Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow

Additional Tags:

I'm obsessed with the idea that they compliment each other in every way, they bring out the best in each other, At first people don't understand, But it becomes impossible to ignore, I adore reading outside POVs, Established Relationship, they're so soft for each other, Give me all the love and obsession

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-16 Words: 5,097 Chapters: 1/1

The opposite of me is you

Summary

“I just don’t understand why they’re together. I could just about get it when we thought it was just sex, but this?”

::::::

Cliff thinks Hollander’s boring.

Hayden thinks Rozanov’s an idiot.

Both of them think they may not last. Both of them are proved wrong.

Cliff Marlow

Rozanov, he quickly realised, was one of the most alive people he’d ever met. 

Nothing about him was quiet or reserved. He was chaotic, always moving, always chirping on the ice, always pushing or pulling or shouting. He was the first to suggest a night out, regardless of if they had a game the next day. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that Rozanov had more success with women than anyone Cliff had ever known. In those early days, he’d look over the dance floor in a club and see Rozanov tonguing some girl’s neck, her eyes fluttering closed like she was experiencing an ecstasy that had been hidden from her until then. He went hard at the gym, went even harder when he was drinking, and if someone suggested they needed an early night he would brand them weak. 

Shane Hollander was not part of the plan.

He wasn’t part of Cliff’s plan for Rozanov. He’d struggled entirely to see Rozanov settling down. The concept appeared faintly ridiculous; he could never envisage Rozanov playing house. 

He was almost entirely certain that Hollander wasn’t part of Rozanov’s plan either.

When Cliff had found about Rozanov’s Montreal girl, he’d thought it was a passing fancy. Another girl to fuck and never see again after a couple of weeks. Except a couple of weeks turned into a couple of months. Months turned into years. He increasingly noticed that Rozanov would smile down at his phone when he was messaging her, had a habit of stroking the screen like he was able to touch his Montreal girl. He was gone. Obsessed. Fucking besotted. Denied it at first, fiercely, angrily - it was suspicious in itself, how strongly he denied it - before Cliff took note of the fact that Rozanov started to just shrug when he’d tease him. You’re gone on her. There’s no saving you.

Rozanov would just smile. A soft smile, one that Cliff had long ago noticed that he only ever saved for Jane. 

The changes continued. The shrugs gave way to active plans and confirmations. Plans like Rozanov buying Jane gifts for their anniversary. He’d be evasive about what anniversary it was exactly; none of the team ever got a detailed description of years. He even saw Rozanov writing a fucking card once, tongue peeking out between his lips in concentration. Some of the boys tried to read it, only for Rozanov to snatch it out of their grasp like it was precious. It was precious, Cliff realised with a growing sense of clarity. Jane was precious to him.

He never heard about Rozanov and other girls anymore. Not even a hint. He stopped going out with the team as much. When he would come out, he’d be on his phone for most of the evening, distracted. He’d ignore the looks of women in clubs. When he couldn’t ignore them, had been approached and very obviously hit on, he’d politely turn them down. 

Sorry, I have a partner at home. 

Said it like it wasn’t a chore, no disappointment in it. Not a single suggestion that he thought the grass could be greener on the other side. No thought that he missed his old life. Cliff had started to suspect the opposite - that Rozanov loved telling people he had a partner. 

Cliff had never heard Rozanov mention marriage before. Cliff didn’t know much about Russia, beyond the very rare hints he’d had over the years that Rozanov might have a fucked up family situation back home. He didn’t know if there were any cultural expectations that Rozanov needed to get married, but it had never come up in conversation. Suddenly, Rozanov seemed to have an opinion about it. Suddenly, it was when he’d get married. Suddenly, it was Jane would like a plain ring, that it wasn't like her to want anything garish. Suddenly, it would likely be a quiet wedding, small, just family and a few close friends. Cliff had entered an alternate universe. Rozanov was plotting out marriage, a lifelong commitment.

With Montreal girl. Jane. 

Shane.

Cliff thought there must be a mistake. He respected Shane. Felt terrible about what had happened years back, when he’d injured him enough to be in the hospital and out of all games until he recovered. Shane was an incredible player, more determined than anyone Cliff had ever known. He thought people often underestimated how smart he was, how ambitious just because he was reserved at times. On the occasions when he’d spent time with Hollander - now as Rozanov’s husband, not as his rival - he could make conversation with him. Could see that Hollander was a good person.

