Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Enemies to Lovers, Chirping, Making Out, Getting Together, Love Confessions, Happy Ending, Reconciliation, Arguments, Mild Angst, they’re going to the frottage (pronounced like cottage), Explicit Sexual Content, Smut, Spit Kink, Shane Hollander Wears Glasses, ilya is really horny about the glasses, Literal Sleeping Together, one author cried writing this, unrelated to the fic though, Frottage, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Fluff, Humor, Tender Sex, Digital Art

Language:

English

Series:

Part 6 of cjo + hr

Collections:

Heated Rivalry, pineapple’s heated rivalry recs, the best of hollanov (no duds)

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-23 Words: 10,328 Chapters: 1/1

can't have you now (not like before)

Summary

Shane picks up on the third ring.

“What?”

Ilya closes his eyes, humiliation twisting his gut. Still, though, it’s nice to hear his voice. His shoulders sag a little. “Hollander?”

“I don’t–” Shane sighs, long and heavy. “Why are you calling?”

Why is he calling? Ilya couldn’t answer. Not in any way that makes sense, anyway.

Voice wobbling, Ilya says, “I am sorry.” He inhales, breath hitching horribly. “Was mistake.”

On the other line, Shane goes quiet. Then, shuffling around, he says, “What’s going on, Rozanov?”

Or: Ilya calls Shane in the middle of the night, and against his better judgment, Shane comes to find him.

Notes

my loves, this was written in australia and europe (she’s mr worldwide), with the love of homosexuality, frottage and shane hollander’s glasses.

pls don’t interact with this fic using AI! this is an original work, sourced ethically (and immorally - cj) from the spirits of three beautiful gay people (is mika gay? - cj) (jo here, mika is gay) (yes, i’m gay - mika) and we don’t want it being fed to AI. thanks <3

title is from ‘Baby, I Know It’ by Francis Moon - genuinely the best song ever written and i IMPLORE you to go listen to it right now. look, i’ll even link it here. go listen. go go go. make him famous <3333333 - jo

enjoy or else :)

The game should have been like any other game that Shane has ever played. It would have been, had Ilya not tripped him ten minutes into the first period. 

Despite their history, Shane and Ilya have never, and Shane thought would never, let their personal insane stupid shit touch their performance on the ice. And they had, Shane’s realising now, dread striking him deep into his core. 

They had let their personal shit affect the game. The incident had felt like a personal slight, rather than something done in an attempt to get an advantage in the game or even a weird element of their competitive foreplay. 

The catalyst had been the argument they’d had over text before the game, which hadn’t even been a big or serious one. It was stupid, in hindsight—arguing about how badly another team played the night before. 

Ilya had been pissed at the ref, while Shane tried, frustratedly, to make Ilya understand why things had panned out the way they had. They had not been able to meet in the middle. The game had knocked the Jersey Devils out of the playoffs completely; it was a big deal, for hockey and the Devils, at least, but it didn’t really even directly affect either of them. 

It was just an argument. An argument that, normally, wouldn’t have done more than serve as foreplay. Ilya always loves fucking Shane when Shane’s all moody and pissy. But they don’t do that anymore. They don’t… have sex. 

Not since Rose. 

Fuck, Shane’s not even together with Rose anymore, but Ilya and Shane just– haven’t. They never fell back into it, into each other, like he’d expected, or selfishly hoped they would. Shane doesn’t even know if they’re friends still. He wonders, privately, if they were ever friends in the first place. He’s not sure what they are if they’re not— Jesus, what even were they? Fuck buddies? Rivals with benefits? Lovers? No. Just… no. Whatever they were then—they’re even less now.

Shane shuts his eyes, cursing softly under his breath. His shoulder smarts from the impact he’d made with the panels right before the game ended, thanks to Marlow. Ilya hadn’t even met his eyes after it had happened. Not even when they’d shaken hands during the line-up. Because he’s an asshole.

This is not good. This is so far from good. 

Exhaling harshly through his nose, Shane grabs his phone out of his locker.  

JANE: Fuck you. 

The reply comes almost instantaneously. 

LILY: No thanks 

Huffing a disbelieving laugh, Shane stuffs his phone into his sweatpants. He’s going to go home, take another shower, and then sleep for at least ten hours. And then he’s going to forget about Ilya, and forget about today, and forget about everything that isn’t hockey. 

Hockey is safe. Hockey is simple.

Or it would be simple, if it weren’t for Ilya fucking Rozanov’s career being unbelievably entangled with his own—their rivalry intertwining their professional lives constantly.

Ilya Rozanov is the king of the fucking world. Here, bass pulsing through him, trapped in a throng of writhing bodies, he is completely and utterly untouchable. Someone’s hands are on his hips, wandering across his waist, in addition to warm, teasing lips grazing along the length of his neck, knees knocking into his own. 

He’s tipping his head back, and it’s an invitation as much as it is surrender. He’s everywhere and nowhere, he is Ilya fucking Rozanov, and– 

“Ilya!” Svetlana yanks him away by the sleeve of his shirt. His very nice, dark silk shirt. 

“What is it?” Ilya yells in Russian, swearing when Svetlana hardly spares him a look, dragging him all the way into a corner. He stumbles after her, stomach clenching uncomfortably. Idly, he wonders if clubs serve more than chips. He hasn’t been this hungry in years. 

“We should go,” Svetlana says, also in Russian, squeezing his bicep almost comfortingly. 

This, Ilya does not understand. “Why?” 

“Because you are drunk,” Svetlana says, one of the strobing lights illuminating her face. She’s beautiful, dark eyeshadow deepening her eyes, lipgloss shiny and inviting in the low light. Ilya feels almost numb, looking at her. Wishes, distantly, that he could love her. 

Fuck. What has Shane Hollander done to him? What has he made him into?

“I’ve had two drinks,” Ilya tells her, lifting a hand with two fingers up. He’s not even lying. There’s a reason he’s as good as he is at hockey, as sharp and fast– he does not indulge if he doesn’t know for a fact it won’t affect his game. Unless, of course, what he’s indulging in is Shane Hollander. 

But he doesn’t want to think about him right now. Shane Hollander, who is probably tucked into bed already, boring autobiography in hand. Shane Hollander, who is angry at him. Who probably hates him. 

Ilya wishes he could hate him, too. 

“You are going home,” Svetlana decides for him, letting go of Ilya to grab her phone out of her purse, long, manicured nails already tapping on the screen before he can argue — likely to order them both an Uber. 

“No,” Ilya says quickly. “No, I am staying. You go home.” 

Svetlana shoots him a flat, dubious look. 

“I can take care of myself, sweetheart,” Ilya says. When Svetlana doesn’t budge, he adds, “I’ll go home soon. In a couple of songs. I promise.” 

Svetlana flickers her eyes between Ilya’s, searching, seeking, before sighing through her nose. She finally nods and says, “Okay. Okay, but you will text me when you get home. Swear it, Ilya.” 

“I swear,” he says, pressing his hand over his heart. 

Svetlana leaves, and Ilya slips back into the crowd. It’s simple, mindless. Here, he does not have to think. And so he doesn’t– not when the song changes, and not when a new pair of hands find his hips. He simply grins, swaying closer before opening his eyes. 

