Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Secret Relationship, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Coming Out, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Relationship Timeline Reveal, Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Drunken Confessions, Relationship Reveal, Internalized Homophobia, Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), canon compliant in my heart, One Shot, Angst with a Happy Ending, gays living in the crushing reality of professional hockey

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Scott Hunter is cursed (at least he's pretty sure)

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-20 Words: 5,708 Chapters: 1/1

but the fighter still remains

Summary

"He hates me." It was Rozanov's only reply, frail and desperate and entirely unbelieving. Scott couldn't help but scoff.

"No he doesn't." Rozanov kept his steely gaze trained on the ground, making a few attempts to speak before words actually found him.

"That is what he said?" His shaky words were a timid mix of devastated and hopeful, and Scott found himself fighting back watering eyes of his own.

"More than once." Scott confirmed. "Something tells me that you don't hate him, either." With that, the dam broke.

or:

Scott's still looking for his hotel room after talking to Shane Hollander. He finds Ilya Rozanov, instead.

Notes

thank y'all so much for the crazy amount of love on "I tried to hide the feeling (but it just won't go away)", u guys were so lovely that it inspired me to write a follow up <3

shoutout to @noctambul and @Itsroks for the inspo

make sure to read part one of the series first!!

title: The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel (a song so painfully Ilya that it makes me tear up)

Scott Hunter was an enjoyer of true crime documentaries. There was no particular reason for his infatuation with bloody TV specials, he just found them interesting. He liked to sit around and watch them, hearing about all the crazy shit that all the crazy people of the world did. He used to watch and wonder, wholeheartedly, about what could possibly make people lose their minds and snap like that?

Then he got drunk and lost in a Vegas hotel after the MLH awards, and everything made perfect sense.

Scott was legitimately getting homicidal as he tried and failed to find his godforsaken hotel room. He'd already gotten off track once before, stumbling upon a hammered Shane Hollander who spilled his sad rookie guts about a devastating affair he was apparently having with goddamn Ilya Rozanov. To Scott's credit, he had managed to play it cool and was even able to walk the kid back to his suite. It had been a weird fucking night, to say the least.

Scott then went about looking for his own room. Anyone could probably guess how successful he'd been.

"I swore it was fuckin' floor 11." He grumbled to himself. He had tried every single door on the floor just for good measure, the handle of each one lighting up with an infuriating red glow to signal: no, dumbass, this isn't your room!

The elevators arrived slowly again, and boy, was he getting really sick and tired of staring at the inside of the damn thing. Why couldn't he remember his fucking room number? How had he gotten so off track after leaving the party? Why did he have those extra two Long Island Iced Teas?

Scott's anger burned deep within his frustrated brain and, in a drunk attempt to show the world just how mad he was, smacked the elevator wall with the side of his fist. He shouted in his rage and then hissed quietly at the stinging pain that pulsed in his hand. Scott only began to come down from his tantrum when he noticed that the elevator was now moving upwards, shooting towards a destination that he definitely didn't mean to select: the rooftop.

Nice one, your room's definitely up there. He scolded himself briefly before checking his watch. It was nearing 3 AM, and Scott felt as if he'd lived a hundred lives since stepping into his tuxedo earlier in the evening. It started as such a nice night, a perfectly normal awards ceremony to cap off a perfectly normal season of hockey. Mostly normal, at least, if you ignore the raging public spectacle that had been the rookie seasons of-

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Scott really wanted to never think about Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov ever again. More specifically, he never wanted to think about Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov ever again. Not only was it still such a weird notion, but one that made Scott impossibly sad. Whatever the hell those two had going on, it was never going to be easy, and the more he thought about it, the more Scott realized just how much his own life problems paled in comparison.

Well, not all of his problems.

The elevator doors groaned as they slid open, a noise that Scott could probably replicate perfectly after hearing it as many times as he had throughout the night. For whatever reason that his inebriated mind couldn't care to muster up, he stepped out and onto the new floor, looking around for only a moment before settling his eyes on the entrance to the open rooftop.

What the hell else could possibly go wrong? He thought, making his way to the door and pulling it open. At the exact moment that Scott tugged on the handle and swung the door inwards, someone else was reaching for the handle on the other side. Scott bumped into the person clumsily and without looking, opening his mouth to apologize before the other man beat him to it.