What Rozanov could see in Hollander was less clear. Hollander was introverted where Rozanov was extroverted. He blushed at any discussions about sex whereas Rozanov welcomed them, used them for his own entertainment. Cliff had picked up on the fact that Hollander had wanted to keep their relationship hidden for longer than Rozanov had. Hollander had never liked nights out. He barely touched alcohol. Cliff got the feeling that Rozanov was keeping the entire ginger ale business afloat, if how many he stored in his fridge was any indication. Hollander was passionate about hockey in a way that was almost alarming. Cliff knew that Rozanov enjoyed hockey, enjoyed the fact that he was fucking good at it, but thought it was likely that Rozanov would give it all up tomorrow if he had to for Hollander. For their relationship. Cliff wasn’t sure if Hollander would do the same, until Rozanov casually dropped the news that Shane Hollander had been close to walking away from it all for him.

Separately he liked them both.

Together he couldn’t help but think they could be a fucking disaster.

He imagined there had been an excitement to their whole dynamic before. Sneaking around for more than ten years could do that to a couple. He knew Rozanov was soft as hell for Hollander, but he imagined the spark would die out now that the whole world knew. Rozanov would call Hollander boring at least once every time Cliff saw him.

I have to go home to my boring husband now.

It’s just my boring husband texting me.

My boring husband is making me dinner tonight. It’s a hard life but someone’s got to do it.

Then he’d smile like it was some private in-joke that Cliff was missing entirely.

There was one thing Cliff couldn’t dispute though: Hollander and Rozanov’s sex life was fucking insane.

Cliff couldn’t imagine how they were still that desperate for each other after all this time. Everything he learned was against his own will. The Centaurs had heard it all. When they travelled hotel room walls were thin, much to their frustration. Apparently it was no exaggeration that Hollander and Rozanov had a very active sex life, and their own pride wasn’t enough to not make this known. Cliff couldn’t connect the two images together in his mind: Hollander shying away from every mention of sex that Rozanov teased him with publicly, and the same Hollander swinging from the fucking chandeliers every night. That was one area, Cliff realised, that Hollander wasn’t boring in. He could tell every time that Hollander sent a filthy text because Rozanov would get this look on his face. Hunger. On a truly horrifying occasion Cliff was sure he could see Rozanov with a fucking erection. An erection for Shane Hollander. 

Cliff often felt like he needed a shot of whiskey after spending time with them.

He’d seen the marks on Hollander’s neck. He’d seen the scratches on Rozanov’s lower back. Once he saw Hollander wince when he sat on a chair. Rozanov just grinned at him. During a traumatic time for the Centaurs, they’d walked in on what appeared to be the end of Rozanov sucking Hollander off in the changing rooms before practice. Their modesty was quickly preserved, with Rozanov appearing personally offended by the idea that anyone would get to see Hollander naked except for him. Unfortunately for the Centaurs he hadn’t finished swallowing, and did so very obviously. On another occasion that same week - it was a particularly bad week - several players had been kept up for most of the night, with the tune of Harder, Ilya vibrating through the walls. Both men were told. Only Hollander appeared embarrassed, promising it would never happen again. Rozanov made no such promises; he told the team it would happen again that night. It then happened. Again. That night. 

It was sex, Cliff decided, that was the glue that held their marriage together. Even though Cliff struggled to see Hollander as anything but meek and coy in the bedroom - fuck, he didn’t want to imagine either of them in the bedroom at all - clearly Hollander was a surprise. Sometimes Rozanov would go to a game looking exhausted. Cliff would message him after.

Cliff: Late night Roz? You look like you haven't slept in a week.

Rozanov: Husband’s been keeping me awake 😉 

Jesus. If Mr Hockey himself would miss out on beauty sleep before game day so he could fuck Rozanov all night, Cliff had clearly underestimated Hollander. Maybe it was true about it always being the quiet ones you had to watch out for. 

He didn’t want to be negative, but he was banking on a divorce in a few years when the honeymoon stage ended. It wasn’t something he wanted. He got some amusement out of watching a reformed fuckboy be whipped into shape, if he was honest. But it was inevitable. They were just too different.

::::::

A few years passed. No divorce. 