For a second, Ilya sees a flash of him– Shane’s freckles, pouty lips, rosy cheeks. He blinks, and he’s gone. The man he’s dancing with bears almost no real resemblance to Shane Hollander. His hair is two shades too brown, his eyes, as they blink up at him, are more honey than dark, molten chocolate—the difference visible even under the vibrant strobe lighting, and the freckles are nothing more than a few scattered moles across his cheek and one tucked beneath his left eye. His cheeks are bright and flushed with colour from exertion, but he’s not—he’s not Shane.

God, he misses him.

Ilya feels sick, suddenly. He has to leave. He has to—

“Sorry,” Ilya manages, though his voice is drowned out by the music. He extracts himself from the man’s hold, feeling at once trapped and uneasy, and trips through the club all the way to the exit. The security guard almost grabs his arm, as if to check on him, before seemingly deciding he isn’t worth the effort and allows Ilya to slip past and make his escape. Ilya’s thankful, as he pushes through the door and into the brisk night air. 

His shoes crunch in the snow as he walks, meandering aimlessly down streets he doesn’t recognise. Svetlana had brought him here, and they had taken an Uber. He could be anywhere, really. That had been the point, earlier in the night. Now, he just feels lost. 

He’s lost and alone, in the freezing, dark streets of Boston.

Ilya’s not sure what he’s doing or where he’s going. He’s not drunk—barely even tipsy, now—but he kind of wishes he were. Then he’d have an excuse for feeling like this. For being like this.

He hadn’t eaten anything after the game, and he’s feeling it now. The dizziness offsets the streets, making them sway and blur. He trips down another road before he finally has to sit down, stumbling hard before he manages to plant his ass on a step. 

Absurdly, his eyes burn. He’s so hungry. He’s so– he’s so lonely. 

Swiping shakily at his face, he slips his hand into his back pocket, grabbing his phone. He could call a cab, or even text Svetlana to order him an Uber, or anything, but instead—

Instead, he finds himself sitting on the side of the road, hesitating, thumb hovering dangerously over Jane’s contact.

He shouldn’t. Not after today, not after– everything. 

He presses call. 

It rings and rings, and Ilya keeps his gaze locked on the cracked pavement, eyes blurring with unshed tears. He’s never been this pathetic before; he’s sure of it. Sitting on a stoop somewhere in Boston, freezing his ass off and nowhere near drunk enough to look this much like a sad, lost dog, all while hoping, pleading, begging that Shane Hollander will pick up his call.

The call goes to voicemail. Ilya doesn’t care, lowering the phone only for a second to call again. 

This time, when he presses his phone to his ear, Shane picks up on the third ring.

“What?” Shane says, clipped.

Ilya closes his eyes, humiliation twisting his gut. Still, though, it’s nice to hear his voice. His shoulders sag a little. “Hollander?” 

“I don’t–” Shane sighs, long and heavy. “Why are you calling?” 

Why is he calling? Ilya couldn’t answer. Not in any way that makes sense, anyway. 

Voice wobbling, Ilya says, “I am sorry.” He inhales, breath hitching horribly. “Was mistake.” 

On the other line, Shane goes quiet. Then, shuffling around, he says, “What’s going on, Rozanov?” 

“Nothing. Nothing is– nothing.” 

“Where are you?” 

Ilya says nothing. In the distance, a car horn blares. 

“Are you outside?” 

Ilya makes a small noise in confirmation. 

“Jesus–” Shane’s moving again. It sounds like he’s slipping out of bed. “It’s fucking– cold, Rozanov. What the hell are you thinking?” 

Ilya doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want Shane to be angry with him, and he doesn’t want to worry him. That wasn’t why he called. He kind of just wanted to hear his voice. 

“Was mistake,” Ilya repeats, softer this time. 

“No,” Shane says immediately. “No, fuck, just… tell me where you are.” 

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut; his head is spinning. He needs to go home. He needs to go home and wash the night off. 

“Please,” Shane says, voice gentling. “Please, just tell me where you are.” 

“I…” Ilya opens his eyes, looking around. “I am near club. The Grand Boston.” 

A moment of silence follows. Then, “I don’t know where that is.” 

Ilya frowns. “Hm.” 

“What street are you on?” 

“I do not know.” 

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Look around.” 

“Hm.” 

“Rozanov, for the love of–” 

“I do not know!” Ilya stands, bracing himself on the wall. “I am lost. On purpose.” 

Shane exhales, muttering something under his breath. “You are being so unbelievably unhelpful right now.” 

“Sorry,” Ilya says, injecting as much sarcasm as he can into the word. “I will hang up now. Bye-bye.” 

“Do not hang up, do not go anywhere,” Shane says. “Just send me your location.” 

Ilya narrows his eyes, even as he fumbles to put his phone on speaker, navigating to Messages to send Shane a pin of his location. Heavily, he sits back down, breath whooshing out of him. “Why?” 

“Because I’m coming to get you,” Shane says, exasperation clear in his voice. “Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Ilya echoes, heart skipping three beats at once. 

Shane’s Uber Driver—Gustav—is a middle-aged Swedish man wearing a paper-boy hat, who asks Shane a lot more questions than he wants to answer right now. Still, though, stiltedly and politely, he answers every single one, pulling his winter coat tight around himself as he watches the little car move on his screen, getting closer and closer to Ilya’s location.

It’s the middle of the night. Shane had been tucked into bed with a book, his alarm set, with Hayden Pike snoring soundly to his left, sprawled on his own twin bed. Like Shane still should be. But then—Ilya had called.

He hadn’t even answered the first time, which is pretty impressive, he thinks. But then Lily had popped up a second time, and—

Fuck. What was he supposed to do?

He’d even left his reading glasses on, the dark frames resting low on his nose. 

“Sir—Mr. Shane, we’re here,” Gustav says, glancing over his shoulder. He’s grinning encouragingly, like Shane is on his way to a very, very late date, and not on his way to collect his hockey rival from a random Boston stoop. 

Shane peers out of the window, eyes finding the slumped, tired-looking frame of Ilya Rozanov immediately. 

“Thanks,” Shane says quickly. Then, already opening the car door, he asks, “I– can I add another stop?” 

“Sure,” Gustav answers immediately, “You just gotta punch it into the app, bror.” 

Shane doesn’t even know what bror means. He just shoots him a thumbs up as he steps out of the car and into the crisp night air. 

Ilya looks up, bleary-eyed and exhausted. Shane’s heart gives a violent lurch, throat tightening. 

“Get in,” he demands. When Ilya struggles to stand, Shane trips forward, slipping an arm around him to haul him up. 

“You came,” Ilya mumbles, so low that Shane’s not even sure it’s for his ears.

Shane pauses, catching his eye. “I did.” 

And I would the next time, too. I think I would do it every time. I don’t know what to do with that. 

He’s too tired to squash the pulsing, yearning thing that aches whenever Ilya is on his mind.

Clearing his throat, Shane helps Ilya into the car, clambering in after him and shutting the door. 