"Sorry." A deep, accented voice mumbled. 

He'd know that voice anywhere. Anyone who even sort of knew anything about professional hockey would know that voice anywhere.

Scott's heart dropped to his ass.

He slowly looked up at the man whose path he was currently blocking, finding himself face-to-face with the league's favorite shit-talker.

"Rozanov?" Scott said weakly, not able to hide the shock and exasperation that was apparent on his face. Ilya Rozanov backed up a bit, staring at Scott with an equally confused expression. The rookie still had his full tuxedo on apart from the bowtie, which was untied and hanging around his neck. Scott realized in that moment that at some point over the course of his tumultuous night, he had lost track of his own tie.

"Scott Hunter?" Rozanov asked, looking him up and down, presumably taking note of how exhausted and disheveled Scott looked. "I did not know they let the elderly wander around so late." He said flatly, using the same bitchy tone that Scott recognized from the ice.

"Oh, fuck you." Scott spat, rubbing his eyes like maybe Rozanov was just a figment of his fucked up imagination and he could will him away. Unfortunately, the Russian was real. Even more unfortunately, a disturbing truth hit Scott like a kick in the head: This guy kissed Shane Hollander! This guy probably banged Shane Hollander!

"Hunter, what is wrong with you?" Rozanov said. Scott realized that he had been staring directly into the kid's face with wide, startled eyes. Scott pushed the rest of the way through the door and walked over to the ledge of the rooftop, wanting to do whatever he could to erase every horrible mental image that flooded his mind.

HollanderandRozanovHollanderandRozanovHollanderand-

"I know you are terrible player, but is probably not worth jumping over." Scott nearly jumped out of his own skin when he realized that Rozanov was now right next to him, cocky grin flashing brightly. The rookie didn't exactly seem to be plastered, at least not as bad as his Canadian counterpart was, but Scott could smell the expensive vodka wafting off of him like cologne, see the glint in his glazed over eyes. Figures that the Russian would probably have a good tolerance for alcohol. The most immediate thing that Scott noticed, though, was the stinging scent of cigarette smoke. A line from earlier in the night rang in his ears: It tastes like him.

"Why don't you leave me alone, Rozanov? Thought you were leaving." Scott said desperately. Rozanov was undeterred, taking a step up to be level with his fellow player.

"And miss a chance to piss you off?" He asked in his Russian drawl. "Does not sound like me."

Scott realized that maybe it was a lost cause. Maybe he was stuck for the rest of eternity like this, cursed to drunkenly wander a Vegas hotel and run into young hockey players who had confusing and cataclysmic romantic entanglements with one another.

If I did die earlier, then this must be hell.

"What are you even doing up here? I certainly didn't see you at the party." Scott said sharply, patience wearing thinner than the blades on his favorite skates. If Rozanov was at all bothered by the question, he didn't let it show.

"Was looking for cool, sexy people." He said casually. "So, obviously I did not want to go to party where you are invited." Scott glared at the rookie, shaking his head in disbelief. What the actual fuck did poor, sweet Shane Hollander see in this bastard?

"Are you ever not a complete dick?" Scott asked, irritation bleeding into his voice. Rozanov made a show of pretending to really ponder the question, tapping a finger to his lips and humming.

"Hmm, yes. When I am talking to good hockey players." He said it with a cheeky smile, a little more loose than what the completely sober Ilya Rozanov would probably supply. Scott had tried so hard not to take the bait, to be the bigger person and ignore the kid, but god was it hard. He'd had enough, and just wanted Rozanov to go away, so he needed to think of something that would shut the prick down. Just a little something to spook him, maybe.

A terrible idea popped into Scott's head.

"Talk to Hollander tonight?" Scott asked, words tinged with more poison than what he'd originally meant. Rozanov's smile dropped instantly, his face drained of color.

So much for a little something. Scott thought regretfully.

Rozanov opened and closed his mouth a few times before muttering something quietly in Russian.

"What?" Scott asked, foolishly hoping for some simple clarification. Rozanov flared up and fired back, taking a step towards Scott with an angry expression.

"Why the fuck do you ask that?" He said loudly, not quite shouting but getting awfully close to it. Scott fucked up, he really fucked up. Jesus, why had he said it so accusatory?

