Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Relationship Reveal, Established Relationship, Not Beta Read, Showering Together, accidentally coming out, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Pretending to sleep

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-17 Words: 2,817 Chapters: 1/1

Conjoined Rooms

Summary

Ilya accidentally stays the night.

Hayden Pike manages to open a locked door and is now demanding answers.

Ilya Rozanov is making Shane Hollander fall apart. 

He’s everywhere. 

He’s inside Shane, his mouth on his skin, his hands pressing against his hips. Shane is alive with the feeling of him. Every thrust, every kiss, every caress. 

“Ilya, fuck, Il,” Shane whimpers into his mouth.

Ilya groans, thrusting deeper, pressing Shane’s knee closer to his chest. 

“So perfect, Shane,” he groans against Shane’s lips. 

The sound of their mingling breathing fills the air, punctuated by the sound of skin hitting skin. Shane couldn’t get enough of Ilya, and Ilya couldn’t get enough of Shane. These stolen moments were so fleeting so when Shane had realized their schedules overlapped and they’d both be in New York for one night, he’d decided he could steal one more. 

“Ilya, holy shit, Ilya–” Shane chokes out. “I’m gonna–” 

Ilya’s hips snap forward once more, stealing the words from Shane’s throat. He never finishes his sentence. He drops his head backwards, baring his neck, arching his back, stomach colliding with Ilya’s as he continues to thrust deeply into Shane, chasing his own release. 

He comes with a string of broken Russian and Shane’s name dying on his lips.

The room quiets, the only sound being heavy, uneven breaths. 

Shane lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. He’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to blink. His chest rises and falls too fast. His skin is flushed, a delicious pale pink painting his features in its glow. His hair is damp, stuck in dark clumps to his forehead and temples, sticking straight up in other sections, strands pulled wild by fingers and hands. The sheets are twisted near his feet, wrapped in light tendrils around his ankles. 

Beside him, Ilya had collapsed, half-draped over his torso, forehead pressed against Shane’s collarbone, breathing hot against his skin. 

There’s sweat pooling between them. The air smells like salt, and hotel air conditioning, and sex. Pure, raw, sex. Shane is glad the door connecting his and Hayden’s room is locked. 

Ilya exhales quietly, a calming breath, then presses gentle kisses to whatever skin he could reach without lifting his head. He sighs again, “We need to shower.” 

Shane lets out something that sounds like a groan, but could’ve been a laugh.

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moves. Shane’s hand finds Ilya’s curls. 

Ilya preens into the touch, but forces himself up onto his forearms. His hair is truly a mess, his curls unraveled and falling into his eyes. There’s a red flush settled on his cheekbones, trailing down the plane of his chest. 

Shane wants to lick it. 

He doesn’t. Instead he says, “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Like what?” Ilya smirks.

“That.”

Ilya grins slowly, each tooth making an appearance in a smile he reserves specifically for Shane. “You started it.”

Shane drags a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Shower,” he repeats, weakly. 

“Mm.” 

Ilya still doesn’t move from his propped up position. He leans down instead, pressing a slow kiss to Shane’s mouth. It’s lingering and soft. Shane can taste a lingering of himself on Ilya’s lips. 

Ilya pulls away, pressing his forehead tightly to Shane’s before rolling away. Cool air hits sweat-damp skin. Shane hisses. 

Ilya gets himself upright and offers a hand. Shane greedily tangles their fingers together and allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

His legs feel like jelly. He wobbles, trying to find his balance.

Ilya steadies him, a palm pressed hard and warm against his stomach. 

“Is good trick,” Ilya says.

“What is?”

“Taking your ability to walk,” Ilya teases.

Shane shoves at his shoulder but doesn’t break the partial-embrace. Ilya just laughs.

They shuffle to the bathroom together, entirely uncoordinated, hips bumping together, shoulders sliding. 

The lights surrounding the mirror does them no favors.

They’re flushed, both colored shades of red and pink. There’s faint marks on chests and stomachs and legs. Hair wrecked, eyes glassy and blown wide.

“You look feral,” Shane comments. 

“You look worse,” Ilya replies, eyeing the bruises littering Shane’s hipbones. 

