Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Established Relationship, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, There is no way this is canon-compliant to the second book and I have made my peace with that

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-14 Words: 5,932 Chapters: 1/1

Twin Cinema

Summary

“It needs to be airtight,” said Shane, folding his laptop and laying it on the bedside table. “It can’t  be—we can’t just put out a statement, ‘Oh, we’re friends now.’ We need to be seen together. In public. Becoming friends.” He took off his glasses, set them on the laptop.

“Yes, I know,” said Ilya. “We decided. I will approach you.”

 

(Set at some point post-Season 1. Shane and Ilya need to establish the start of their "friendship" in the public eye. Naturally, this becomes seeing how hard they can covertly flirt with each other. Naturally, that becomes sexual roleplaying as a version of themselves that didn't have an almost decade-long situationship.)

Notes

Title comes from a New Pornographers song by the same name.

Excellent beta work by etben and acesgroupchat, whose contributions included, respectively, Boston train lore and the seeds of what I think is the funniest joke in this story.

“Shane Hollander?” says Ilya.

Shane looks up from his table. He’s sitting outside a microbrewery in Ottawa. It’s very busy. In the maybe half hour since he’s arrived, several people have already stopped by to ask for his autograph. Ottawa is the main place this happens outside of Quebec, because of the whole hometown thing; it’s nice. Well, it kind of makes Shane want to crawl out of his skin, but it’s useful right now.

Four tables over, a young couple, a man and a woman in matching Metros hats, have been trying not to stare too obviously since they arrived. They’re definitely staring now. They have their phones out, which, Shane has to remind himself, is a good thing.

Ilya offers his hand to shake. Shane takes it, just a quick professional handshake, not lingering. He lets his hand fall back to the table and takes a sip of beer instead. He’s already shredded half the label with his thumbnail; nervous energy. There’s no way to train for this scenario.

“We’ve met before,” Shane points out. He thinks this is probably what he’d say in this situation. They did play on the same team for the All-Star Game, after all.

“Briefly,” Ilya agrees. “But I think, now that we are no longer enemies, we might meet again.” He gestures to the seat across from Shane, raises his eyebrows and inclines his head: May I?

“Go ahead,” says Shane.

“You are not waiting for anyone?” says Ilya.

“Nope,” says Shane. He smiles. “All yours.”
 
Ilya sits.

“It needs to be airtight,” said Shane, folding his laptop and laying it on the bedside table. “It can’t  be—we can’t just put out a statement, ‘Oh, we’re friends now.’ We need to be seen together. In public. Becoming friends.” He took off his glasses, set them on the laptop.

“Yes, I know,” said Ilya. “We decided. I will approach you.”

“I’ve researched a few places in Ottawa where we could be spotted,” Shane told him. “I just sent them to you. We’ll have to arrive separately, of course—”

“I will show up in an actual good car, yes,” Ilya said. “I can do this. Happily.”

“My boring car is fine,” said Shane, as Ilya started, “Your car is b—”

“Ha,” said Ilya.

“Can’t get anything past me,” Shane agreed. “I also sent some talking points, in case anyone happens to be listening in—”

“Sweetheart,” said Ilya, “do you think you are maybe overthinking this a little bit? Is not the Cold War. Nobody will be watching with telephoto lens.”

Shane sighed. “I just want it to go well. It needs to be realistic. Everyone says I’m an awful liar, and the stakes are so high–”

“Nothing to worry about,” Ilya said. “I can lie for both of us. Will be fine. Better than fine. And someday, we won’t have to lie anymore.” Under the covers, he nudged Shane’s foot with his own. 

“Yeah,” said Shane, nudging back. He exhaled; he could feel some of the tension leaving his body. Ilya leaned over, digging the point of his chin into Shane’s shoulder and pressing a kiss to the side of Shane’s neck, and there went the rest of the tension. Most of it, at least.

“Hey,” said Ilya, mouthing hot behind the hinge of Shane’s jaw. “Shane. Shane. Put the glasses back on.”

“So, how are you settling in?” says Shane, after the server has been by to deliver Ilya’s beer. “Is Canada treating you alright?”

“Canada is treating me great,” says Ilya with a smile. He takes a sip of beer. 