Shane tries not to watch Ilya struggle with the seatbelt. After a beat, when they’re both clicked into place, Shane updates the app, and ever-patient Gustav shoots him a thumbs up once it updates. Whistling a short tune, Gustav turns the wheel, and they pull away from the curb.

They drive in silence for a beat. The car is warm enough that Shane feels a little flush beneath his winter jacket and red hoodie. He adjusts his glasses on his nose, staring out the window so that he can avoid looking at Ilya altogether.

Gustav catches Shane’s eye in the rearview mirror, the blue of them bright under the passing streetlights. Gustav’s phone is buzzing where it sits connected to the little air conditioning vent beside the steering wheel. “Do you mind if I take this? It is my love. It should only be a moment.”

Shane would rather die than say no. “Sure.”

A steady hand abandons the wheel and taps the accept call button.

“Tjena, snygging,” Gustav says. The speaker buzzes too much for Shane to make out the response, and Shane furrows his eyebrows. That’s got to be Swedish, right? 

“Are you speaking Danish?” Ilya asks Gustav, head tipping onto Shane’s shoulder. 

“Swedish,” Gustav replies. Vindication. To his phone, Gustav says, “Förlåt, älskling. Ja, jag är här. Jag tycker absolut du ska köpa en till stekpanna.” 

Quietly, Ilya asks, his cheek pressed firmly against the curve of the joint of Shane’s shoulder, “Hollander, why did you come?” 

Shane opens his mouth to reply, only for Gustav to speak again. 

“Okej. Ja, alltså, kanske inte om den två tusen spänn, liksom. Men du gör som du vill. Vad säger din mamma?” 

Both Ilya and Shane fall silent, enraptured despite being unable to understand a single word. 

Gustav makes a shocked noise. “Har du inte ens frågat henne? Hon är ju en kock, för sjuttsingen!” 

The car is silent for a moment, but as soon as Shane goes to fill the silence, Gustav sighs, shaking his head. 

“Ja, okej. Okej. Men barnen sover, i alla fall?” Silence. Then, “Skönt. Ja, tack för att du ringde. Du vet hur mycket jag saknar dig. Ja, till och med när du köper stekpannor vi inte behöver.” 

Under his breath, Ilya sleepily mumbles a few Swedish words to himself—jag saknar dig—mimicking Gustav. Shane purses his lips around a smile. 

“Du är min man,” Gustav says with a dreamy sigh. “Det klart jag är på din sida. Gå och lägg dig nu. Älskar dig. Puss puss. Ja, så klart. Hejdå. Puss.” 

Gustav ends the call, tapping his finger against the Bluetooth in his ear. “Sorry about that, you know how it is. Love.”

“Sure,” Shane says, agreeably. 

“I do not,” Ilya declares loudly, suddenly wide awake and sitting up on his own. Shane’s shoulder, where Ilya’s head had rested gently, feels warm still, even in the absence of contact. 

Shane stares at him. He wants to call him an asshole so bad his jaw aches. 

In the driver’s seat, Gustav laughs heartily. “If you say so, sir.” 

Ilya makes an incredibly offended face, but Gustav doesn’t catch it, saying instead, “We have arrived.” 

Shane thanks him profusely, ushering Ilya out of the cab. He throws a fifty-dollar bill at Gustav, and then additionally tips him on the app as the car pulls out of the driveway. 

Ilya doesn’t seem drunk enough that Shane has to carry him inside, or even offer him an arm to help steady him. They make it to Ilya’s front door, and Ilya fumbles with his pockets before pulling out a little jingling set of keys. Shane steps forward, taking them from his hand. Ilya frowns at him, “Hollander, I am—”

“Shut up,” Shane says. “Just—let me.”

He unlocks the door and doesn’t look back at Ilya’s face to see if he reacts at all. Doesn’t want to know. They step inside. Shane toes his shoes off before tapping the side of his right one with a sock-covered toe, straightening them up. When he looks up, Ilya is slumped against a wall, watching Shane—he looks fond, and soft, and—

“What?” Shane asks, almost accusatory.

“Nothing,” Ilya says, eyeing Shane’s neatly stowed shoes. “You are just fun.”

“It’s polite.”

“I am not insulting your habits. I am just watching. Is this not allowed?”

Shane rolls his eyes, shedding his jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door. He considers shucking his hoodie off as well. Ilya’s home is much warmer than the hotel room had been when he’d left—but he decides against it when he suddenly remembers he’s wearing absolutely nothing underneath. “Shut up. Come on.”

He follows the semi-familiar path down the hall, and Ilya drops against the couch. Shane moves to step away, and instinctively, Ilya’s fingers wrap around his wrist—halting his movements entirely. 

Quickly, though, as if burned by his own movement, Ilya releases his grip, embarrassment flaring across his features. Shane’s mouth turns downward as he tries to find something to say. Anything. The tension is so thick—unfamiliar in a way he doesn’t know how to navigate. If this were any other time, he’d slide into Ilya’s lap, kiss him till they both stop thinking, and the tension would melt away, dissipating in an instant.

He clears his throat. “I’m gonna—uh. You should eat. Something with carbs. It’ll soak up some of the alcohol in your system.”

“Shane Hollander, I am not drunk,” Ilya assures him with a sigh, flopping back against the plush cushions of his couch.

“Great. I’m making a sandwich for myself, then.” He shouldn’t eat. He had dinner hours ago—but he’ll figure that out later. Ilya needs food, hydration, and to be tucked into bed promptly. “Do you want one?”

Ilya looks at him for a long second, then sighs again, tilting his head back and closing his eyes completely. “Okay.”

With a focused tug between his brows, Shane drifts into Ilya’s kitchen, feeling a little like his mother as caretaking instincts take over completely. He pushes his glasses up his nose and shoves the sleeves of his hoodie up till they’re scrunched by his elbows, even on both sides.

He’s not too familiar with the location of anything in Ilya’s kitchen at all. Suddenly, he realises he’s never gotten anything but a glass of water from it. And that had been just once. He cracks open the fridge, and sitting on the second shelf beside several fancy cheeses is a fresh pack of ginger ale. Shane’s favourite brand. He picks a can of it up, spinning it in his hand.

He frowns down at it. Maybe for a beat too long, considering Ilya’s fridge begins to make an insistent beeping noise at him. He blinks and puts it back. He pulls open the crisper, poking through the contents of Ilya’s fridge and collects what he needs.

He takes the time to fry up two pieces of bacon, for Ilya’s sake, but not one for himself. He makes two sandwiches, stacked with avocado, sliced tomato and cucumber, a handful of arugula and then finally, a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. 

Not too bad, Shane thinks, as he slices them diagonally into even halves. He spends a solid minute searching through the cupboards to locate a couple of plates. Finally, he finds two small plates, sliding the sandwiches onto them before he heads back into the living room. Ilya is exactly where Shane left him, eyes closed, chest rising and falling evenly. For a second, Shane thinks Ilya might’ve fallen asleep. He pauses, socked feet coming to a standstill, plates in his hands.

Rozanov cracks a single bright blue eye open, brow raised. “Are you just going to stand there and watch me, Hollander? Are you freak now?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Shane mumbles, huffing. He holds out Ilya’s plate. 