"I don't know," Scott lied. "It's just, well... he won tonight. Wondered if you guys talked. That's all." It was a feeble attempt and both men knew it, Ilya taking another step until he was nearly chest-to-chest with Scott.

"He is not my friend." Rozanov exclaimed, accent getting stronger as his fury grew. "He won award. I lost. That is it." He put two strong hands on Scott's chest and pushed him, sending him stumbling backwards. He caught himself on the edge of a chair behind him, quietly thankful that Rozanov hadn't decided to push him the other direction over the edge.

"Look, man, I really didn't mean to offend-" Scott was cut off before he could rush out a half-hearted apology.

"No, what the fuck is your problem, Hunter?" Rozanov interrogated him with bright, ferocious eyes. "You are jealous of actual good hockey players so you come looking for a fight? Tired of watching me beat your shit team?" Scott stood up taller at that one, walking back into Rozanov's personal space and pushing him back with one hand.

"Not everyone's out to get you, dickhead. Jesus, you are such a fucking narcissist!" Scott shouted in the rookie's face, fully prepared to take out all his frustrations on the douchebag. He stepped back, though, thinking better of it after how his first comment turned out. "Just fuck off, kid." He sighed and turned back to the skyline in front of him, done with the fight.

Rozanov was, in fact, not done.

"Sorry I am not nice, friendly Scott Hunter. Boring, old man Scott Hunter." He said the name with a disgusted frown, like it was a horrible curse.

Scott didn't think that was too far off, this night made him feel pretty fucking hexed.

"Why the fuck you come up here and ask questions? You were looking for me? What does it matter who I talk to?" Rozanov's questionnaire was making Scott's head start to thump again, and he groaned as he tried to think up a reasonable response other than: I was trying to stop thinking about you and Hollander making out.

Scott never really liked fights. Be it physical or verbal, or a passionate mix of the two, he generally tried to avoid conflict where he could. That wasn't necessarily an easy task when you play hockey for a living, but even so, Scott had built up a strong reputation of not being a violent or quick-to-anger player. He simply believed his energy was better spent on actually playing the game rather than tossing his gloves at every snide remark thrown around on the ice.

Now, for the second time in one night, Scott was mourning his lack of experience, only this time in fighting. Every time he tried to diffuse... whatever it was that was happening, Scott just seemed the add fuel to the fire. Talking with Hollander had been like nursing an injured baby bird back to health, but talking with Rozanov? It was more like covering yourself in blood and diving into a tank of sharks.

Scott really was cursed, wasn't he?

"I got lost looking for my fucking hotel room, asshat." He spat impatiently. "It's been a really long night and I just wanted to go to bed. I wasn't looking for you," Can't imagine why anyone would want to. "I just accidentally hit this floor after running into Hollander." The second mention of he-who-shall-apparently-not-be-named sent another spike of panic through Rozanov's face, and he was back on Scott right away.

"Stop fucking talking about him!" His voiced wavered slightly at first, expression shaky and irate all at the same time. He pursed his trembling lips and grabbed Scott roughly by the lapels of his suit coat. "We are not friends. He is the fucking enemy! I barely know him, what the fuck is your problem?" Scott winced as Rozanov yelled in his face, but he mustered up enough sense to grasp the kid's wrists and pull his hands off Scott's coat.

"You need to calm down, rookie." Scott said sternly, hoping to invoke some semblance of seniority over the pissy player in front of him. Rozanov adopted a wild, unhinged smile and let out a sharp laugh.

"Oh no, grandpa is having war flashbacks!" He feigned a scared expression.

"That's really the only fucking thing you've got on me, isn't it? Piss poor excuse for an expert chirper if you ask me." Scott said. "Try focusing more on the game next season, maybe then you'll make it past the playoffs." Rozanov was back to being angry, and from the downright manical expression growing on his sharp features, he was going to come back at Scott with a vengeance.

"You are fucking nothing, Hunter! So many years in MLH and what to show for it? Boring player on boring fucking team!" Something dangerous bloomed in Rozanov's eyes, and that should have been Scott's first warning, but he waited for the kid to finish anyways. "Why you care so much about asking me dumb shit? Why ask about him? You have nothing better to do with shitty, boring life?" Scott squeezed the bridge of his nose, releasing a deep sigh and turning around to walk away.