Shane has to actively remind himself not to watch Ilya’s lips around the bottle or the line of his throat as he swallows. They’re establishing a friendship. That’s all. 

Shane nods. “That’s—that’s nice to hear.”

“Excuse me,” says a woman. They look up; the couple with the Metro hats from earlier have made their way to the table. “So sorry to, uh—” She glances between Ilya and Shane. “—interrupt, but you’re Shane Hollander, right?”

“I am,” says Shane. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Jake and this is Annie,” says the man. “We’re on vacation from Trois-Rivieres.”

There is a slight pause.

“Ilya Rozanov,” says Ilya into the silence, “nice to meet you as well.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Annie says.

“Annie,” says Jake, “come on.” He chuckles. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rozanov, she’s never quite forgiven you for beating out Shane Hollander for MVP in—oh, must’ve been 2014.”

“It was years ago,” Shane offers. “I barely remember it.”

“Is that so?” says Ilya pleasantly.

“Hey, uh, can we get a picture with you?” Annie asks Shane. “And you,” she adds, begrudging, to Ilya.

“So, Mr. Hollander, what brings you out this way?” asks Jake as he and Annie jostle into position for the photo.

This much Shane has been able to drill. “Getting back in touch with my roots, mostly,” he says. “I grew up around here. It’s been really nice to visit my parents, meet up with my old coaches, stop by the old sites.”

“Aw, that’s great,” says Annie. “I’m sure they’re so excited to hear from you.”

Shane feels a pang of guilt for how few of his former coaches he’s actually planning on seeing during this visit.

“And Mr. Rozanov, we heard you play for Ottawa now?” Jake pushes ahead.

“Go Centaurs,” Ilya offers. He grins at Annie’s obvious distaste, and glances back at Shane. “And always good to run into a former All-Stars teammate.”

“Alright,” says Jake, holding up his phone, “everybody say ‘hockey.’”

After the picture’s taken, Annie asks Shane, “Do you mind if I put this on my insta? My followers will go nuts.”

Shane says, “Go ahead,” heart beating in his ears, and there, that’s it, they’ve done what they set out to do. The word will spread. Jake and Annie return to their table. Shane allows himself a small sigh of relief. Now, all Shane and Ilya need to do is run out the clock, and they’ll be done.

“They seemed nice,” says Shane, fighting for a straight face.

“Eh,” says Ilya.

“I think they’re surprised you’re not trying to poison me,” Shane tells him. “It might take a while for people outside Boston to stop seeing you as the enemy.”

“I think the people will forgive me,” says Ilya, “once I start bringing home wins.”

“Cheers to that, Rozanov,” says Shane. They clink bottles. Somewhere to the left, Shane is 90% sure he hears another phone camera going off.

Shane’s empty hand is still resting on the table. Ilya brushes his fingers across the back of Shane’s palm just for a second, too fast to call him on it.

“Please,” says Ilya warmly, looking directly into Shane’s eyes, “call me Ilya.” 

For half a second, Shane is furious. So much is riding on this. To use this moment—when they’re supposed to be laying down the foundation of their carefully constructed friendship—to hit on him seems beyond the pale. And sure, Ilya’s being subtle so far, but to not take it seriously—to turn it all into a game—

Although. Shane does hate lying, and he does love the possibility of winning. And Ilya knows this, and he knows how stressed Shane has been about this part of the plan. 

Ilya looks back at Shane and smiles, raising his eyebrows, as if to say, Your move.

Shane takes a breath and lets it out, resets. Stops destroying the label on his beer bottle. Makes peace with the fact that they will probably not cover most of his talking points.

“Okay then, Ilya,” says Shane, as if trying it out. He pauses to take a pull of beer. “Y’know, you’re right. It might be better, not to constantly be at each other’s throats.”

“Mm,” Ilya agrees.

“Like that?” said Ilya, fucking into him.

Shane panted, and nodded. The glasses were starting to slide off his face. Ilya had a fistful of Shane’s hair in one hand, and his mouth was burning hot at the side of Shane’s neck. Shane felt lit up from the inside, tender and too-hot and incredible.