Ilya leans forward, humming as he takes the plate and sits cross-legged, the plate resting atop one strong thigh. 

“I did not know you could cook.”

“It’s not really cooking,” Shane corrects, settling beside him—a respectable one pillow of distance between them. “I mean, I cooked the bacon.”

Ilya shrugs a shoulder. “I have never seen you cook.”

There are a lot of things they haven’t seen each other do, normal things that are often witnessed by people who spend a lot of time together—but all their moments together have been stolen, fleeting, never domestic except—except that one time. 

Suddenly, painfully, he remembers the Tuna Melt Incident. 

Remembers sitting atop Ilya’s lap, right where Ilya is perched now. He remembers feeling and hearing his own name, for the first time, sighed blissfully into his parted, panting mouth. When he glances up, he can see the exact path his feet had taken, as he’d fumbled for his clothes, and then stumbled out of the room, and—

“It is good,” Ilya says, with his mouth full of sandwich. It breaks Shane out of his spiral. Shane glances down at his own plate and lifts his sandwich up, taking a bite. 

“Mm,” Shane hums in agreement. It is pretty good. The arugula is the right side of fresh, and the vinegar is nicer than the one Shane has in his own fridge. 

They eat the rest of their food in something close to comfortable silence. Intermittently, they glance at each other at the same time, locking eyes and smiling, like they’re in on the same joke. Shane wishes he knew what the joke was. He feels like he’s one step away from being the punchline.

Once their plates are empty, Shane grabs them and dumps them in the sink, before changing his mind, doubling back and grabbing the plates again, sweeping the crumbs off of them into the bin. 

When Shane turns to him again, Ilya’s leaning against the kitchen island with an arm wrapped around himself. He’s smiling, something small and private. He smothers it into submission the second he realises Shane is looking at him.

Fingers tapping a rhythm into his own bicep, Ilya asks, “You have flight in morning?”

Shane stuffs his hands in his sweats, thinking about the routine he’s now thrown off completely, thinks about the luggage he’s abandoned at the hotel room with Hayden, and thinks about the new routine he’ll have to figure out first thing in the morning. He doesn’t say any of this. Is embarrassed to be so thrown off by one spontaneous detour. He shakes his head. “No, uh—late afternoon.”

“Okay.” 

For a moment, Ilya’s gaze stays locked on Shane. Then, as if struck by some unseen bolt of energy, he vaults himself away from the island and heads down the hallway. 

Silently, Shane trails after him. He watches Ilya’s hand sway by his side, and a stupid, romantic part of him wants to reach out and tangle their fingers together. His fingers, by his side, twitch slightly. He doesn’t close the distance—he simply looks away.

He’s only been in Ilya’s bathroom once or twice before. There’s an unlit candle on the sink, boasting about its notes of cedarwood and pine. Blue towels are hung on the heated rails, but the heating itself is turned off. 

Ilya smoothly slides the mirror cabinet open, grabs a mossy coloured mug with a toothbrush in it and places it on the sink. Shane blinks at it, reaching for it haltingly when Ilya nods at it. He realises, standing like an idiot with a toothbrush in his hand, that it’s the same one he used the last time he was here. He takes his glasses off, folding the arms and resting them on the counter.

Sniffing, Ilya picks up his own toothbrush and toothpaste. Shane is fairly methodical and routine with his brushing—but the domesticity of sharing a counter and set of sinks with Ilya, and having Ilya right there looking tipsy on the side of sleepy, makes him lose focus entirely. He ends up watching Ilya in the mirror, brushing the same four teeth for a solid thirty seconds before he even remembers he has other teeth in his mouth. Ilya catches his eye, the corner of his mouth ticking up into a smirk (or as much of one as he can form while he scrubs at his back molars) and Shane looks away instantly, brushing almost aggressively at his remaining teeth before meticulously brushing over his tongue and spitting into the sink. 

Ilya laughs, spitting into the sink and filling the glass of water flipped upside down by the side of the handle, offering it out to Shane first. 

He doesn’t know why the action makes his chest flutter. He flushes under Ilya’s attention, his attentive eyes resting shamelessly on Shane’s sideprofile. In the mirror, Shane is forced to bear witness both to Ilya’s soft, intense gaze and his own blushing face. He rinses his mouth out, closing his eyes as he swashes it around before spitting into the sink.

Ilya, like the freak he is, takes a sip from the same glass and flushes the leftover toothpaste out of his mouth and spits again. 

“Mm,” Ilya says once Shane’s washed his face, pointing towards his glasses before tapping his own temple twice. “Put them back on.”

Shane’s brows lift, but he’s tired, and it’s late, so he doesn’t question him. He slides the spectacles back into place before his hand finds Ilya’s elbow. Without thinking, his fingers curl around the sharp bone and soft silken fabric.

“Bed,” Shane says quietly, and Ilya nods, looking for all the world like he’s already half-asleep. 

Ilya’s bedroom looks the same as it did last time. The bed isn’t made, though, the covers pushed all the way down, hanging halfway off the mattress. Letting go of Ilya, Shane adjusts them, half-making the bed he knows they’re about to climb into anyway. While he does this, he listens to Ilya undress. The hiss of a zipper, the rustle of fabric, the subtle whoosh as the clothes hit the floor. Shane doesn’t turn around; instead, he needlessly fluffs the pillows. 

Ilya mumbles something under his breath, fingers grazing the small of Shane’s back before he falls into bed gracelessly, wrapping the duvet around himself as he drops his phone on the bedside table. He’s only in boxers. It looks like it takes a monumental effort for him to roll onto his back, back arching slightly as he wriggles to get comfortable. Shane’s heart aches a little at the sight. They’ve only spent an entire night together once—Shane remembers it fondly, now, even with fear prickling at his skin. He remembers how it felt to wake up wrapped up in Ilya’s arms. Wonders, maybe foolishly, what it’d be like to wake up like that forever.

Keeping his head down, Shane rounds the bed, hyper-aware of Ilya’s sleepy eyes following him. Shane makes quick work of removing his hoodie, folding the plush fabric swiftly and placing it neatly on the side table, nipples tightening in the chilly air. Once he has his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his pants, he finds himself stuck—hesitating. He can still feel the warmth of Ilya’s gaze on him, the heat of it setting his nerves alight. 

Despite his own hesitance, he pushes them down, leaving him in just a soft, black pair of boxer briefs that hug tight over his thighs. He sets his folded pants atop his hoodie before he pulls at the heavy covers on Ilya’s bed and slots himself beneath them, right by Ilya’s side.

For a moment, neither of them says anything at all. Then, quietly, Ilya mumbles something in Russian– and Shane is sure that he knows that phrase—knows it means thank you. He resists the urge to reply, sinking further into the bed instead. 

He shoots Hayden a quick text that he had to run out and check on a friend who lives locally, and that he’ll be back before check-out in the morning. Next, he plugs his phone in on the side table, double-checking his alarm is still set. His glasses go next—placed neatly beside his phone. He blinks a few times, adjusting to the slight unfocus. 