There was an ease that existed between them that wasn’t there at the start. When Cliff joined them at a bar with the rest of the Centaurs, Hollander appeared to have forgotten that he had a chair he could use. Instead Rozanov seemed to be his new favourite seat. They held hands now. Not constantly. Not always for long. But they’d reach for each other from time to time, almost unconsciously, instinctively. On game days Rozanov would wear his wedding ring around his necklace. Every time he'd first skate onto the rink the necklace would move with him, the solid band of metal touching the cross. He had a tradition of kissing it before and after a game. His lips wouldn’t always touch the cross, but he’d always make sure they touched the ring. He'd then tuck it out of harm's way before the game started.

Every summer they went to Hollander’s cottage, returning after the break well rested and with a bone deep contentment that was almost too much to look at. Rozanov posted pictures of Hollander on his instagram. There were the bigger moments that were of obvious importance; triumphs of a game won and more money raised for the Irina foundation. But there were small moments too, the ones that could have been missed but Rozanov made sure weren’t. Hollander drinking a smoothie. Hollander at sunrise. Hollander in front of the Eiffel tower. Hollander smiling at him.

Hollander. Hollander. Hollander. Everywhere. 

When Rozanov was ill with the flu Hollander stocked up on all the supplies, made him chicken soup. Rozanov sent Cliff a picture of himself wrapped in a blanket on the couch. The message: He takes care of me. 

Rozanov allowed himself to be softer. Hollander gave him permission.

Hollander defended him on the ice. Chirped his fucking heart out for him. Rozanov got himself kicked off for starting a fight with someone. Cliff didn’t even need to ask; he knew it was about Hollander.

Cliff noticed jumpers that belonged to Rozanov being worn by Hollander. He noticed Rozanov’s hands stroking Hollander’s hair. He noticed them disappearing early at award’s ceremonies, only to re-emerge half an hour later looking rough around the edges. He noticed Hollander’s reaction when anyone - a reporter, another player, a stranger in the street that recognised them - insulted Rozanov. He’d look at them, long and hard, quietly furious. Would put a hand on Rozanov’s back, gently steering him away from the conversation. Away from the people who could hurt him.

They protected each other. 

“I have to go home,” Rozanov said, already putting his jacket on. He’d gone out for some drinks with the team. Cliff had tagged along. Hollander was staying at home, doing whatever it was that Hollander did. Knitting? Cliff didn’t have a clue. 

“It’s still early, Roz.” 

“Next time, Marlow.” Rozanov didn’t look sorry about it. He was already staring at the door longingly, like Hollander himself was waiting behind it. Cliff doubted there would be a next time when Rozanov would stay longer, unless Hollander was there with him.

“Let me guess. You’ve got your boring husband at home.”

Rozanoz narrowed his eyes at him. “Only I get to call him boring.”

Cliff couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He apologised just in case; Rozanov didn’t play when it came to Hollander. He should have remembered that.

Before Rozanov left, he had to ask something.

“Roz. This boring thing between you two…” He wanted to ask him if it was what Cliff had suspected for a long time now. Boring meant safe. Safe meant adored. Adored meant home.

He couldn’t. Couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t begin to ask what he wanted to know. He realised that there was probably no explaining what Hollander and Rozanov had between them. None of them could ever begin to understand.

Rozanov just grinned at him, before that soft smile emerged. Offered him a piece of information that he usually kept hidden.

“He’s the most alive person I’ve ever met, Marlow.”

::::::

Hayden Pike

“I just don’t understand why they’re together. I could just about get it when we thought it was just sex, but this?”

Hayden Pike hated Ilya Rozanov. He hated his arrogance. Hated how he always had a comeback. Hated how loud he could be. Hated how when he was in a room everyone would know, never able to fade into the background. 

He often spoke at length with Jackie about Rozanov’s sarcasm and attempts to make him look like a fool. He thought he might find an ally in his wife, but she seemed under the Rozanov spell. She liked that he was good with the kids. Liked that he complimented her on her cooking. Liked the way he treated Shane.

Another person who was firmly under the Rozanov spell: his best friend.

Luckily for Hayden, he knew it wasn’t going to last. It would hurt Shane for a while, would take some time to get over. It was a marriage. That didn't heal overnight. But he was confident that once the glow of the wedding faded the infatuation would fade too. 

It must have been thrilling, at first. A secret relationship and the sex that came with that. Sneaking around behind everyone’s backs. The initial happiness of coming out, of no longer having to hide.