“Tell me,” Ilya said, against the wet skin of Shane’s throat. “Say it.”

Shane was past worrying how he’d sound, the breathiness in his voice. “Please,” he managed. “Fuck me, Ilya. I need it. Please.”

Ilya thrusted deeper, changing the angle without moving his lips from Shane’s throat. He bit at the skin there, laved at it with his tongue until Shane’s vision was almost sparkling. There was a time Shane would’ve squirmed away from this feeling, too afraid of what it might mean about him, how much he loved it. Fucking was one thing, but this had always felt like another. The weight and softness of accepting this kind of pleasure.

“Your mouth—” Shane broke off to moan.

“Yes?” said Ilya, breathless and a little mean. “What about my mouth?” He sucked harder at Shane’s neck.

Underneath him, Shane shuddered.

Ilya takes another sip of beer, eyes not leaving Shane’s face. “You don’t remember the 2014 MVP awards?”

“Uh, I guess I remember losing,” says Shane. “Then I must’ve gone back to my hotel room and slept. It would’ve been a pretty uneventful night.”

“I will have to win again,” says Ilya, “jog your memory.”

Shane smiles. He really hopes it’s not the smile of a man who has kissed every mole on Ilya’s stomach on the way down to sucking his cock, but there’s no way to be certain.

“You’re welcome to try,” says Shane.

Ilya raises his eyebrows. Shane raises his. An outside observer hopefully wouldn’t be able to notice how intoxicating it is to be able to talk to Ilya like this, in the afternoon sun, no excuses necessary.

“So, what is there to do here?” Ilya asks, stretching in a way that mostly seems designed to show off his arms. 

It does work, for the record.

“In Ottawa? A little bit of everything,” Shane says. “There’s spelunking, cycling, the Canadian Museum of History—”

But Ilya interjects. “Do you do these things? Do you go to the Canadian Museum of History?”

“Not really,” Shane admits. “I mean, I have been, but not recently.”

“What do you do, then?” says Ilya.

“I mostly came here to relax,” Shane says.

Ilya’s eyes widen, mock-surprised. “Shane Hollander relaxes?”

“Sometimes,” says Shane. “In the right company.”

“Ilya Rozanov?” a child’s voice filters through the din of the patio. They turn. The speaker is maybe 10 or 11, bouncing on his heels. “Oh my god, are you really the Ilya Rozanov?”

“I really am,” says Ilya.

“Thank you so so much for transferring to Ottawa,” says the kid. “It makes no sense, the Centaurs totally suck—”

The kid’s mom loiters awkwardly behind him. “Max, honey, we agreed you weren’t gonna use the S-word—”

“That’s not the S word!” Max protests. He turns his attention back to Ilya. “Like, our team is so, so sh—uh, crappy. We haven’t won in forever.”

“Well, they’re about to win a little more, now,” says Shane.

“A little?” says Ilya. “A little?” Ilya looks to the left and the right as if he’s about to deliver a secret. “Yes, give me three years, we will win the Cup a little,” he tells Max.

Max nods solemnly, as if receiving a message from a god. “Thank you,” he says again.

“Max, do you want their autographs?” asks Max’s mom. 

“Oh!” says Max. “Uh, yeah.” He holds out a paper napkin as his mom fishes in her purse for a pen.

“So, what’re you two out here for,” Max’s mom asks, digging in an outer compartment.

“We just ran into each other,” says Shane. 

“I think he wants to see old coaches, something boring like that,” says Ilya.

“That’s crazy, that you were both here at the same time,” she says, and Shane freezes. He can’t parse her tone, can’t decide if it’s threaded with skepticism or sarcasm, can’t determine if this is a potential threat—

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Clearly, we were meant to sign this napkin.” 

At that, she smiles, and hands Ilya a pen. Ilya scrawls something and slides the napkin to Shane. It reads, To Max, you’re the shit! -Ilya Rozanov. Shane can think of nothing to add but his own name, so he does. Max’s eyes go wide as he reads what Ilya wrote, then he stuffs the napkin in his pocket and runs off, his mom shrugging apologetically behind him.

“Do you regret it?” Shane asks once Max and his mom are out of earshot. “Leaving Boston?”