Finally, he fumbles with the lamp, clicking it off. Shane rolls over and watches as Ilya quickly takes the chance to grab his phone off the bedside table. Sluggishly, he thumbs over to Messages.

Shane watches him find Svetlana’s contact, typing a quick message in Russian, sending it off before dropping his phone back on the table. 

For a moment, there is heavy silence. Then, Shane hears Ilya shuffling under the covers, and without thinking, he unclenches his hand. Ilya’s fingers graze Shane’s, hand slipping into his hesitantly. Shane closes his fingers around Ilya’s, and realises at once that everything, the argument and the silence and the chirping, is all forgiven. 

He exhales, closing his eyes. Sleep takes him easier than it has in weeks.

Ilya wakes up in a cocoon of warmth. There are arms around him, a leg between his own. His stomach twists—suddenly unsure where he is or who he’s tangled with.

He tilts his head upward, and a relieved breath escapes him. 

Shane. 

He’s in bed with Shane Hollander because he took it upon himself to get Ilya home last night. Shane, whose mouth is parted, eyes closed, bathed in the morning sunlight. Exhaling shakily, Ilya lowers his head again, pressing his ear to Shane’s chest. 

His steady heartbeat lulls Ilya back into a half-sleep. He can’t muster up the energy to think about the world outside of his bedroom. Outside of Shane. 

It doesn’t take long, though, for Shane to rouse. He makes a sleepy little noise, something akin to a tired, waking kitten. Instinctively, Ilya tightens his arms around him. He’s pretty sure what he’s experiencing is cuteness-aggression. He’s read about it on Reddit. 

Shane’s eyelids flutter, charcoal lashes fanning over his cheeks before he opens his eyes entirely. For a second, he looks caught-out, like he isn’t supposed to be here, in Ilya’s bed with their bodies intertwined. But then, miraculously, he smiles. 

It’s entirely too soft. Ilya’s not sure what to do except smile back helplessly. Shane’s hands slip down to the small of Ilya’s waist, fingers twitching. 

Wriggling his arms out from underneath Shane, Ilya hoists himself up, hovering above Shane. 

Eyes flickering between Shane’s, Ilya curves his hand around the back of Shane’s neck, squeezing lightly. Shane swallows, offering Ilya a small nod. 

Ilya dips forward and presses a close-mouthed kiss to Shane’s lips. It’s barely anything, the tamest of touches, and still, he feels Shane’s dick start to swell against his inner thigh. 

Around him, Shane’s legs fall open, accommodating Ilya’s size betwixt them, letting him in. 

Ilya pecks the corner of Shane’s mouth, then his cheek, his chin. He squeezes the back of Shane’s neck again, heart beating steadily but hard, like it wants out—like it wants to crawl from him and into Shane.

He presses his body down more firmly, giving both of them some relief– a momentary pressure, dicks caught between them, before he stills once more, an idea popping into his head. 

Pulling back, he leans over to grab Shane’s glasses off the bedside table, carefully situating them on Shane’s face. He pushes them up, tracing the line of his nose. He looks fucking gorgeous like this. Ilya desperately wishes he could take a picture. But even if he did, Shane would make him delete it. He wonders just how many photos of Shane he’s almost truly had, but had to give up for the sake of keeping their secret safe. 

Shane snorts at whatever Ilya’s face is doing, so Ilya does what any sane man would do and ducks down, capturing his mouth in another kiss. 

This time, he takes the chance to nip teasingly at Shane’s bottom lip—Shane shudders sharply, lips parting. Ilya groans, licking into his willing mouth. He full-body flushes when Shane’s hands scrabble over his back, dragging Ilya in, in, in. 

Shane’s body heat rolls off him in waves, sweat beading along Ilya’s brow as it wraps around him. He tilts into Shane like gravity is pulling him down, hot breath a soft puff against his mouth as he looks up at him with his wide, seeking brown eyes. Ilya could drown in them—and he has, more than once. God, the stupid things he would do, and has done, because Shane Hollander’s eyes make him weak and reckless.

“God, Hollander,” he exhales, feeling wrecked before anything has even truly happened. He rolls his hips forward, finding a slow, torturous rhythm. 

He gets a front row seat to the way Shane’s mile-long lashes flutter all pretty, his mouth dropped open on a gasp.

“Rozanov, I—” Shane pants, meeting the grinding of hips. Ilya silences him with a kiss, closed-mouth and sweet. The tenderness of his own movements steals the air from his lungs. He pulls back to catch his breath after a beat, and catches sight of Shane’s cheeks flushing full of pink warmth, and he has to dive right back in—this time, greedy, open-mouthed. He bullies his way into Shane’s mouth—tasting, teasing, taking, and Shane just lets him—meets each hungry movement with enthusiasm, whimpering around Ilya’s tongue. The kissing grows frantic—almost knocking Shane’s glasses off his face. Ilya shifts, ensuring he doesn’t dislodge them completely.

Shane moans into the kiss, pushing himself up as if to deepen it, but Ilya doesn’t let him. He presses his body down harder, trapping Shane beneath him, the sliding of his mouth against Shane’s is possessive, tongue exploring the scape of it like he owns every inch.

Shane lets him. Always does. 

Shane’s hands grab desperately at Ilya’s sides as he tries to rut up against Ilya’s aching cock. Ilya breaks the kiss, promptly losing his mind a little as he watches a thin line of saliva stretch between them, struck dumb as he watches it dragged down by gravity before it finally snaps. It’s filthy. He wants to do filthy things to Shane Hollander.

He almost forgets what he had intended to do, but then Shane grinds up again, and Ilya’s brain boots back up. He sits up a little more, the blankets falling away entirely now, and shoves his boxers down. Shane gets with the program pretty quickly, shoving his own briefs down till his dick snaps up, wet and glistening against his stomach. He writhes, and Ilya lifts himself up momentarily to help him kick them all the way off. 

Ilya takes a beat to drink in the view—his eyes caressing the length of Shane’s entire torso from hips to collarbones, before settling on his flushed face. Shane’s soft, relaxed features, glasses knocked askew, and sleep-rumpled hair. His pretty, pink, parted mouth just begging for Ilya to shove his fingers into it. Or his tongue. God, or his cock.

He’s the most beautiful thing Ilya has ever seen. No landscape, no work of art, no iteration of Princess Diana could ever compare to Shane Hollander.

He’s fucked. Ilya Rozanov is fucked. And in love, probably, but he can’t deal with that right now. Not when Shane is biting at his own bottom lip, fingers drifting down to wrap around his leaking, cut cock. Ilya baps his hand away, covering Shane’s body with his own, lining up their cocks so when he shifts his hips, it drags their lengths together. Shane glances down, groaning at the sight before finding Ilya’s eyes, lingering there for just a beat before not-so-subtly staring at his mouth.

Ilya does as Shane’s eyes beg of him. He leans down, sliding their mouths together as he lets their hips work on instinct, helplessly chasing pleasure as their bodies slot together perfectly, his hips rocking to meet every urgent grind up of Shane’s. It feels good. God, it feels good. Everything with Shane always does. 

