Chapter Text
Toronto, September 2010
Shane watched Ilya walk out the door, and the second it clicked shut, something in his chest gave way. It wasn’t dramatic, at least not outwardly. He didn’t collapse to the floor or reach for anything to steady himself. But internally, it felt like his lungs had forgotten how to expand properly, like the rhythm of his breathing had been disrupted and refused to correct itself. His mind moved faster than his body could follow.
Did that really just happen?
He stayed exactly where he was, staring at the door as if it might open again, as if Ilya might step back through it and say something—anything—that would make sense of what had just unfolded between them. But the hallway remained quiet. Shane dragged a hand down his face, slow, deliberate, like he could smooth the moment into something more manageable if he approached it carefully enough.
What does tomorrow look like?
That question lodged itself somewhere deep and immovable. Tomorrow had always been something Shane could anticipate, prepare for, control. Practice schedules, travel, game plans, everything slotted neatly into place with enough effort.
But this...this felt like stepping onto ice he hadn’t tested first. His body still hummed, not entirely settled, not entirely his own. There was a lingering awareness under his skin, a memory that hadn’t decided whether it wanted to fade or take root. He exhaled, long and controlled, like he was at the line before a faceoff. Staring at Rozanov. Ilya.
He needed to sleep. He needed, more than anything, to think. But his thoughts refused to organize themselves into anything useful.
***
Ilya walked down the hallway quickly, his steps uneven despite his effort to keep them measured, composed. The distance between Shane’s door and the stairwell stretched longer than it should have, each second pulling tight across his chest. He didn’t stop until he reached the heavy metal door and slipped inside, letting it shut behind him with a sharp, echoing click.
Only then did he breathe. The air in the stairwell was cooler, quieter. It wrapped around him differently, less charged, less alive. But it did nothing to calm what was happening inside him. Ilya pressed his back against the wall and slid down slowly, his body giving in all at once now that there was no one to witness it. He sat on the steps, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.
He had been with people before. Many in fact. Enough that he understood his own reactions, his own limits, the way desire moved through him and then passed.
This was not something he understood. Shane Hollander was not expected or easy to navigate.
“Fuck,” he muttered softly, the word slipping out in Russian under his breath a second later, sharper, more honest. He dragged his hands down his face and stared at the concrete floor, as if it might offer some kind of answer.
Shane Hollander.
Even thinking the name felt dangerous now, like it carried weight it hadn’t before. It wasn’t a rivalry. It wasn’t hockey, a legacy, his father’s voice in his ear. It was a mirror, a heavy mirror. A mirror in a dark room, shining a bright reflection he didn’t know he was looking for.
Ilya tried to trace the moment back, to find where it had shifted from something physical, something expected, into something else entirely. It blurred together too easily. A look, a breath, the way Shane had held himself like he was both in control and on the edge of losing it.
Ilya swallowed hard. He hadn’t felt like that in years.
Not since—
His chest tightened before the thought could fully form. Not since he had been a boy on the ice, his mother’s voice somewhere in the distance, steady and warm, telling him where to move, how to trust his body. That same feeling had returned tonight. It was unfiltered, overwhelming, impossible to ignore freedom. But it was sharper now, more dangerous.
“I am idiot,” he said quietly, shaking his head. Because he had let it happen.
No. Even worse, he had wanted it to happen. He had chased it.
And now there would be consequences. There were always consequences when he let himself feel too much, want too much, too quickly. Ilya leaned back against the wall again, closing his eyes. He could still feel Shane all too vividly, he could smell his scent. The memory hadn’t dulled at all, hadn’t softened into something he could compartmentalize. It stayed close, immediate, like it was waiting for him to reach for it again.
I want more.
The thought came uninvited and sat heavy in his chest. That was the problem. That was always the problem. He didn’t just want to understand what had happened, he wanted to repeat it. To see Shane again, to push further, to find out what else was there beneath the surface he had barely scratched. Ilya wanted something he had never before been allowed to have.