"I don't have to listen to your bullshit, Rozanov." Scott was about to walk away, he was so, so close to ending things right then and there. But Rozanov's next words hit him like a train.

"So that is problem?" He said harshly, starting to sound even crazier and more desperate than before. "You are just bored? Have to start making shit up about other people?" Scott clenched his jaw and slowly turned back around, catching the wretched expression on Rozanov's face as he continued talking. "No wife to keep you busy. No girlfriend." Rozanov took a deep breath before finishing his lecture. "No girls at all, it seems." 

He was just talking shit. Trying to stir the pot. Scott knew that. He knew that Rozanov didn't actually know anything about him or who he was, but the way his accent had rolled on the word girls made something in Scott snap. He felt his vision blur as a cold, dark feeling rushed through his chest and up into his head.

He cocked his fist back and punched Rozanov in the face as hard as he could.

The Russian obviously didn't see it coming, falling back on his ass and landing hard on the stone floor of the rooftop. Scott wasn't sure where exactly the hit landed, but judging by the thrumming pain in his knuckles and the way that Rozanov was holding his face, it got the job done.

The rookie stayed on the ground for a moment, propping himself up with one elbow while his other hand cradled the left side of his face. He groaned quietly to himself and wiped a small stream of dark blood from under his nose as hot, ugly guilt began pooling in Scott's chest. They both endured a tense few minutes of silence, ragged breaths syncing with the dry, desert wind. Scott rubbed his swollen knuckles and tried to ignore the static soreness that reverberated in his hand from the hit.

"Sorry." Scott said eventually. Rozanov just glared up at him, still clutching his reddening face as if it was about to fall off. He made a few strange movements with his lips before spitting blood onto the floor next to him, like it was just another fight on the ice.

"Probably deserved." He muttered. Rozanov moved into a sitting position, scooting himself back to lean against the glass railing of the rooftop's edge. He finally removed the hand from his face, revealing a huge red mark covering his cheekbone and eye. By the morning, it'd be a pretty nasty black eye and colorful matching bruise. He took a deep breath and finally settled, looking, for the first time that Scott had ever witnessed, defeated. "What do you want, Hunter?" He asked quietly.

Scott honestly didn't know. Should he just leave while he had the chance? He'd wanted a way out of this interaction since the moment it began, it would be fucking idiotic to not take that opportunity.

At least, it would be if Scott hadn't just decked a rookie on an empty Vegas rooftop. A rookie who suddenly looked so young and small, not even a sliver of the uncontrollable Russian terror that he was on the ice. Rozanov looked truly spent, sad and tired in a bone-deep way that Scott knew all too well. He reminded Scott of another similarly despondent rookie, someone else who also sat on a balcony and searched the sky for solutions to an impossible problem.

What had Scott done in his past life to end up in situations like this?

"I don't want anything, kid." Scott replied, joining Rozanov on the ground and sitting across from him. It was a mostly true statement. Really, Scott didn't think he could handle hearing anything else about Ilya Rozanov or Shane Hollander for the rest of his life. Yet, he still had about a million questions that had sparked from his conversation with Hollander. Rozanov seemed unimpressed with the answer, anyhow.

"Well, you have sat down. Makes me think you have things to say." He said humorlessly.

Here goes nothing. Scott thought.

"I talked to Hollander earlier." He stated simply. Rozanov didn't flinch at the mention this time, only shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"Yes, I heard you the first hundred times." 

"I didn't mean to be weird about it-" Scott tried adding.

"So then don't be weird." Rozanov interjected. "Nothing to be weird about." He said as if he was trying to convince himself of that, too.

"Right." Scott agreed. Rozanov nodded silently and a quiet fell between the two until Scott couldn't take it anymore. "You sure?" Rozanov's piercing gaze fell on Scott and stayed there, like he was taking Scott apart piece by piece.

"What did he tell you?" He spoke with sharp articulation, pushing his accent aside as far as he could to hide the panicked tremble that Scott still managed picked up.

"Things to be weird about." Scott grimaced. Rozanov rolled his eyes and huffed restlessly.