His hand drifts down, finding Shane’s hip and guiding his movements to make them smoother. Shane groans in his mouth at the change of angle, hand tangling into Ilya’s curls and tongue pressing insistently into Ilya’s mouth. 

After a moment, their kiss breaks, and as much as Shane is leaking enough to be compared to a faucet, it could be wetter. 

Ilya lifts himself up—fighting against the instinct to drop back down when Shane whines at the loss of friction and contact. Ilya fights through, swirling his saliva in his mouth before letting it drip, drip, drip past his lips, and watching as it lands on the head of his own dick. Shane traces the movement, rapt, as the line of spit breaks and slides down the side of Ilya’s thick cock. 

Ilya’s free hand wraps around it, jerking it once, twice. It’s better, but—

“Me too,” Shane exhales, pushing himself up to his elbows. “Give me your hand.”

Ilya grins at him, offering it out. Shane makes sure to keep their gazes locked as he spits, messy and wet, into the palm of Ilya’s hand. Oh, perfect, pristine Shane Hollander, left sweaty, and panting, spitting, and dirty—Ilya loves him like this. Loves how much Shane desires to be like this. He wants to do bad, filthy things. Wants to be made to do them. Encouraged. Coaxed. Even if he won’t admit it, he wants to be pushed down and cooed at till the shame disappears and is replaced by mind-melting pleasure.

Ilya slicks most of the wetness over his own cock before he lets his fingers drift to Shane’s, wrapping around the hardened length and squeezing around the shaft. Shane gasps, hips attempting to pump into the channel of his fist, but Ilya gives him a single, slicking stroke before abandoning his dick, leaving it pulsing between them. 

Shane huffs.

God, Ilya wants to eat him alive. 

Nudging their noses together, Ilya exhales shakily. Then, he drags their spit-covered cocks together. It’s messy and gross, and makes Shane get all foggy-eyed and sweet.

Ilya ruts against him, rolling his hips deliberately. He’s dizzy, arousal pooling in his gut and at the base of his spine.

Shane’s always been a bit of a quickshot—but this time, Ilya finds himself groaning helplessly, unable to ignore the pulsing pleasure coiling tighter just behind his navel.

He ducks his head down, tucking it between Shane’s collarbone and jaw. Once there, he nips a little unkindly at the sensitive flesh of Shane’s throat—something that’ll leave a temporary, blossoming red mark, but that won’t last past the morning. 

Below him, Shane whimpers– a sound so vulnerable, so overwhelmed, that Ilya has to bite his tongue to keep from coming right then and there. 

Oh, God. He’s in love. 

“Ilya,” Shane breathes, “don’t stop, please don’t—don’t stop, fuck. Ilya.” 

His name on Shane’s tongue sneaks up on him, wrapping tight around his throat, wringing all reason and hesitation from him. All that’s left is Shane, Shane, Shane. His hips stutter as they roll against Shane’s, and he feels himself coming completely undone, being pulled apart seam-by-seam.

He lifts his head out of the crook of Shane’s neck, kissing him hard and hungry, as he’s hurtled closer and closer to the edge.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya pants, mouth falling open, eyes squeezed tightly closed as pleasure wracks through his entire body, the feeling burning and pulsing, so utterly overwhelming that his body almost gives out and collapses against Shane’s. “Ya tebya– I love you, fuck– Shane.” 

All at once, the pleasure crests. His cock pulses, hardening even further as Ilya’s breathing turns fast and ragged, body jolting as all coherent thought is ripped from him. He moans something in the shape of Shane’s name, and spills hot and messy between them, painting Shane’s stomach and cock with hot white ropes.

A low groan slips from Shane’s mouth, morphing into something high and breathy– something 

almost surprised. He pushes into Ilya’s slowing hand, hips gyrating in a way they so seldom do unless he’s riding Ilya. Ilya’s eyes drag open just in time to watch as Shane’s mouth falls open, stomach tensing as his cock kicks, come spilling from him in pulses.

Skin buzzing, Shane watches Ilya slump, body going lax the way it always does when he’s just come. 

Still, Ilya can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Shane, as he shivers through the aftershocks. 

Shane can’t fucking think, heart beating so fast he’s distantly worried he’s having a heart attack. 

Lazily, Ilya readjusts himself on top of Shane. He looks entirely fucked out, face pink and relaxed.

Shane is not relaxed. 

Ignoring the come cooling and drying against his skin, he takes a steadying breath. “What did you say?” 

Ilya blinks. “What?”

Shane swallows thickly, shifting beneath him. “You said—uh–ye tebya—”

Ilya’s entire body tenses above him, eyes suddenly wide and shining with something that looks far too much like fear. He’s frozen in place, mouth wordlessly parted. Shane can tell he’s panicking.

“Ilya–” Shane presses a hand against Ilya’s side. The contact seems to snap him out of his stupor, but not in the way Shane had intended. 

Cursing under his breath, Ilya rolls off of him. He stumbles over to his dresser, grabbing a pair of sweats and a hoodie before throwing them on a stool. Without looking at Shane, he says, “I am going to shower.” 

And with that, he disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

Mutely, Shane falls back into bed, head finding the pillow. He stares at the ceiling, head spinning. 

This… this changes everything. This is not good. This is so not good. Maybe this is why they hadn’t fallen back into bed with one another after Rose, maybe Ilya realised he– and then– holy shit.

Ilya Rozanov loves him. 

Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, Shane’s long-term rival (with benefits), loves him. Loves him so much that it terrifies him. 

The thought doesn’t hit Shane like a train. It hits him like a small semi-truck, at most. He flattens against the bed, trying to piece everything together.

He takes a moment to put aside how Ilya feels—but about how he does. He thinks about a world where he is not Shane Hollander, and Ilya isn’t Ilya Rozanov, and they are just two men. Two normal men, who lead simpler lives. Who don’t have to keep their desires a secret. 

He’s sure they’d be together. In love. He kind of hates them for it. Jealously, he curses that the alternate Shane just gets to have Ilya. That he gets to keep him, gets to wake up next to and fall asleep next to him every night. He gets to have his days, his love, his heart. He’s filled with such envy that he feels sick with it.

Shane realises, devastatingly, that even in this universe, he is in love with Ilya. Even in this universe, he wants those things so desperately that it’s agonising.

Against the odds, against all the opposing forces working against them, he’s in love with Ilya. And Ilya loves him back. Loves him back enough that when he’s at his most blissed-out and vulnerable, he exhales it into Shane’s skin like a prayer. Like a promise.

Fuck. 

He feels like a star collapsing in on itself—something once bright, twinkling and naive imploding inward, the fallout catastrophic, but no one is even around to see it. In the distance, he can hear the shower running, and imagines Ilya is in there trying to come up with some sort of game plan, or perhaps regretting all his life choices.

It’s fine. Ilya doesn’t need a game plan. Shane will figure this out for them. They’re in love. Surely he can figure this out in the few minutes remaining of Ilya’s terror-induced shower.

Finally, he sits up, grabbing a tissue from the side table and wiping up the mess from his stomach and dick. He winces at the sensation of it, dipping into the drawer in hopes of finding something a little less dry to clean himself up with. Inside, there are wet wipes, and Shane smiles—plucking one out.