Ilya exhaled slowly, forcing himself to sit up straighter. He needed a plan. Something controlled. Something intentional. Because if he left this to chance, to timing, to the unpredictable nature of their lives… well he would lose it. And he was not sure he could handle losing the freedom he had only just found.
***
By the time Ilya made it back to his room, the tension in his body had shifted into something quieter, deeper. Not gone, it was never truly gone, but settled enough that he could finally lie down without feeling like he might crawl out of his own skin.
Sleep came easily. Easier than it had in months. His dreams were disjointed but vivid, filled with fragments he couldn’t fully piece together when he woke. Sensations lingered more than images. It was warmth, pressure, the feeling of being pulled under something he didn’t want to escape. When he opened his eyes the next morning, it took him a moment to orient himself, to separate what had been real from what had been imagined. His dreams came easily that night and he woke in the morning to the remnants of his own pleasure splattered across his chest. But the feeling remained. It sat low in his body, familiar now, undeniable. Ilya stared at the ceiling for a long moment before pushing himself upright, running a hand through his hair.
I need to talk to him. I need to feel him, taste him. I need.
The thought was immediate, urgent.
Not just talk—no, that was not enough. He needed to understand what this was, to see Shane again in a space that wasn’t accidental, wasn’t fleeting. He needed time to explore, to test it, to confirm it. Because if it was real, or even if it was half as real as it felt, he wasn’t going to walk away from it. Ilya reached for his laptop without hesitation.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: CCM ContactI need to speak to Shane Hollander about the CCM shoot. Can you reach out to them and get his email address?
The response came faster than he expected. Too fast, almost, like the universe was pushing this forward before he had the chance to reconsider.
Ilya stared at Shane’s email sitting in his inbox, the name stark and official in a way that didn’t match what had happened between them. This wouldn’t work, would it?
Not like this at least. This was too exposed. Too easy to trace back, to explain, to ruin. He needed distance. He needed an extra layer, protection. Something that belonged only to them, something to make Shane feel safe. A place to come undone.
Ilya opened a new browser tab and hesitated for just a second before creating a new account. Then another. He typed carefully, slower than usual, checking each word, each detail. If this was going to happen, it would be on his terms. It would be private, controlled, and safe. Or as safe as something like this could be.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:You have a new message waiting for you.
Username: [email protected]
Password: Toronto1410
Shane stared at the email longer than he should have. He read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, more deliberate.
There was no signature. No explanation. But he didn’t need one. A strange, sharp awareness settled over him, something between anticipation and apprehension.
Of course he would do this like this.
Shane exhaled slowly, closing his laptop for a moment before opening it again, like he needed the pause to steady himself. His hands gripped his knees so hard he left fingerprints inside of his thigh. He could look, he could read what was waiting there for him.
He entered the login information.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:Hi Jane.
Remember when I was asshole and made you come down my throat?
Shane stared at the screen, his lips pressing together despite himself. There it was. Direct, provocative, unapologetic. Completely him. Completely Rozanov. Ilya.
Shane’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, his mind moving faster than his hands again—but this time, there was something steadier underneath it. A decision.
If this was how Ilya wanted to play it then Shane could meet him there.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:Hi Asshole.
I don’t remember. Maybe you could remind me?
I want to see you again, but I need this to stay between us. Delete your first email.
You’re back in Canada next week. I can meet you in Ottawa. Let me know when you’re free.
He reread it once, corrected a comma, then hit send because Shane Hollander did not leave things unanswered. Not when the question mattered.
And this, well this mattered more than he was ready to admit. He needed to know.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:I remember everything. I remember you shaking when I touched you like you didn’t expect it. You watching me take you in my mouth like you were trying to memorize it. Don’t pretend you forgot. You don’t forget, Jane.
I have time Wednesday, day off.
Arlo Hotel.
Shane reads this one slower. Not because he doesn’t understand it but because he does. He understand it too well, actually. There’s something deliberate in the way Ilya writes. Not careless, not crude just… certain. Like he doesn’t second guess what he wants to say, even when he should. He wishes he could be like that. Shane feels it again—that pull under his skin, that awareness that refuses to settle into something manageable.