"Hunter, just fucking say-"

"You kissed him." Scott blurted nervously. The words hung heavily in the air between them, and Rozanov hung his head low in response. The rookie's hands fidgeted where he had them gathered in his lap, finally looking back up at Scott, who had to fight a gasp when he saw the tears welling in Rozanov's eyes. 

"Oh, that was all, was it?" He murmured sarcastically, a devastated grin haunting his young face.

"I mean, he didn't really tell me... that much." Scott said sheepishly, doing his best to walk what he assumed was a very thin line between Rozanov standing down and riling back up. The rookie allowed himself a single small sniffle.

"Just fucking say it, Hunter. I know you want to." His aggravated tone couldn't completely hide the quiver that bounced through his words.

"He was the drunkest person I've talked to all night, it was a pretty hard conversation to follow." Rozanov's head perked up at that.

"He drank more?" He asked softly. After everything Scott had experienced throughout the day, that question shouldn't have caught him off guard like it did. Still, he found himself shocked at the kid's gentle tone.

"Since you talked to him, yeah." Scott said with an awkward laugh, wishing he hadn't seen the guilty look that glimmered in Rozanov's eyes. "Seriously, though, he didn't give many details. Thankfully. I got the gist of it" The Russian's eyes were back on Scott, narrowing into thin lines.

"What is 'gist'?" He asked clumsily.

"Oh, like... he didn't say much, but I got the general idea." Scott explained the best he could, but the Russian's glare didn't go away.

"But he gave some detail." It was more of a statement than a question, and one that Scott especially didn't want to answer. He went about dredging up some memories of Hollander's words anyways, because Scott was a nice guy, damn it, and he couldn't leave Rozanov hanging.

"He said you were a stubborn asshole." Scott decided to put it simply. Something eerily close to a smile tugged at the corners of Rozanov's lips, but the rookie quickly bit it back with a hum. 

"Sounds like him." He confirmed, reaching into his coat pocket and fishing around for something. He pulled out a crinkled pack of cigarettes and a lighter, opening the carton with a small struggle.

"He also said that smoking reminds him of you." Rozanov paused the action, the cigarette between his fingers halfway pulled from its package. "That he hates it and it smells bad..." Scott decided to just go for it. "But that it tastes like you." Rozanov sat with the words for a moment, looking up at Scott before quickly glancing away and muttering something sharp in Russian. 

The next thing that Rozanov did shook Scott more than anything else, anything else, in the entirety of his catastrophic night had. It was an action that never left Scott's mind, popping up each and every time the two faced each other in the future, on the ice or off. Truly, it had completely changed the way Scott Hunter perceived Ilya Rozanov for the rest of his life.

Rozanov sighed, letting go of the cigarette and tossing the rest of the package weakly to his side. The clatter of the lighter against the stone floor was the only sound shared between the two of them. Scott couldn't believe his fucking eyes.

"He is so boring." The kid said it under his breath, but Scott heard it loud and clear.

"Hollander was worried that he upset you." Rozanov peered up at Scott with furrowed brows. "He thought maybe that you were... sad. That he was being mean and should have left you alone." Rozanov let a giggle slip. An honest to god giggle.

What the hell has my life come to?

"Mhm, he said that?" Rozanov asked and Scott just nodded in return. "Not wrong." He said simply. "Not all the way. I was maybe mean, too. But," He held up his hands in a shrug. "I am an asshole." Scott didn't mean to reply as fast as he did, but it was as if the very spirit of Shane Hollander possessed him.

"He doesn't think that." Rozanov stilled again, tense as he eyed Scott.

"What?" He murmured.

"Said that you're nice to him." Rozanov shook his head and grinned, wagging a snippy finger in Scott's face.

"Do not lie to me, old man. This is how you get your kicks, huh?" Scott rolled his eyes so hard he wasn't sure if they'd ever return to normal.

"I'm not lying, shithead. Not tryna' ruin your stupid reputation. He told me that even though being together scared him, you always made him feel safe." The amusement fizzled out of the rookie's expression, replaced with something hollow and subdued that Scott's tired brain couldn't decipher. 

"He hates me." It was Rozanov's only reply, frail and desperate and entirely unbelieving. Scott couldn't help but scoff. 