Being less gross always makes thinking a lot easier. Shane fiddles with the sheets, frowning down at them. 

So. They have to talk. Actually talk. Something neither of them is particularly good at or fond of. They’re both experts at dodging questions or just running away entirely, and it always leads to more ambiguity and turmoil between them. They have to talk. Shane will make them talk. He’s in Ilya’s house. It’s not like Ilya can leave.

He just has to tell Ilya the truth. He has to tell Ilya that he– 

The bathroom door swings open, steam billowing around him as Ilya steps out, eyes cast downward. He has a blue towel wrapped around his waist, little droplets of water dancing along the strong lines of his chest and abdomen. Shane tries to stay focused, but for a brief second, allows himself to watch a single droplet that cascades over the mountain that is one of Ilya’s pectorals. He snaps out of it, though, as it dips over onto his abdomen.

“Hey,” Shane says, and Ilya jumps. 

He presses a hand to his chest. “Jesus, Hollander.”

He steals a quick glance at Shane before turning away, clearly surprised to see him—like he had thought that Shane would’ve just left. 

Which… is fair, Shane acknowledges guiltily, in the privacy of his own mind. He did run out on Ilya all those months ago, the first time he was here, when things had all at once gotten far too serious. And it’s not like things are less complicated now than they were then, but they’re different. Shane’s different. Evidently, if Ilya really does love him, Ilya is also different. 

Shane’s heart flutters, as delicate as a butterfly. 

Ilya loves me.

He clears his throat, opening his mouth, but Ilya beats him to it. 

“There is food in the kitchen,” Ilya says. It’s a dismissal, Shane thinks. Ilya needs to get changed, and Shane is impeding his ability to do so, apparently. 

“I– okay,” Shane agrees, sliding out of bed. Ilya averts his eyes, as if seeing Shane naked is suddenly something he’s not allowed. 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Shane walks over to Ilya and steps around him, opening the same drawer Ilya had opened earlier. He rifles through it, grabbing himself a t-shirt and sweatpants, and pretends not to notice that Ilya’s holding his breath. 

“I’ll just…” he gestures half-heartedly at the bathroom, and Ilya nods once, sharply, still refusing to look at him. 

Once in the bathroom, Shane closes his eyes and takes a long breath. He listens to Ilya get dressed, and realises suddenly that he himself is stark naked, leaning against Ilya Rozanov’s bathroom door. 

He pushes away from the door and shakes himself like a dog, getting to it. 

Glasses abandoned on the bathroom counter, he pees faster than he ever has before, aware now that for his plan to work, he has to work fast. Once he’s done, he washes his hands and slips into Ilya’s clothes, like his ass is on fire, only pausing to lift the shirt to his face, breathing it in. Predictably, the faint scent of Ilya soothes him, and before he knows it, he’s squaring his shoulders and heading down the hallway, turning into the kitchen. 

Ilya is standing in front of the refrigerator, unmoving. 

Without hesitation, Shane asks, “Can we talk?” 

Ilya’s shoulders hike up, and like some sort of robot on a mission, he makes a U-turn and beelines for the living room. Shane stalks after him, socked feet padding against the hardwood. 

When Ilya suddenly turns toward the front door, Shane’s had enough. Grabbing his elbow and tugging him back, he says, “Rozanov—” 

“What?” Ilya bites out, teeth bared like a spooked animal. 

Shane blinks. He lets go of Ilya. “Why are you running away?” 

Huffing, Ilya says, “I’m not running away.” 

Shane gestures a hand vaguely back at the hallway they just came from, then motions his hand between them.

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks. “Interprative dance?” 

Shane scowls. “I’m emphasising the impressive distance we’ve covered in the last, like, thirty seconds.” 

“There is no distance,” Ilya denies, a little petulantly. 

“Okay,” Shane says mildly. Ilya’s denial will not derail his plan. “Fine. You’re not running. There’s no distance between us. So, you wouldn’t mind sitting on the couch with me?” 

A beat, then, unconvincingly, “No.” 

“Let’s go then.” 

Ilya, annoyingly, waits for Shane to sit before he situates himself on the couch, perching as far away from him as he can. Shane barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He has a plan. He’s pretty sure Ilya will like the plan, too, if he doesn’t scamper away before it can be enacted. 

“Can we talk now?” Shane asks.

Ilya groans, head tipping over the side of the couch. “Oh my God, Hollander. Why must we do this? Why should we talk? There is nothing to talk about.” 

“You told me you–” 

Ilya sticks his fingers into his ears. “La, la, la, I said nothing!” 

Shane stares at him, eyebrows kissing his hairline. “Jesus. You’re such a child.” 

Ilya rolls his head to level Shane with a glare, hands dropping down onto the couch. For a moment, neither of them says anything. Outside, the sky grows darker, the muffled snowfall the only sound permeating the living room. 

Then, finally, Ilya huffs, giving in. “What do you want me to say? That I am big, sad homo who is in love with you? No. This is stupid.” 

Hearing that Ilya loves him for the second time doesn’t land any softer than the first. Shane fights the urge to leap across the couch and kiss him, but he can’t. Not when Ilya, beneath all his attitude, narrowed eyes and firmly set mouth, looks scared. Fear is something Shane so rarely sees in Ilya. Ilya, who is the risk-taker out of the two of them, who jerked off in a communal shower while Shane watched the first time they were alone together, who kissed Shane on a balcony at a premiere, who has touched him in public bathrooms and pressed his palm to the small of Shane’s back in front of cameras, who made him a tuna melt and asked without asking if he would stay, even though Shane was already one foot out the door. 

Ilya is terrified, and he’s trying not to show it. 

This, out of everything, makes it easier for Shane to find his own courage. He can be the brave one, this time. If Ilya needs him to be. 

“But… do you?” Do you love me? Do you love me the same way I love you? “Or did you just… did you just say it in the heat of the moment?” 

“Pah!” Ilya throws his hands in the air before folding them over his chest quickly. Shane doesn’t miss the way his hands are trembling. His fingers twitch, the instinct to reach out and take them into his own aching in him. Again, just like last night, he doesn’t move. “Russians do not lie,” Ilya tells him.

“Famously,” Shane says slowly, “You do lie.” 

Ilya won’t meet his eyes. “Not to you. Idiot.” 

“Asshole,” Shane fires back, even as his heart stutters. 

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Dummy.” 

“Jackass.” 

“Canadian.” 

Shane stares, realising, absurdly, that he’s fighting a smile. “That the best you got?” 

Ilya flickers his eyes to Shane quickly before looking away again. “Is good insult.” 

Struck with the urge to laugh, Shane clears his throat. “Okay. Sure.” 

“What do you mean, sure?” Finally, Ilya looks his way and keeps his eyes on Shane. 

Shane levels him with a look. Unfortunately for Ilya, Shane knows him. Shane knows when he’s arguing just to argue, to deflect. 

“Be serious,” he tells him, and Ilya sputters. 

“I am serious,” Ilya says, grabbing the TV remote. Angrily, he presses a button, turning the TV on and flicking through the channels. He stops when he lands on the news. “I am very serious man, Hollander. Everyone says this about me.” 