“Will take a while with the Centaurs, to shake out the cobwebs,” says Ilya. He takes a sip of beer, then looks back at Shane. “But, you know, is trade-off.”

“Oh yeah?” says Shane.

Ilya nods, leaning back in his chair. “Traffic in Boston is terrible. Nobody there can drive for shit.”

Shane bites the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. “Isn’t there a train?” 

“Yes,” says Ilya, who might be doing the same. “Train is worse, somehow.”

“Hang on,” said Ilya, pulling out. Shane grumbled wordlessly; at that moment, he wasn’t capable of much more. “I know, I know,” Ilya added, “you need to be stuffed full of my cock. And you will be, again.” He pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, then swatted at the back of Shane’s thigh. “Roll over.”

“Don’t wanna,” said Shane, but he was already allowing himself to be manhandled onto his back. 

“Will be worth it,” Ilya told him. “Hold up your legs.” 

Shane grasped at his thighs, pressed them closer to his chest. He felt a lot more exposed this way, but it was hard to mind with Ilya’s eyes on him like that.

“Good,” said Ilya. He reached down, and readjusted Shane’s glasses. “Better.”

“Your glasses thing makes no sense,” Shane managed.

Ilya smiled. “Spoken like a man who has never gotten to fuck you while you wear your glasses.”

“That doesn’t—” Shane started, and then he broke off because Ilya was licking the side of his neck.

“Okay?” said Ilya, into Shane’s clavicle.

“Yeah,” said Shane. “Okay.” Ilya lined himself up and thrust in. Shane’s head dropped back to the pillow. The angle was somehow better than before. “Oh god.”

With the hand not planted on the sheets, Ilya cupped the back of Shane’s head and brought their faces together. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” said Ilya. “Ya tebya lyublyu, Shane.”

       
“How bad can the train really be?” says Shane.

“Is slow and unreliable,” Ilya offers, shrugging a shoulder. “And sometimes on fire.”

Shane sets down his bottle. “What?”

“The cars, they catch fire,” says Ilya. “This has happened many times.”

“That can’t be true,” says Shane. “You’re making that up.”

“Why would I lie about this?” says Ilya. “If it was lie, I would say, ‘Oh, orange line, always exploding.’ What is the—? ‘Go big or go home.’”

“Okay, but how often do you even take the train?” Shane asks.

 “Never,” Ilya says immediately. “You remember about the fire, Shane?”

Shane laughs. “This sounds like an excuse for you to buy another obnoxious European sports car.”

At that, Ilya opens his eyes wide, a picture of innocence. “How would you know what I drive?”

There are a number of possible replies. Shane settles on, “I just have a feeling.”

“Oh, you have a feeling?” Ilya repeats. “A feeling? You have a feeling—”

“And if we go out to the parking lot right now,” says Shane, “and look for the flashiest, gaudiest—”

“—the best car, yes, it will be mine,” says Ilya. He looks back at Shane, deliberate. “I have very good taste.”

Shane shifts minutely in his chair. “I’m gonna look up the thing about train fires,” he says. “This isn’t over.”

Ilya gestures with his hand as if to say, By all means. “I will be here in Ottawa, waiting for apology.”

“If I have to apologize—” Shane starts.

“You will,” says Ilya easily.

“If I apologize, I’ll make it count,” Shane tells him.

“Oh, you will,” Ilya says, equal parts threat and promise.

Shane is the first to break eye contact, which is probably a point against him but he can’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t blow their cover. Fortunately, a trio of hockey fans are approaching. Shane and Ilya execute the whole maneuever again: Yeah, he’s playing for the Centaurs now; end of an era. We just ran into each other, isn’t that crazy? They sign more paper napkins and smile for another picture. One of these fans, a man named Doug, is still upset with Shane for not making a shot from maybe five years ago—annoying, although Shane always tries to remind himself it means people are passionate about the game—but Ilya rolls his eyes and snaps,

“Is easy to second-guess when you are not the one on the ice, Doug,” and the three fans retreat pretty quickly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Shane says.

“Yes, I know,” says Ilya. “Was very brave and sexy of me. Now, about train fires. You have smartphone, yes?”