You shaking when I touched you.
His jaw tightens slightly. It’s not wrong. It’s not how he would have put it, but it’s not wrong. He did shake, a jolt of electricity striking his body hot and ready at Ilya’s touch. And that might be the scary part, the way he lost control of his body. The way he let Ilya take control.
He sits back in his chair, staring at the screen, forcing himself to breathe evenly before responding. There are a dozen ways he could answer this. A dozen ways to deflect, to regain control of the tone. He doesn’t choose any of them.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:You’re right. I don’t miss details and I don’t forget.
I remember exactly how you looked at me before you touched me. Like you had already decided what you were going to do and were just waiting for me to catch up.
You don’t hesitate. A little warning next time might be considerate.
4pm Wednesday. I won’t need to catch up this time.
He pauses before hitting send. Not because he’s unsure, but because something about this feels like stepping over a line he can’t step back across.
Good, he thinks. Shane presses send and slams his laptop shut. He walks to the kitchen and gets a glass of ice cold water. He stares at the condensation ring left on the counter where the glass sits. The cold beads of water remind him of Ilya. Ilya’s mouth dripping into his, leaving an impression.
Ilya doesn’t wait long this time. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed when the notification comes through, laptop already open like he’s been expecting it.
He reads Shane’s email once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, his mouth pulling slightly at the corner.
“You don’t hesitate.”
Ilya exhales through his nose, something sharp and satisfied settling in his chest.
“No,” he murmurs to himself. “I don’t.”
But Shane. Well, Shane notices everything. That is more dangerous for Ilya. He’s used to being the one to notice, the one to plan. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. Then he types, slower than before, choosing his words more carefully but not softening them.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:I give warning now.
You still come close anyway so maybe you don’t need it.
There’s a pause before he continues.
He stares at the screen, fingers hovering, something heavier pressing just beneath the surface of what he’s already written.
When he keeps going, the tone shifts slightly.
I want to see you again, too. Not just for five minutes. Properly. Come prepared.
-Lily
Shane reads this one standing up. He doesn’t remember how he got back to the couch, but his pacing has left him standing helpless in the middle of his living room, jaw slightly dropped.
There’s a tightness in his chest now that feels different from before. It’s less like confusion and more like anticipation that’s been given permission to exist.
Properly. The word lingers in his mind, unable to escape.
It shouldn’t affect him as much as it does. This is still controlled, still contained. A meeting in a private place, in the middle of the day. Something he can walk away from if he needs to, but still safe enough to linger. But the truth sits underneath that logic, steady and unavoidable: He doesn’t want to walk away.
Shane moves back to the couch and types the response quickly this time, before he can overthink it.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:You’ll get a warning this time, too.
Wednesday. 4pm.
He hovers for a fraction of a second and then adds one more line.
And I’m not coming for just five minutes.
- Jane
Send.
Shane closes the laptop immediately after, like the decision needs to be sealed before he can reconsider it.
The room feels quieter now. Or maybe he just notices it more. Ilya makes him brave. Ilya makes the quiet loud.
Wednesday.
He runs the timeline automatically—travel, schedule, availability—but it doesn’t settle him the way it usually would. There’s no version of this that feels routine, no way to file it under something familiar. There is no spreadsheet that can contain his emotions.
This isn’t strategy. This isn’t preparation. This is…
He stops the thought before it finishes.
***
Laying in bed, Ilya reads the final email with a slow smile.
“Not five minutes” he repeats under his breath.
Good. He closes his laptop, leaning back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. The plan is simple.
Meet. See what is still there. See if it feels the same when it’s not stolen, not rushed, not half-hidden in a moment that could disappear as quickly as it came.
But even as he tries to frame it that way, something in his chest pushes back because he already knows. He knew the second he walked out that door. This isn’t something small, this isn’t something temporary. And Wednesday, well. Wednesday is not going to fix that. It’s going to make it worse.
Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough, but Ilya still would never be ready for Shane Hollander.