen himself as a freak of nature, biblically wrong in his hedonism. He’d spent so much of his life overcompensating for it, strict little rituals of tightly maintained control. Now, with Rozanov’s cock splitting him open and his body littered with his markings, he feels lab-created. Made by design, instead of by accident. 

“Holy shit, Rozanov,” he gasps, his voice hardly more than a broken cry. He feels his orgasm building, simmering in his groin. Rozanov keeps a steady pace, his strokes hard and bruising. 

“Yes. You are close, I can feel it. So fucking tight, so good. Want to see you come on my cock.” 

The hint of desperation in his voice makes Shane’s vision go blurry. He thinks he’s imagining it when Rozanov’s nose starts to drip crimson. 

Just as Shane’s going crosseyed with arousal, positive that he’s hallucinating, Rozanov removes his hand from Shane’s hair to swipe at the blood, fingers coming back stained. 

“Fuck. Is okay, happens sometimes,” Rozanov says. 

His movement barely falters, and he lets it fall in steady rivulets, both of them too far gone and far too familiar to care. Shane feels his own pupils dilating when a warm drop of it falls and lands on his chin, and a pained whimper escapes him. Then Rozanov’s fingers grapple at his throat, frantic, and their mouths crash together, a messy collision of teeth and spit and a taste of hot iron that makes Shane’s brain go numb. 

His cock twitches against his stomach, and then he’s shooting off without even getting a hand around himself, so hard that he feels a drop of it land on his collarbone. It’s fucking lethal, sending his brain and tongue into a flurry of yes and please and oh, God, Rozanov. He rides out the aftershocks, a litany of obscene noises drifting into Rozanov’s mouth. He pulls back to look at him, nose still dripping steadily. It’s so fucking beautiful Shane could cry. 

“Fuuuuck, Hollander.”

He watches Rozanov chase his own release, heavy-lidded. Once he’s managed to catch his breath, he feels a sudden boldness overtake him, and he steals a page from Rozanov’s playbook, his voice soft and foreign to his own ears. 

“You gonna come for me, Rozanov?” 

The look on his face is sinful, crease between his eyebrows, pupils blown wide, mouth open and pursed, like his lips are wrapped around an invisible bottleneck. Shane clenches experimentally, just to watch his eyelashes flutter and his head tip back. The blood trickles down his cheek towards the point of his jaw. 

Rozanov groans, deep and shuddering. 

“Fucking make me.” 

Shane’s picked up a few pointers along the way. He hadn’t been lying when he called himself a good student. And, it’s easy to say what he’s thinking, in the heady afterglow of getting everything he’s ever wanted. 

Well, almost everything. 

“God, you feel so fucking good. Want you to come on me. Fuck, I want - wanna taste it. Please, Ilya, give it to me.” 

The name slips out by accident. It feels too intimate – more intimate, somehow, than having his cock buried inside of him, or his teeth stamped into his skin, or his blood smeared on his lips. Nonetheless, Shane doesn’t get a chance to regret it, because Rozanov is wrenching himself free, lips curling into his mouth. Shane’s hole clenches around nothing as he tears off the condom and fists himself roughly until his come joins the mess on Shane’s abdomen, painting his bruises in translucent white. 

Rozanov pants through his release, gaze fixed on his canvas. Then, he lowers himself to one side, and swipes two fingers through the puddle, lifting them to Shane’s eager mouth. 

It’s salty and warm, and Shane doesn’t enjoy the taste so much as he enjoys the feeling, the fuzzy high he gets from swallowing another piece of him. Rozanov bends to kiss him after, open-mouthed and groaning softly as he tastes all of himself on Shane’s tongue. 

They stay splayed out for a few grounding moments, the mat sticky beneath Shane’s back, their chests heaving in tandem. Eventually, Rozanov sits up, scrubbing at the drying blood, smeared in red lines like spilled ink across the lower half of his face.

“Fuck. I need to clean this shit or my coach is going to kill me. You have hotel?” 

Shane mimics his movement, his skin clinging to the rubber like velcro as he peels his upper body away from it. He scratches at his arm, body suddenly cold and aching, and shakes his head.

“I was just gonna get a room at the Holiday Inn near the airport.” 

Rozanov laughs, soft cock swaying as he pushes into a standing position and swings his leg over the ropes, rummaging around until he finds a towel and a spray bottle. 

“Waste of money. My apartment is two blocks from here,” he says, clipped and casual. 

Shane’s lips tug up at the corners. “Are you asking me to stay the night, Rozanov?” 

Despite his efforts to appear aloof, Shane can see the pink flush that rises to his cheeks. His skin buzzes warm again. 

“What? I am gentleman,” Rozanov answers simply, tossing his clothes at him, undoing the neat pile he’d carefully folded. Shane feels like he’s peeled back a velvet curtain, staring at the cluttered backstage area of an elaborate production. He wants to read the whole fucking script. 