Shane retrieves his phone, types “boston train fire” in the search bar and—huh. Wow. Multiple stories, involving multiple fires, including one on a bridge. This is obviously very bad for the transportation infrastructure and people of Boston, but on the other hand—

“So,” says Ilya softly, “what time can I expect you in my apartment, on your knees, apologizing?”

There is a brief pause as Shane attempts to look anything other than delighted. He’s not sure it takes. 

“Let me check my schedule,” he says, opening the calendar app on his phone. “I could drive out again in two weeks. Monday?”

“What about right now?” says Ilya.

“I think I’ll need time, to find the words,” says Shane.

Ilya nods very seriously. “To take back what you said, the slander—”

“I can take more than that,” Shane says.

At that, Ilya quickly digs his own phone out from his pocket. “Monday in two weeks works for me. Seven, maybe?”

“Seven.” It’s difficult to meet his eyes and not think about the last time Shane was on his knees for Ilya. Shane holds his gaze the best he can anyway. “Looking forward to it,” says Shane. “We can meet here up again, I’ll buy you a beer—”

“Beer does not count, as apology,” Ilya warns.

“I know,” says Shane. “The beer is because I’m polite.”

“You are very polite,” Ilya agrees. 

“Oh god,” said Shane. “Oh fuck, fuck, Ilya, please—”

“Good?” Ilya asked, smug even as his voice went rough at the edges. “Beg me a little more.”

“Please,” Shane breathed. “Please, please, fuck me, don’t stop, please—”
       
Ilya took a ragged breath and came. Shane attempted to finish himself off but Ilya cracked one eye open and knocked Shane’s hand away, took hold of Shane’s cock, and a few seconds later Shane was coming, too.

When they got their breath back, Ilya said, “Is what I like about you. Such good manners.” Shane hit him with a pillow.

Shane coughs, searching for a subject change. He lands on, “So, where are you staying?”

He knows where Ilya is staying; he even helped pick out the neighborhood. But obviously if they’d never really met before now—

“I can text you the address,” says Ilya.

“You don’t have my number,” Shane feels honor-bound to point out.

Ilya holds his hand out for Shane’s phone, and Shane hands it over. Ilya taps out his number and holds the phone out to Shane. Their fingers brush in the handoff, electric.

“Are you gonna give it to me?” says Shane.

“What?” says Ilya.

“The address.”

Ilya downs the rest of his beer in one swallow. “Right,” he says, thumbs flying over the screen. Shane’s phone buzzes with a new text. It’s an address, and a door code.

“Hey,” says Ilya. “Come by tonight.”

“When?” 

“As soon as possible.”

“How soon is—?” Shane starts.

“Can I get you two anything else?” asks the server, appearing out of nowhere. 

Ilya pulls out his wallet. “I think we are ready to cash out, thank you.”

“I was gonna suggest another round,” says Shane, thankfully without laughing. 

“Is late,” Ilya says pointedly. 

“It’s not even 8 yet,” Shane says. “We could drink to friendship.”

“We should go,” says Ilya. “We should go, we’re going,” he says to the server.

They pay for their respective beers. They’re stopped for autographs one more time, on the sidewalk. When they finally get to the parking lot, in and among the grey, black, and white sedans, a candy apple red Ferrari is parked next to Shane’s car, and Shane can’t help it, he laughs.

“Hey, uh, whose car is that?” Shane gets out.

Ilya grins. “No, you love it,” he says. 

“Sure,” says Shane.

They can’t reach for each other because they’re in public. They probably shouldn’t even touch. 

“Well,” says Ilya, hands in his pockets. “See you around.”

“See you,” says Shane, hands at his sides.

Shane doesn’t really remember the drive to Ilya’s house. It feels like an hour but is probably more like twenty minutes. He knows he obeys the rules of traffic, but mostly through muscle memory. Nobody is following them; he thinks to check twice. 

The building is Art Deco. Shane remembers it a little from helping Ilya with house hunting. The curtains are closed but there’s light behind them. He punches in the code and the door unlocks. Ilya is waiting just inside. The door closes, and they’re moving towards each other before Shane is really conscious of making any decision. Ilya takes Shane’s face in his hands and they kiss until Shane briefly loses track of time. When they eventually pause to breathe, foreheads tipped together, Shane says,

“Hey, can I get the tour?”