He reaches over and turns on the shower before Shane can respond or scold him for leaving marks. Steam starts to fill the small space almost instantly. For another – stolen – moment they just stand in the bathroom, facing each other. 

The moment is broken by Ilya stepping into the spray and hissing, “Too hot.”

“You turned it on!”

“Yes, but I did not test it.”

Shane rolls his eyes as Ilya frantically turns the temperature handle. He steps in behind him. The water – now the right temperature – hits him like relief. They both exhale at the same time. 

There’s no urgency now. No grabbing, no intensity. Just Ilya’s hands sliding gently over Shane’s shoulders, working shampoo through his hair, dragging a soft washcloth over the places Shane needs it most. 

Ilya tilts his head back into the spray, eyes closed. Shane watches a bead of water track down the curve of his throat. 

Something in his chest tightens. He wants to bite him. 

Ilya opens one eye, using a hand to protect it from the stream of shampoo running down his face. “You are staring.” 

“Shut up.”

Ilya smiles and finishes rinsing his hair. He switches spots with Shane, guiding him carefully under the spray, tilting his face backwards with his thumb and index finger. He runs gentle fingers through his hair, combing out tangles with conditioner and a soothing touch. Shane lets his eyes slip closed as his head lolls into Ilya’s big hands. 

When he’s done, Ilya settles his hands over the curve of Shane’s hips, pulling him against his chest and kissing his shoulder softly. Shane hums at the attention.

When they step out from the dissolving steam, they’re both clean, skin tinged pink from the heat. Ilya grabs a towel, rubbing it roughly through his hair. 

“Gentle,” Shane protests, reaching to tug it away. “You’ll get all frizzy.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but lets the towel slip into Shane’s hands anyway. He works the towel much more carefully through the curls, fingers grazing his scalp. His touch is slow and deliberate. Ilya watches him the entire time, through lidded eyes.

“You are very bossy,” he murmurs. 

“I think you like it,” Shane teases, his voice low.

“True,” Ilya whispers. 

There’s something so domestic about it. The fluorescent lights of the bathroom. The softness of towels being run through hair and over skin. Steam fading, leaving a thin sheen of dampness over everything it touches.   

When they finally step back into the bedroom, the air feels cooler now. 

The bed is a disaster. Shane pretends to be unbothered. Ilya moves towards the small closet and pulls out a new sheet set. 

Shane looks at him inquisitively.

“I know you do not like dirty sheets, yes?”

Shane nods. His heart swells with the feeling of being seen. Of being understood. He stands there stupidly, his heart doing somersaults in his chest, as Ilya strips the spoiled sheets off the bed and pillows. He watches as he balls them up and stuffs them in the corner. He watches as he wrangles the fitted sheet around the corners of the mattress. As he tucks in the top sheet at the end of the bed, curling the ends under perfectly, as if he’d learned from years of watching Shane do the exact thing making his heart race right now. He watches him slide the pillows into their cases before setting them gently at the head of the bed. 

When he’s finished, Ilya collapses in the middle of the mattress, rumpling all his hard work. He holds out his arms, waiting expectantly, a soft emotion on his face that Shane can’t quite name.

Shane who, embarrassingly, feels like he’s going to burst into tears. He swallows the feeling, crawling on top of Ilya, allowing himself to settle tight against his chest. Ilya pulls him close, arms wrapping around his waist, chin resting against the crown of his head. He presses a single kiss there, lips brushing over dark strands, before shifting.

Shane slides a leg between Ilya’s, his other bending to bracket at his waist. He shoves his face in the curve of Ilya’s neck like it’s his second home. He inhales and he just smells Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. 

“Better,” he murmurs against soft, clean skin. 

Ilya hums, pleased. His fingers drift through Shane’s still-damp hair. It’s mindlessly comforting. His breathing slowly begins to even out, growing heavy.

Shane can feel it when sleep begins to pull him under. The way Ilya’s arm tightens around his waist before loosening. The way his thumb traces one last uneven circle against his side before stilling. 

Shane wiggles so that he’s the one holding Ilya. He pulls him close, kissing his temple. 

“Night,” he murmurs. 

Ilya doesn’t answer. 