But they were different people. Shane was good. Shane was kind and polite. He always wanted to do the right thing.

Rozanov loved chaos. He was chaos: bright and loud and messy. Hayden knew he’d slept with more women than he could count. Men probably, too. He wasn’t the type to settle down. Hayden had been in shock when he’d heard about the engagement. Had imagined a room full of Rozanov’s past conquests when they were asked if anyone had any objections. Fuck knows there would be enough to make up most of the guest list.

He could just about understand when distance had been an issue. When Rozanov and Shane had only been able to spend a handful of hours together every year. The incompatibility must have been less noticeable then. But now they were married, were living together and playing on the same team. Hayden knew it was only a matter of time before one of them snapped and needed time apart. Time that would become permanent. 

Before that blessed day arrived, Hayden had to bear the sight of Ilya Rozanov in his living room, eating the dessert his wife had made him.

“This is excellent. Explain to me again how you got her to marry you, Pike?”

Hayden had a habit of needing to count to ten before he responded to Rozanov. He scowled in response until he could form words.

Rozanov grinned. Then in an instant his face transformed. He was still smiling, but for real this time. Hayden didn’t need to look to know that Shane had walked into the room.

Rozanov mumbled something in Russian, his arms outstretched, inviting Shane in. Hayden used to think it would be useful to understand another language, but often found himself these days being incredibly thankful that he could only speak English. Despite not being able to understand, he was certain that Rozanov either spoke to Shane in Russian about their sex life or said unbearably fond things to him. Hayden didn’t know what was worse.

This time, he must have settled on fond. He was given away by the fact that Shane hadn’t turned red and was instead looking back at him like he held all of life’s answers. He settled easily on Rozanov’s lap, his head ending up in the crook of Rozanov’s neck. 

Hayden never wanted Shane to feel ashamed, but sometimes he wished he wouldn’t feel quite so comfortable with public displays of affection around others. Around him. He’d had to endure the following in recent months: Rozanov and Shane kissing when they didn’t think he was in the room. Hand holding. Mutual exchanges of I love you. Rozanov grabbing Shane’s arse. Shane walking strangely and Rozanov appearing to know exactly why. Rozanov telling him and Jackie that he thought Shane would make a good cowboy, that he was an expert at riding. 

He loved the rare few occasions when he could see Shane on his own. But he knew Shane got restless, that there would come a time in the night when he’d be itching to get back to Rozanov. Even when Rozanov wasn’t present physically he was still there. In every conversation. The cause of every smile. He never used to think of Shane as unhappy, but he could see it now: Rozanov made him happier.

One morning Jackie asked him if he’d noticed Shane’s instagram. 

Hayden had one public instagram account for everything hockey related, that was strictly professional. He had a private account for everything else, but still he didn’t like the idea of posting his kids. On the odd occasion he’d post the back of their heads, but most of the time the account remained inactive. 

Shane was the same. For years his account had mostly been for work purposes only. Hayden would like the occasional post when he remembered. 

He logged onto instagram. Noticed with some surprise that Shane had been posting more regularly over the last few months. There was the usual hockey related pictures, but there were other posts now too. 

Rozanov was in some. The ones he didn’t feature in still held traces of him, subtle but undeniable to anyone who knew.

Rozanov was smiling over a coffee cup. They were having lunch out somewhere. He was dressed down, looking soft around the edges where he was usually jagged to the world.

Rozanov was at the cottage, swimming, body submerged, face alight with joy. 

There was a picture of Shane with Rose Landry. Shane was wearing a cap that belonged to Rozanov, holding a drink that showed off the ring on his finger. The ring that Rozanov had given him.

Love locks adorning a bridge in Paris. S + I carved into the padlock. 

“Wow,” Hayden said, Jackie looking again with her chin resting against his shoulder. “Shane’s usually so private. He’s …” Acting out of character. Being manipulated.

“Free.”

::::::

They were snowed in one night. It was too dangerous to attempt to drive home. 

Hayden was living his actual nightmare: Rozanov would have to stay over at his house. He made up the couch for Shane, adding extra pillows the way he knew he liked.

He looked on, shocked, when Rozanov clambered onto the couch.

“That’s for Shane.”

He looked at Hayden like he was a moron.

“Yes. And I sleep with Shane.”

“Ilya…” Shane warned.