“Now?” says Ilya, disbelieving.

“I’ve never been here before.” This is true, both of real Shane and the fictional Shane who hasn’t spent a decade slowly, in fits and starts, getting to know Ilya. He thinks that any version of himself would be curious.

Ilya huffs a sigh. “Okay,” he says. He watches, maybe a little amused, as Shane takes off his sneakers. Shane knows Ilya doesn’t really care about shoes in his house but it just feels too weird to keep them on.

Ilya takes Shane’s hand and walks them to the kitchen. Looking around, it’s clear that he hasn’t unpacked much yet; the walls are lined with boxes. “Kitchen,” he says. With his free hand, he gestures to a sturdy-looking wooden butcher block table. “I often think of bending you over this table and fucking you until you can’t see straight.”

“How often could you have thought of it?” says Shane. “We just met.”

Ilya turns slowly. He tilts his head to the side. Their audience is gone. There is, of course, no reason to continue acting like they barely know each other. Shane finds himself almost holding his breath.

“We just met,” Ilya agrees. “But I knew who you were,” he says, and Shane exhales all at once. “Maybe I wanted you since the All-Star Game,” says Ilya, taking a step closer. “Maybe I wanted you before then.” Another step.

Shane glances behind himself; Ilya has almost backed them into the table. 

“You?” says Ilya.

“Since before rookie season,” says Shane.
       
“Fuck,” says Ilya, crushing their mouths together.

They kiss and kiss. It hasn’t been that long since they were last together, certainly not by their standards, but something about an hour or two of playacting in public, barely able to touch, heightens everything. Shane winds up flat on his back with his legs trailing off the table, Ilya braced over him, standing between Shane’s thighs.

Ilya pulls back a few inches. Shane registers the loss immediately. “You still want the rest of the tour?” Ilya says, smirking. 

Shane wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, trying to pull him closer. 

“Since before rookie season,” says Ilya wonderingly, although Shane thinks it had to be the most obvious possible answer. Ilya places a hand on the side of Shane’s face and Shane turns his head, chasing it with his mouth. Ilya curses under his breath in Russian. “Get up,” Ilya tells him. “I have decided, the only other room you are seeing tonight is the bedroom.”

Shane wants to see Ilya’s room but he doesn’t want to stop touching Ilya long enough to do it. “What about on the table?” Shane points out, reasonable. “You said—”

“Later,” says Ilya. “When you come to apologize. You on your knees, very pretty, and then I can fuck you here,” he adds. “Table is for a quick fuck. If you have been waiting since before rookie season, I should take my time with you.”

Shane can’t argue with that kind of vision, although he’s also too turned on to make any solid attempt. 

The main bedroom is up a staircase and down a hallway. It feels like a long time not to be touching. Just outside the door, Shane can’t take it anymore. He drops to his knees and reaches for Ilya’s fly. Ilya’s hands thread through Shane’s hair, and Shane takes Ilya’s cock into his mouth like he’s wanted to since Ilya decided to turn their staged friendship meeting into an excuse to flirt in public. 

It’s a relief to be able to suck Ilya’s cock again. If they’d never done this before, Shane wouldn’t know what Ilya likes, and it’s fun to draw it out a little, pretending to explore and discover how to bring him close. When Shane stops teasing, he gets maybe a minute of really doing his best until Ilya is tugging him away and back to his feet. Shane almost whines.

Ilya laughs, and wipes Shane’s lower lip with his thumb. “Aw, are you pouting because I made you stop sucking my dick?”

“I’m not pouting,” says Shane. 

Ilya nods towards the bedroom door. “I hear there’s a bed in there,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “So...”

“So?” Shane echoes.

“So,” says Ilya, “I think you should come inside, take off your clothes, and lie on the bed. On your stomach.”

Shane can feel himself somehow getting harder. “Wow, okay,” he says, “you’re kind of bossy, huh?”

“Yeah.” Ilya crowds in close, brings his lips almost to Shane’s ear, whispers, “I think you like it.”