Shane follows a moment later, wrapped around him like that’s simply where he’s meant to be. 

~~

Morning came sideways. 

Too bright. Too early. 

The curtains were never closed all the way, so the pale golden light cuts across the bed in a sharp line, catching on bare shoulders and the slow rise and fall of two bodies tangled together in the center of a mattress. 

Shane wakes first.

Not fully. 

Just enough that he registers warmth. Weight. The steady press of a high hooked over his. An arm thrown over his waist. A face squished between his chest and his stomach, breath fanning warm. 

He blinks blearily at the ceiling. Ilya was not supposed to stay. 

His memories of last night return in flashes – heat, steam, hands, lips.

Shane should care about him still being here. He doesn’t. 

Instead he shifts slightly, trying to ease the pinching feeling pressing against his lower back. 

Ilya makes a low, disgruntled sound, and tightens his fingers around the jut of Shane’s hipbone like it’s reflexive. Like Shane trying to escape wasn’t even close to an option.

Shane huffs a laugh. “Relax,” he mutters. 

Ilya buries his face harder against Shane, cheek smushed against the plane of his stomach. His breath warms his skin. 

There is also, absolutely, drool escaping his lips. Shane can feel it. 

He considers moving. 

He does not move. 

Instead, he lets his hand drift, fingers sliding into those familiar curls that have dried overnight into soft chaos. He scratches lightly at Ilya’s scalp. 

Ilya melts in his sleep. His whole body relaxes into Shane. He lets out a small, pleased hum and presses closer, his knee wedging between Shane’s legs. 

Shane closes his eyes again. 

This is fine. This is–

The door handle rattles. 

Once.

Twice. 

Shane’s eyes snap back open.

He forgot – briefly – that the door between his and Hayden’s rooms existed. 

“Shane?” comes Hayden’s questioning voice. 

Shane freezes, his fingers stilling. 

Ilya groans but doesn't move. He is still very much asleep. Still drooling faintly against Shane’s stomach. Still clutching Shane like he’s a pillow he paid good money for. 

The handle rattles again. 

“Why’s this locked?”

Oh.

Right.

They locked it. 

Well, Shane locked it. Ilya made a joke about Pike walking in that Shane really hadn’t felt funny. He’d almost kicked Ilya out right there. 

Shane swallows, “Just–” he starts to call.

Apparently Hayden is smarter than Shane realized because the locked door pops open. Hayden steps through, mid-sentence about something Shane isn’t even processing right now. He freezes. There is a long, devastating silence. Shane just stares back at him.

Ilya snores softly, nuzzling a cheek against Shane’s skin.

Hayden’s eyes move slowly from Shane’s face, to his bare shoulder, to the Russian man who is quite literally draped over Shane more than the sheet is. 

“What,” Hayden says flatly, “did I miss?”

Shane opens his mouth. Then immediately closes it. His hand is still buried in Ilya’s curls. He realizes this fact too late. 

Hayden gestures at the scene. “Don’t stop because of me. Please. Continue petting him. Because that’s normal.” The sarcasm is practically dripping from his tone. 

“I’m not petting–”
“You are.”

Ilya shifts again, blissfully oblivious to the world crumbling around him. 

Hayden squints “Is he drooling?”

Shane hesitates. “Maybe.”

“Oh my God.” 

Ilya inhales deeply and mumbles something against Shane’s skin in Russian, tightening an arm around his waist like he’s securing precious cargo. 

“You’re being loud,” Shane mumbles.

“I’m loud?” Hayden is now whisper-shouting. “You have Ilya Rozanov, your rival, attached to you right now and you want me to be quiet?”

Shane rubs a hand over his face with his free arm. This has to be some fucked up dream, right? 

“I– it’s not–” he sighs, glancing down at Ilya’s sleeping face. “Okay, it is.”

Hayden just shakes his head. “I–” 

Ilya cracks open an eye. 

Just one.

He looks at Hayden, processing, before closing it again. 

“Morning,” he mutters thickly. 

Hayden blinks. “Now you’re awake?”

“Mm, no,” Ilya decides. 