"No he doesn't." Rozanov kept his steely gaze trained on the ground, making a few attempts to speak before words actually found him.

"That is what he said?" His shaky words were a timid mix of devastated and hopeful, and Scott found himself fighting back watering eyes of his own.

"More than once." Scott confirmed. "Something tells me that you don't hate him, either." With that, the dam broke, and Rozanov let out a single choked sob before bringing his hands to cover his bruising face.

Scott was reminded in that moment of how ridiculous the reality of their lives really was. They were both star centers of famous MLH teams who were paid millions and millions of dollars each year to play a game for a living. When it came down to it, they were entertainers. Sure, they were hockey experts and among the highest skilled professionals in the world, but the only reason they really played was for the fans that watched. 

Their job was to create larger-than-life personas that lowly, average people could worship and glorify until the day they died. Their job was to craft fortified, monumental legacies for their teams and the perpetually hopeful cities that built them. Their job was to perform on a frozen stage and join in on a violent, bloody dance to see who survived long enough to come out on top.

If they were always so goddamn busy with trying to entertain, when were they supposed to find time to be human?

Scott hadn't found the answer to that question yet. Neither had Shane Hollander or, as it turned out, Ilya Rozanov.

Scott watched on pitifully as Rozanov's body shook with silent sobs. Scott almost had the urge to pinch himself, just to see if what he was witnessing was real. Just as quickly as the raw show of emotion was there, it was gone, Rozanov taking in a deep breath and dragging his hands off his face. He wiped away another smear of blood from under his nose with the back of his hand, wincing slightly at the pressure on his cheek.

"Sorry." He said with a thick voice, doing his best to avoid looking Scott in the eyes. "You are smart man, Scott Hunter." He grimaced.

Where have I heard that before? Scott thought regretfully, still completely stunned at the emotional vulnerability being shown by the league's most famous Russian troublemaker. So stunned that he missed the fact that Ilya Rozanov had just complimented him and didn't turn it into an insult.

"I know the league has... expectations." Rozanov began. "People like the rivalry. The drama. They like for me and Hollander to be enemies. I do like playing him, and I like beating him even more." He took a steadying breath. "I do not hate him, but I wish he hated me." Scott's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Huh?" He stammered like a fool, but Rozanov either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Things are easier when other people hate me. If I am asshole and really good at hockey, most people will not like me. Is easier than hating myself, if everyone else does it for me." Rozanov spoke like it was the absolute, undeniable truth, something he believed with his whole heart. After being forced to hear about him for years and watch his infuriatingly cocky interviews all season, Scott thought that Rozanov finally looked his age. Sitting there on the ground, blood drying under his nose and tears glistening in eyes that were usually so sharp, so cold and calculating, he looked young. There was no ego to back him up now, no sense of showmanship that could take back everything he'd laid bare.

"Surely you don't mean that." Scott tried sheepishly. Rozanov glared impatiently.

"I have been called many things, Hunter. Liar is not one of them." He shot back with a pout.

Right, and I like to sleep with women. Scott thought, mentally rolling his eyes.

"Is that why you spent the entire awards night up here smoking yourself to death?" He said. "Because everyone hates you?" Scott expected it to land a little harder, maybe strike a chord with the rookie and help him work through some sort of internal struggle. Instead, Rozanov adopted a strange, faraway look in his eyes, like he'd stepped away from the present to dip into a memory. The corners of his mouth twitched, fighting back a pained, but no less content, smile.

"No." He spoke softly, accented voice barely a whisper as it tangled with the rooftop's wind. "Not everyone."

Scott wanted to say something comforting, do what he could to assist the kid in untangle his fucked up situation. Then, a revolutionary idea hit Scott at that moment:

This wasn't Shane Hollander. This was Ilya Rozanov. You don't give a Hollander response to Rozanov, you give the bastard exactly what he deserves.

"Well, better get used to it, then." Scott said with a shrug. Rozanov's gaze shot up to Scott, brows furrowed and somewhat angry.

"What?" He asked. Scott took his time standing up from his spot on the ground, dusting himself off and offering Rozanov a hand.

"May as well get over it, because there's no way in hell that Hollander's ever gonna hate you." Scott cracked a grin when Rozanov rolled his eyes.