Shane steps inside the bedroom. He peels off his shirt and jeans. He’s folding his underwear when Ilya appears in the doorway, also naked. Ilya leans against the wall, watching him.

Shane climbs onto the bed, rolls onto his stomach.

“Good,” says Ilya. He crosses the room and sits on the bed next to Shane, close enough to feel his body heat. “What I want to do,” he says, tracing one finger down Shane’s tailbone, “is eat you out until you are crying.”

This seems like maybe a lot for a first date, but on the other hand—Shane nods. “Yeah—I. Yes.”

Shane isn’t crying, exactly, but he isn’t managing a lot of complete words. His nerve endings are singing. “God,” he slurs into the mattress, or something like it. “Ah. Ilya—”

Ilya breaks off. “I love how loud you are,” he says. “Do you make this much noise when someone fucks you?”

They both know the answer, now that they’ve gotten out of the habit of hooking up in hotel rooms.

Shane swallows. “Only—only one way to find out.”

Ilya pats Shane on the ass as he climbs off the bed. He rummages in a box and returns with a small bottle of what is definitely lube. 

“Have you done this before?” Ilya asks, sliding one slippery finger in to the first knuckle.

Shane considers his options. If he says No, this is my first time, he knows from experience that Ilya will be extremely caring and gentle, stopping to check in at any change in rhythm or angle. It had made for a phenomenal first time, back when Shane had really needed that. On the other hand, after this much anticipation, what Shane needs now is to be fucked into incoherence.

“Yeah,” says Shane.

“With who?” says Ilya.

Shane doesn’t want to break character, but he also can’t imagine coming up with any complicated personal lore right now, this close to getting what he wants.

He clears his throat. “Uh, another player, years ago. Kind of an asshole.” 

He thinks it’s pretty clear who he’s talking about.

“Hm,” says Ilya. He pushes his finger all of the way in. “Was he hot?”

Shane thinks of Ilya in the showers. “Yeah.”

“Was he good?”

“At hockey?” says Shane. “Very.”

Ilya crooks his finger in exactly the right way, and Shane grips at the sheets. “At fucking you,” says Ilya. “Was he good at fucking you?”

“Uh, he was,” Shane says. Ilya presses at the same spot, harder. Shane gasps.

“What was his name?” asks Ilya.

In his sex-fogged brain, Shane struggles to think of a name other than Ilya Rozanov. Any man’s name. Any name at all.

“Ro—” Shane starts. He swallows. “Ronald,” he gets out.

“Ronald,” Ilya says, his voice acid. “Like the clown?”

“Like the what,” says Shane, still a little proud for managing to think of a real name. Then it dawns on him. “No, Ilya, I was trying to think of a name that wasn’t Rozanov,” Shane explains in a rush. “Obviously, I meant you—”

Ilya withdraws his finger. “Oh,” he says. Then he laughs. “So you didn’t—you are saying you have not let Ronald McDonald—”

Shane can feel the laughter welling up inside. “I haven’t hooked up with the mascot from McDonald’s, no,” he affirms, and then he loses it, laughing almost too hard to breathe. “I meant Ronald, like a normal human name, Ronald. Or, clowns are people, but—”

“You and your ex-lover, the french fry clown—!” Ilya manages between bouts of laughter. He flops down next to Shane, who rolls over to face him.

“Please stop making me picture it,” says Shane. 

“No,” says Ilya. “I had to picture it first.” He laughs again. “Do you think he would leave paint, white paint on—”

“Stop,” Shane says, wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“Should I buy some giant shoes?” Ilya’s voice trembles with amusement. “And a wig?”

“Fuck off,” says Shane, “be glad I didn’t say ‘the Hamburglar,’” and that sets them both off again.

“Sorry,” Shane tells him a few minutes later, when they’ve basically managed to get their laughter under control.

“For giving your fake-me ex such a terrible, stupid name, yes,” Ilya agrees. 

“No, for destroying the mood,” says Shane.

But Ilya waves this aside. “Easy to fix,” he says.

“How?” Shane asks. “I don’t think there’s any coming back from—”

“Ground rules,” says Ilya. “We don’t say Ronald during sex.”

Shane laughs a little. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s—I think that’s fair.”