“And maybe…” Rozanov winks, collected again. “I am not done with you yet.” 

*

Rozanov sits across from him at a foldable dining table, carefully wrapping gauze around Shane’s knuckles. His apartment is small and cozy, a twelfth-floor studio with a wide window overlooking the city. The television swathes the room in flickering light, left playing reruns of a nineties sitcom. 

Shane had taken note of the personal touches scattered about, finding himself wanting to know something about him, something tangible, something beyond his reputation and his body. He wonders about his family, if they lived nearby or had stayed behind in Russia. He wonders how he ended up in Boston in the first place. The only sign of another person in his life that Shane saw was pinned on his refrigerator, a photo booth strip of him and a curly-haired woman, her face slender and model-pretty. In one frame, he held her in a playful headlock, teeth bared against her forehead. She was blurry and laughing. 

“That your girlfriend?” Shane had blurted, while Rozanov filled glasses with water from the sink and pulled a first aid kit from a cupboard above the stove. He couldn’t tell if the hollow pit in his stomach stemmed from guilt or from jealousy. 

“Just a friend from home. Svetlana.” Rozanov shook out two tablets from an orange bottle, holding them out in his fist. “For your head.” 

“My head’s fine, thanks,” Shane grumbled, and took the pills anyway. 

Now, Shane watches him finish tying the gauze, his thumb gently pressing into Shane’s wrist as he releases him. He watches him pull another strip from the roll to start in on his own. 

“Who were you talking to on the phone? In the alleyway,” Shane asks him. Rozanov’s eyes flicker upwards, then back down. 

“You are nosy, Hollander, you know that?” 

“I’m just curious,” Shane says defensively. 

“Too curious,” Rozanov mutters, but relents. “Was my brother.” 

“Are you two close?” 

Rozanov laughs wryly, more of a scoff. 

“Is complicated,” he answers, and nothing else. Something tells Shane to drop the subject, but he presses on, always ignoring his better judgment when it came to him. 

“Were you upset about something?” 

Rozanov finishes wrapping his own fists, and sits back, studying him. It makes Shane squirm in his chair, wringing his bandaged hands in the lap of his borrowed gym shorts, all of his things short of his phone and his wallet left abandoned in the club’s lockers. 

“I have to go home for a few months. I am not happy about it,” he finally offers, a bare sliver of honesty. Shane wants to ask why, but he saves it, noting the strain in his voice, like it hurts him to think about. Selfishly, he hopes he can revisit it sometime when he gets back. 

Rozanov picks up a bottle of disinfectant and scoots his chair closer, gently parting Shane’s thighs to get at the wound his teeth had left, now angry and purpling. 

“Come here,” he says, gently guiding Shane by the back of his neck into the crook of his bare shoulder. He smells like pine cones and spicy citrus, skin still warm and damp from the shower. “Bite.” 

Searing pain blooms over his inner leg, his teeth sinking into the muscle above his clavicle and muffling a groan. He releases slowly as it subsides, but stays there, a wet curl tickling his nose as he sucks in a deep breath. Rozanov dutifully covers the wound with a bandage, and Shane swears he feels his lips ghost against his ear when he forces himself to pull away. 

*

It’s weird to see Rozanov in the light. 

It’s even weirder to know that he sleeps like a restless dog, his limbs draping all over Shane like he’s merely a part of the mattress. Body practically sideways, mouth always open. Shane shudders to think that he finds it sort of cute, actually. It’s hard to imagine that the man in bed with him, littered in cuts and bruises from Shane’s own fists, could be described as cute in any realm of possibility. And yet, with his face slackened by sleep and his breath escaping his parted lips in soft, airy puffs, the thought still crosses Shane’s mind. 

He adds it to his ever-growing list of adjectives, once full of resentment, and now just bits of truth he wants to fill up his pockets with, like pebbles on a beach. So far, he’s got: asshole, liar, unpredictable, vicious, tender, careful, interesting. Scary, for reasons entirely unrelated to physical danger. It’s his own relentless craving for more that scares him the most. 

And now, cute. Shit, he’s fucked.

The weirdness compounds again when Rozanov yawns, disentangles himself from him, and stumbles out of sight into the kitchen. He’s gone for so long that Shane feels like he should get up and get out of his hair, probably avoiding him until he gets the hint and leaves. Only he returns, just as Shane is lifting the blanket, with two pieces of buttered wheat toast, an entire container of cottage cheese, and black coffee in small glass cups. 

“Peace offering.” 

Shane's lips curl into a smile, unfamiliar warmth creeping up his neck. He accepts the coffee, blowing before taking a sip and speaking the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Thought that was when you put your come in my mouth.” 

Rozanov nearly spits out the toast he’s chewing, swallowing with a cough. His lips split into an incredulous smile that quickly transforms into a suggestion. 

“Want me to do it again?” 

All in all, not Shane’s most heartbreaking loss. 

fin.