Rozanov never listened to anyone else’s warnings. Hayden could try to give him a look, try to tell him to shut up. Nothing. He only got a smug smile of satisfaction in return. 

Only Shane could get him to listen. Only Shane could get him to back down. Rozanov stroked a hand down Shane's arm, a wordless apology. 

“I didn’t…” Hayden begun. I didn’t think. He knew they slept together. Knew that they’d set up a home together, photographs on the wall, Shane’s trophies in the house. 

But still the idea of them sharing a tiny, cramped couch didn’t occur to him.

“Can’t you sleep there?” Hayden suggested, pointing downwards.

“Hayden, he can’t sleep on the floor.” Shane looked at him, wide eyed, contemplating if he was serious.

“It’s a bit…” Hayden struggled to look for the right word. “Close, isn’t it?”

“Sounds perfect,” Rozanov said, spreading his legs out on the couch, moving a pillow to settle it behind his head. “Night night, sleep well.”

Hayden left the room with a sigh, realising with perfect clarity that if it was a choice between a collection of pillows or Rozanov, Shane would choose Rozanov every time.

::::::

Hayden needed some water in the middle of the night. He cursed the fact that he hadn’t pre-planned enough beforehand, bringing a glass to bed.

He padded through to the kitchen, needing to pass the lounge. The door was open. Curiosity got the better of him.

They’d discarded their t-shirts; they were a heap on the floor, as though they’d decided sometime before falling asleep that the fabric wasn’t giving them enough skin to skin contact.

He was surprised to see that it was Shane holding Rozanov, his chest pressed against Rozanov’s back, his lips nuzzled again his neck. It should have looked faintly ridiculous, two grown men sharing a single couch. It didn’t. 

Hayden closed the door softly. He somehow felt that it was something he shouldn’t see. Something private.

Private ended a couple of hours later. He awoke in the low morning light, fetched himself another glass of water. Heard the unmistakable sound of his best friend, trying to be quiet and failing.

“Not here.” 

Another voice, also failing to be quiet. Cajoling. Laughing. 

“Is that why you’re hard right now? Because you don’t want to?”

Hayden half expected Shane to argue. Did Shane feel pressured? Was that it? Hayden was going to kill Rozanov.

He heard Shane let out a laugh of his own.

“Shut up.” It was light. Playful.

Rustling. The sound of bedcovers moving. A moan, soft. A mumbled keep going from Shane, in a voice that Hayden barely recognised. 

Please no. Not in his house. Not on his couch. 

Was there bleach for couches? Was that a thing that existed? Wipes wouldn’t make Hayden feel better. He’d need strong chemicals.

He walked swiftly upstairs, water forgotten.

::::::

“Great sleepover, Pike,” Rozanov said with a slap to Hayden’s back.

Shane waved from the car. He could barely look Hayden in the eye.

He found the sheets in the machine, cycle finished. Shane must have already put a load on.

::::::

Hayden watched their matches. 

It was surreal to see them play together after all those years apart. All those years when everyone thought they hated each other. 

They were never not aware of what the other was doing. Hayden saw it almost immediately, the way that they circled in each other's orbit, always checking. A win for Rozanov was a win for Shane. A win for Shane was a win for Rozanov. It didn’t matter who scored, didn’t matter who had the better game. It was their victory. Their pride for each other.

It made him uncomfortable to watch. He understood it as the years went by, this discomfort. He was pleased for his friend. Pleased because he could see it, increasingly growing stronger, harder to ignore. They loved each other.

The flame that should have been extinguished years ago was there. What Hayden had hoped was momentary didn’t die. 

The protectiveness that Hayden had felt when Rozanov called Shane boring gave way to a flicker of understanding. 

Rozanov would use Shane as an excuse. 

He’d heard from the Centaurs that Rozanov would find a way to go home early. Home to Shane. He’d tell them that Shane wanted him back, that he didn’t like him staying out late. This conflicted with what they knew to be true about Shane. He’d never once said anything to Rozanov in public that suggested this. If anything, he encouraged Rozanov to spend time with the rookies and the rest of the team. He hadn’t wanted him to feel isolated. He wanted him to feel part of a family.

“What did he say to that?” Hayden had asked him.

“That I’m his family.”

Hayden was quiet for a moment. “What did you say?”

“That I want him to have friends.”

“What was his reaction?”