He shifts, removing his face from Shane’s stomach. He presses a kiss against Shane’s bare collarbone and then goes right back to sleep, this time with his head wedged in the crook of Shane’s neck. 

Shane stops breathing. 

Hayden lets out a strangled noise. 

“Shane.”

“I know.”

“You and–”

“I know.”

Hayden points dramatically. “How did he– when did he? You’re on separate teams. In separate rooms.”

“Technically,” Shane says weakly. “We still are in separate rooms…depending on who you ask.”

Hayden just stares. 

Shane’s fingers resume their slow, absent motion through Ilya’s hair, twirling curls around his pointer finger. He doesn't even seem like he’s aware he’s doing it. 

Ilya hums again, content. 

Hayden’s expression is still scandalized. “How long?” he asks.

Shane hesitates. 

“Shane,” he insists. 

“A bit,” he tries.

“That is not a measurement of time.”

Shane looks sideways at Ilya. the way he’s sprawled like he’s now a permanent fixture in Shane’s life. And maybe he was. Or, at least, maybe he could be.

“Since rookie season,” Shane whispers, scared to meet Hayden’s eyes. 

Hayden studies his best friend.

“Not true,” Ilya mumbles. “Was summer before.”

Shane sighs. “Go back to bed, asshole,” he murmurs, but the look on his face is inexplicably fond. 

Hayden is still staring. “That’s longer than–”

“You’ve known me, yes.” Shane finishes. 

Hayden exhales slowly. “And you’re happy?”

“Yeah.” It’s simple. No hesitation. Followed by, “You– you can’t tell anyone.”

“I know, buddy.” 

Ilya shifts again, tapping Shane’s side. He really is only half-awake, but he wants Shane to do this on his own. And this is Ilya’s way of telling Shane it’s okay. This is Ilya being brave. 

Hayden rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Unbelivable,” he mutters. “Rozanov.” 

“Ilya,” Shane echoes. 

Hayden points to where Ilya is latched on to Shane. “He lives there now, doesn’t he?” 

“Mm,” Ilya mumbles, his eyes still closed, his body still practically on top of Shane. “Yes.”

Shane chokes on a laugh. 

Hayden throws his hands into the air. “Great. Fantastic. I’m getting coffee. Shane, I don’t care that you’re gay, buddy. But, Rozanov? Really?” 

“Unfortunately, Hayd. I kinda love him,” Shane murmurs. 

Hayden Pike actually looks like he’s going to have a stroke. Ilya coos happily in his dazed state, mumbling ya tebya lyublyu against Shane’s skin. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he murmurs back.

“You speak Russian?” Hayden cries. 

Shane says nothing, he’s too busy looking at Ilya who’s doing an awful job at hiding the look on his face. 

Hayden scrubs a hand over his face, like he’s trying to erase the last ten minutes. “I’m going to get coffee. Lock the door.”

“It was locked!” Shane calls after him, but the door has already clicked back into place. 

The silence returns. 

Ilya opens both eyes this time, squinting up at him. “He was not angry?”

“Not about the gay thing. Maybe about the Rozanov thing.”

“Good. He does not have to like me.”

Shane exhales, letting out all the air he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “That was scary.”

“I know,” Ilya mumbles faintly. 

“I kind of feel like I’m going to throw up.” 

“That’s okay,” Ilya whispers. 

There’s a silence that settles over the two of them. 

“I did not mean to stay. I feel–”

“No.” Shane cuts him off.

“No?”

“This isn’t your fault, Il.”

“But I stayed. I never stay.”

“It is not your fault,” Shane insists, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s precious curls. 

Ilya just nods, shifting so he and Shane were laying facing each other. He hooks his leg over Shane’s hip, tugging him close. He presses a soft kiss to his lips, trailing his fingertips over Shane’s beloved freckles.

“Is fine,” Ilya murmurs. “That he knows.”

Shane nods. “Okay.” 

Ilya shifts closer, hiding his face against Shane. He drifts off in twenty four seconds. 

And when Hayden comes back, fifteen minutes later, he can’t resist checking if the conjoining door was locked. 

It wasn’t.

And as he closed it once more, he caught a glimpse of them tangled together. Only this time. Shane is smiling.