"Who is the asshole now?" He spat, accepting Scott's hand and letting himself be pulled up. The rookie put his hands on either side of his face, moving his jaw around in circles and feeling his cheekbones.

"Anything broken, you think?" Scott questioned. Rozanov shook his head, albeit gently.

"No, probably not. Will look like shit tomorrow, though." He said woefully, glaring up at Scott.

"Yeah, sorry again. I shouldn't have done that." Rozanov waved off the apology.

"Is fine. I should not have said all those things, I was just..." He trailed off, leaving Scott to connect the dots.

"Scared?" He guessed. Rozanov didn't exactly confirm it, but Scott knew he was right. "Hollander's scared, too. Maybe you should talk to him about it." Rozanov looked away, shaking his head and sighing.

"Is not that simple, Hunter." Scott groaned in annoyance.

"Oh, Jesus, you know you guys like each other, just-"

"I do not like him." Rozanov interjected quickly. Scott couldn't believe how similar the two rookies were turning out to be, both stubborn little fools who were put on this Earth to torment him.

"Fucking whatever, man, sure." Scott huffed, one more annoying 20 year-old away from jumping over the ledge of the goddamn roof. "Look, I'll tell ya what I told your better half," Rozanov made an overly-dramatic disgusted face. "If you think he's worth it, worth anything at all to you and your sad Russian heart, don't give up on him." Rozanov rolled his eyes and began walking away, but Scott reached out and grabbed him by the back of his coat, physically dragging him back. 

"Hey-" Rozanov protested, squirming to free himself from Scott's grip.

"Just listen, you little shit." Scott said sternly. "I know it seems stupid and impossible, and it definitely is stupid and impossible, but that doesn't mean that whatever you two have is worthless. Unlike you morons, I've heard both sides of the story. So please, Rozanov, for just this one thing in your life, don't be an asshole about it." The kid scanned Scott's face with wide eyes. "Yes?" Scott asked impatiently, shaking him by the shoulders.

"Okay, okay!" Rozanov shouted. "Yes." Scott let the rookie go and nodded in triumph.

"Thank you." He said in a sigh, grateful to finally put the traumatic night to rest.

"Of course, I always listen to my elders." Rozanov said easily, trying and failing to suppress a cheeky smile. Maybe one more punch wouldn't hurt.

"Good news, dickhead, I still hate you." Scott replied without missing a beat. Rozanov, instead of snapping back, looked instead like he working up the nerve to say something. "Spill." Scott said.

"Do you think Hollander will remember talking to you?" He was asking genuinely, a worried frown plastered on his face.

"Why, cause he'll die of embarrassment if he does?" Rozanov just nodded. "I don't think so. He was so drunk. Like, I can't believe he was still upright." Rozanov still seemed nervous at the idea. "I won't bring it up to him if you don't." Scott offered, holding out his hand to offer the truce. Rozanov was visibly wary of officially making peace with Scott Hunter of all people, but ultimately took his hand and shook it firmly.

"I won't if you won't." He repeated, letting go and shoving his hands into his pockets.

"And, just to be clear, I'm not gonna tell anyone." Scott said, truly meaning it. "Secret's safe with me." Rozanov grinned with amused eyes.

"Oh, I know." He said with a wink, walking away towards the rooftop's exit. Scott wasn't sure whether he should be worried or reassured about the meaning behind that wink, but it didn't matter anyway because Rozanov had turned around to shout something. "Hey, Hunter! Good luck finding your room this time!"

"Eat shit and die, Rozanov!" Hunter shouted back, hoping that was a response enough. Before he had a chance to let his mind wander and begin worrying again about how the fuck he was going to find his stupid goddamn hotel room, the rookie had one last thing to say.

"Look at the back of your key card, p'yanyy durak." He said with a single, bellowing laugh.

"What?" Scott asked warily.

"Goodnight, grandpa!" Rozanov sang, disappearing through the door and down the hallway. Scott stood alone on the breezy rooftop, repeating the rookie's confusing words in his head.

"Back of the card?" He muttered. Scott furrowed his brows and groaned before giving in, fishing the key card from his front pocket and flipping it over in his hand.

On the back of the card, printed in black ink towards the bottom, was a combination of numbers: 1432.

His room number.

"Oh, motherfucker!"