“That I’m his best friend,” Shane said softly.

Hayden swallowed. “That’s…”

Shane looked anxious, like he was getting ready for Hayden to put Rozanov down. 

“That’s actually kind of nice.”

::::::

When Shane painted a picture of his eventual retirement, it always included the same: Rozanov. 

They could be at the cottage or at home. Could be abroad, somewhere warm where they’d spend their days at the beach, nothing to do and all the time to do it. They wouldn’t need to worry about money - hadn’t worried about it for a long time, more than half their lives - and they’d go where the press couldn’t find them. But it didn’t matter if they did; they had nothing to hide. Not anymore.

The destination changed. The things they’d do. How old they might be. 

The only thing that never changed was that they’d be together.

“You really love him, don’t you?” Hayden asked, when it felt like he couldn’t not ask it, couldn’t avoid it any longer.

“More than anything,” Shane said, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and not something that Hayden had spent years battling against.

“Okay,” Hayden said. He meant it. It was finally okay.

::::::

He scrolled through some of the comments under Shane and Ilya’s instagram posts from time to time.

He just wanted to make sure it was all above board. 

It was a naive wish. Most of their fans were slightly… passionate. He saw a few asking why it wasn’t yet biologically possible for Ilya to get Shane pregnant.

Fuck.

As long as they weren’t sending hate comments.

There was one that stood out to him.

Is it just me who doesn’t get it? Rozanov is such a little shit. Hollander is so boring he sends me to sleep. What do they see in each other? 

He was about to foolishly consider replying. Wanted to tell them that he too had been wrong. 

He was distracted by something new that Shane had posted. He was in his car, the open high road ahead of him, a hand on his thigh. They were on their way to the cottage, a new summer to spend together.

Hayden knew that none of what anyone else said really mattered.

::::::

Shane Hollander

Ilya Rozanov

They woke early at the cottage. They held each other for a while, waiting for the light of a new day to seep into their bones like liquid gold.

They’d brush their teeth together; it was distracting, the way Ilya would try to make Shane laugh mid-brush. Toothpaste would end up on the floor.

They’d go back to bed for a few hours. Would fuck, eyes heavy lidded, their combined breathing engulfing them like a warm fog. They struggled to believe that there was a world outside of this. A world they’d built, but which seemed distant now. Ordinarily they’d want to remember it all - their house in Ottawa, the winning team they were helping to create, their evenings with Shane’s parents, the friends that were important, that they needed.

Nothing else existed when they moved together like this, when they brought each other to the edge.

A beg to be bitten. A wish - vocalised, raw, insistent - to have the insides of their thighs marked. First Shane, then Ilya. 

Shane on top, thighs strong, muscles straining. Ilya louder than he’d ever been, swearing so beautifully in his native tongue. They’d collapse onto each other afterwards, traces of what Ilya had done to him slowly trailing down Shane's skin. Shane would shower almost immediately, change the sheets. A habit that Ilya protested against but secretly loved. Loved because it was Shane, these traditions he had, these things he did to feel in control when he’d just been anything but.

They’d swim for a while. Shane loved Ilya’s hair like this; wet, smoothed back. Liked even more when he’d swim to him, ask for a kiss, not a single moment of doubt that he’d get it.

They’d kiss, and they’d fuck, and they’d lie on the couch in complete silence. Shane would read a book, looking at Ilya every few minutes over the rim of his glasses.

Ilya would browse on his phone, updating Svetlana on their summer. Noticing with gratification - and relief, still after all these years - that Rose Landry had a new boyfriend. He’d look up restaurants that he and Shane could try when they returned home. Placed an online food shop, stocking up on ginger ale so they’d have enough in the fridge for Shane when they were back.

They both grew tired, at peace in the silence. They fell asleep, their feet pressed against each other on the couch. They both dreamed, couldn’t remember what had happened when they woke, just that they had both been there. 

Their slow breathing was the same. Somehow in sync like they’d practiced it in all these years.

Is it just me who doesn’t get it? Rozanov is such a little shit. Hollander is so boring he sends me to sleep. What do they see in each other? 

There are more replies underneath now.

Shane Hollander: I love that little shit.

Ilya Rozanov: I love that boring man who sends me to sleep.

A photo, both of them pretending to be asleep, Ilya’s arm outstretched as he held his phone, bodies tangled up in each other.