Whatever Shane was going to say in reply dies in his throat, eyes catching on the TV. Or rather, the news headline. 

AIRPORT GROUNDS AIRPLANES DUE TO SNOWSTORM 

Ilya turns the volume up. 

“Due to the amount of snow, it would be a significant risk to allow scheduled flights to–” 

Ilya switches the channel, and another news anchor says, “-all over, airports have issued warnings pertaining to the heavy snowfall, and the public has been advised to keep off roads and–” 

Ilya mutes the TV. 

“Always the fucking snowstorms,” Ilya says under his breath. 

“Well,” Shane says. He’s going to have to call his mom if she doesn’t beat him to it. His entire itinerary is going to change. More than it already has. His skin feels too tight if he dares think about it at all. “I guess we’re missing the next games.” 

Ilya grunts in acknowledgement. 

Anxiety nips like ants at Shane’s skin. He thought doing this here meant Ilya couldn’t effectively run away, but he didn’t actually mean to end up trapped here with him. The snowstorm cancelling their flights means he’s going to be stuck here, in Boston, potentially for days. 

Nerves gnaw at the soft of his insides. He shifts, swallowing thickly—unable to settle again.

“You can stay,” Ilya says, avoiding his eyes, answering a question Shane hadn’t even asked. 

Shane grimaces small, scratching at the side of his nose. “No, no, I just—I can extend the hotel booking. I can … I’ll have to call Hayden. And my mom. And my coach, to see—”

“Is okay,” Ilya says quickly. “And I have… I have guest room. If you want. But you can stay with– if you want, you can–” 

“Rozanov.” 

“If you do not want to stay, that is okay,” Ilya says, rubbing his hands on his knees, eyes flickering to Shane’s and away again. “I will not make you stay. Is just an offer, for safety. If the roads are bad–” 

“Rozanov–” 

“–I do not want you to die, yes? If you take a taxi and die, then it is my fault. That would look bad. My manager would be angry. Bad for my reputation. But if you want to take risk, then–” 

“Rozanov,” Shane says, louder this time. “You’re panicking.” 

“I do not panic,” Ilya tells him, panicked. “I am just saying—many words.”

“Rozanov,” Shane says, softer. “Ilya. It's okay. I want to stay. Can I stay?” 

“You can stay,” he answers, voice pitching high. “And I can go. Fuck. Maybe I will get hotel. Stay with fucking Hayden Pike.” 

Shane tries to smother a laugh, hand snapping over his mouth. A few giggles poorly muffled against his fingers slip out.

Ilya narrows his eyes. “You are laughing at me?” 

“No, no, I’m—” He takes a steadying breath, smothering down the laughter. “No, I’m not. Just—you’re not staying at a hotel. You live here.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, voice trembling. “Maybe I am panicking.” 

And what is Shane supposed to do? What is he supposed to do when the man that he loves is bending over backwards to make him comfortable, when he’s clearly just as afraid of what they are to each other as Shane is? 

Shuffling across the couch on his knees, he cups Ilya’s face, forcing their eyes to meet. Panicked blue meets desperate brown. He smooths his thumbs over Ilya’s cheeks, mustering all his confidence at once, and says, “I love you too.” 

And just like that, Shane’s said it. Shane’s made it real. His chest glows with it, with the relief of finally admitting to it, to putting words to what they’ve become over the course of so many years. He’s acknowledging their history and what they’ve been fostering in private, in silence, both together and alone. 

Ilya inhales sharply, his gleaming eyes widening to the size of saucers. 

Shakily, Shane exhales. Softer, he says, “I love you too. Okay?” It’s just as mindblowing to say the second time. Feelings he’d held tight in his chest begin unfurling like the petals of a flower brought out into warmth. He feels a little like the sun is shining down on him for the first time in years. “So– so whatever this is, whatever you feel for me, we’re in this together. If you want.” 

Instantly, Ilya answers, the words bursting out of him, “I want.” His eyes widen even further—like he hadn’t even expected to say it.

And then, Ilya’s face crumples. He ducks his head, forehead finding Shane’s shoulder as he sucks in a desperate breath. 

“Ilya,” Shane says quietly, his heart breaking. 

Ilya turns his face into Shane’s neck, pressing a kiss to his skin. 

“I love you,” Ilya says, voice wobbling. Hearing it this time is different—Ilya is saying it on purpose, it’s not something pulled out of him in the throes of pleasure and intimacy, but a deliberate act. A confession.

Shane doesn’t know how all of this will work—how they’ll untangle the mess of their rivalry and piece their lives together, but this is the beginning, he thinks; they are on the precipice of something great that isn’t just for Shane, or for Ilya, but for both of them. Something they will get to keep.

Shane wants so badly to keep him. To keep this. 

He wants to hold him.

So, he does. He threads his fingers into Ilya’s hair, holding him to him, pressing him deeper into the safety of Shane’s shoulder before dragging him closer to the crook of his throat. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Then, he says, “I love you.” Just because he can.

A sob wracks through Ilya’s body, his shoulders shaking with the force of it—born more out of relief than anything else. 

“I hated–” Ilya starts, sucking in a quivering breath. “I hated when you were with Rose Landry. It was like… like I lost. I lost you. I did not know how to fix it.” 

Shane aches all over. There’s so much he wants to say—excuses, explanations, truths. All that comes out is a trembling, wet: “Ilya…” 

“I know,” Ilya says, ducking closer to flicker his eyes between his. “I know.” 

“This is real,” Shane whispers. He needs Ilya to understand. Needs him to know he’s in this now, for the long haul. 

“It is real,” Ilya confirms, lips tugging into a disbelieving, happy smile. Carefully, Shane swipes his thumb over the thin skin beneath Ilya’s eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures him, thumb catching on the mole on Ilya’s cheek and settling beside it.

“No,” Ilya says. “Snowstorm has made sure of this.” 

Shane can’t quite suppress the grin. “Asshole.” 

Ilya laughs, shifting in his spot before slotting himself against Shane’s side, one leg sliding behind him between Shane’s ass and the couch cushions. A strong arm wraps around him, pulling him in closer. The tension eases out of him, his shoulders sagging. Then, tenderly, Ilya drops a lingering kiss against his shoulder. Shane lets his eyes fall closed, chest aglow with something he’s only just letting himself feel, and smiles—small and close-mouthed. 

Right against the skin of his shoulder, Ilya murmurs. “We should watch The Grinch.” 

Shane turns his head, raising his eyebrows at him. “The Grinch?” 

“Yes, it is good movie.” Ilya shrugs, nosing at his shoulderblade. “I am like him. My heart has become bigger.” 

Shane doesn’t think he’s ever even seen it. “Oh, yeah?” 

“Yes.” Ilya squeezes him. “It is full of you, Shane Hollander.” 

“You’re an idiot.”

“It is interesting, because usually you are full of me—”

Shane rolls his eyes, attempting to elbow Ilya in the sternum. “Okay, shut up. I’m putting the movie on.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything—just hugs Shane tighter against him.

Shane could get used to this, he thinks. Could do it for the rest of his life. Thinks he might just be lucky enough to get to.