“Okay?” Ilya straddles him, grabs Shane’s wrists and pins them to the mattress.

“I like you so much,” Shane says, helplessly.

“We just met,” says Ilya. And then, like a secret, “But maybe I like you, too.”
       
“Oh, ‘maybe’?” says Shane.

Ilya kisses him, hard. “Maybe I like you very much. But I think I told you to lie on your stomach.”

Shane flexes his wrists, less trying to escape and more to feel how caught he is. “You’d have to let me go, then.”

“Hmm,” says Ilya. He nods towards the headboard. Shane has to crane his neck to see it: a metal arc held up by spindles maybe a hand’s width apart. “What is that called?” Ilya asks. “The word, in English.”

“A headboard?” Shane guesses.

“Headboard,” says Ilya. “Okay.” He smiles, triumphant. “Hold onto the headboard while I fuck you.”

“Is this how you choose all your furniture?” Shane asks. Ilya lets him turn over and crawl up the bed to grab at two cold metal spindles, and then Ilya is warm at his back again.

“No,” says Ilya. “Just the headboard. And table,” he adds as an afterthought. He folds his hands over Shane’s. “Don’t let go,” he says, a direct challenge.

       
Shane holds on. Ilya fingers him, and then fucks him, not gently, and Shane goes a little feral for it. He doesn’t let go. He does make a series of probably-mortifying sounds, but it’s hard to care with Ilya inside him, Ilya’s voice in his ear, Ilya’s mouth at his throat. Ilya bites at his neck and Shane comes. Ilya starts to pull out and Shane shakes his head.

“Keep going,” Shane says into the pillow.

“But you—” says Ilya.

“Yeah,” says Shane. “Keep going.” 

It’s almost too much but it’s the right side of too much. Shane is shaking when Ilya finishes. He feels amazing, almost floating, and not just because he did manage to maintain his grip on the headboard.

“Shane,” says Ilya. “Shane, can we know each other again?”

Shane opens his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Hey.” His voice is a little rusty.

“You can let go of it now,” Ilya tells him. “You did so, so well.”

“Thank you,” says Shane, flexing his fingers. Ilya is watching him, chin in his hand. “What?”

“I am trying to understand your mind,” says Ilya. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Shane asks.

Ilya reaches into a box and pulls out a bottle of water, which he hands to Shane. “The part where we just sex-roleplayed as—”

“Oh,” says Shane. He cracks open the bottle and takes a drink. 

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” says Ilya, ducking out of the room. Through the wall, Shane hears running water. Ilya returns with a warm, wet cloth, and starts in on the mess on Shane’s stomach.

“Thank you,” Shane says again. He takes the cloth from Ilya, and wipes away the rest of it. “Where should I put this—?”

“There is a laundry chute,” says Ilya. “Here.” Ilya opens a small door in the wall and drops the cloth inside.

“That’s cool,” says Shane. “This place has great bones.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but he lets Shane reel him in for a kiss.

They’re lying in bed when Shane says, “You know, you kinda started it.”

“How,” says Ilya, “did I start this?”

“At the brewery,” says Shane. “’Call me Ilya’?”

“Oh,” says Ilya. “Well. You said it had to be realistic. If Shane Hollander, the Shane Hollander, a man I did not know, was sitting across from me and staring at my mouth like that—” 

“Was it obvious?” Shane asks, inwardly cringing.

Ilya pulls at Shane until Shane is lying with his head on Ilya’s chest. He pets at Shane’s hair, which feels fantastic but is not an answer.

“I think,” says Ilya, “maybe only to someone watching as close as me.”

Shane hums. “I guess we’re friends now?”

“I guess we are,” says Ilya. 

“So, that’s something,” says Shane.

Ilya starts to laugh again, not loudly but Shane can feel the vibrations. He’s reasonably worried it’ll be another Ronald McDonald joke, but what Ilya says is, 

“I look forward to your apology, in two weeks.”

“Me too,” says Shane, too tired to be anything but honest. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he adds. 

Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head. They lie together like that until Shane feels himself starting to drift. His last thought before sleep is how good it would be to sit with Ilya outside a microbrewery and hold his hand in the sunlight.