Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Original Character(s), David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Original Female Character(s), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, assorted hockey players

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Shane Hollander has a sister, Internalized Homophobia, internalized ableism, Unreliable Narrator, unkind inner monologue, Autistic Shane Hollander, he's undiagnosed but all the signs are there, Period Typical Attitudes, being an asshole as a love language, imperfect characters, Character Growth, overuse of the word insane which is sometimes internalized ableism and sometimes an astute and accurate observation, mentally ill people joking about mental illness as is our god-given right, good parents can still damage their kids: the fic, Panic Attacks, Implied/Referenced Suicide Attempts, canon-typical references to overdosing, References to Depression, the tags make this sound sadder than it is, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Eventual Smut

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-30 Updated: 2026-08-23 Words: 32,874 Chapters: 9/?

can on a string

Summary

His sister grabs him firmly by the shoulders. “Shane Hollander. My brother, my wombmate, my least favourite twin. I literally do. not. care. if you introduce yourself to this boy or not, but you have been yammering about him nonstop for fucking days and you very clearly want to talk to him, so as your older sister–”

“–I was literally born first–”

“You were removed first, we both know God wanted me to–”

“You were breech and tried to take your fucking placenta with you, I don’t think ‘God’–”

“A girl causes an almost-fatal hemorrhage one time and no one ever lets her fucking forget it! Whatever! The point is that you clearly want to talk to this guy and we just saw him walk over there alone so now is your perfect fucking chance! Just go say hi! Stop overthinking it!”

“Wow, stop overthinking, what revolutionary advice. Thank you so much for that game-changing fuc–”

She punches him in the shoulder hard enough to actually hurt. “Okay how about this, fuckface: either you go introduce yourself to him or I will.”

 

OR: My brain said what if Shane Hollander had a sister, and then all this happened. Bon appetite.

Chapter 1: what a good boy

Chapter Summary

When I was born, they looked at me and said
"What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy"
And when you were born, they looked at you and said
"What a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl"
What a Good Boy, Barenaked Ladies

Chapter Notes

Shane’s earliest memory is standing in their driveway next to their bright red car, impatiently waiting for his sister to stop throwing a temper tantrum a few feet away. He’s pretty sure they were supposed to be going to watch a real life hockey game, although he might have made that up. He definitely remembers his mother telling his father that she “simply doesn’t know what to do with this girl,” and then walking over to Shane and thanking him for always being so patient. 

He remembers thinking it was a strange thing to thank him for, because there was nothing to do but be patient whenever Emily did this (which was often). The family joked that Em came out screaming and never stopped, and it was really only half a joke. She really did scream a lot.

Shane, in a weird way, was always kind of grateful for it. Even when it was annoying (which was often), Emily causing a scene took attention away from him and let him fade into the background for a bit. His mother couldn’t keep talking to him about his stickhandling when Em was freaking out about homework or refusing to do her chores or ignoring her grounding or whatever the drama of the day was. And Shane, for his part, tried to take the heat off her sometimes too. Yuna was all-too-easy to distract with a well-timed hockey question, and by the time they were teenagers Shane was pretty good at noticing the glazed look in Em’s eyes when a lecture had moved from Helpful Parental Guidance to About To Be Her Thirteenth Reason. He wasn’t good at reading anyone else, but Em he always understood. Maybe it was a twin thing. 

—

Summer 2007, Hollander Family Cottage

“I can’t believe you’re fucking abandoning me next month.”

Shane knocks his shoulder against his sister’s as they continue their walk to the corner store. 

“I’m not abandoning you, I’m just going to play hockey.”

“Yeah in fucking Kingston! A million miles away!” 

“It’s just for a couple years.” That’s what he tells himself, anyways. It’s not like he gets to choose which major junior team wants him, he just goes where he’s told. “This is my best shot at going pro. I think it’ll be really good.” It doesn’t stop the guilt or the fear or the near-crippling imposter syndrome, but it is what it is. He wants to go pro, and he’ll do whatever he needs to make that happen.

“Ughhh,” Em groans dramatically. “Obviously I’m happy for you or whatever–” Shane doesn’t have to look to know she’s rolling her eyes, “– I just don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to manage the full weight of mom’s, like…”

“Love?”

“I was going to say pathological obsession.” 

“She’s not that bad.” 

Em grabs Shane’s elbow and pulls him to a stop so that she can more effectively glare at him, knowing that her silent response is absolutely speaking volumes. 

“She’s passionate?” He tries as a reframe. 

“She’s a fucking lunatic and without her favourite toy she’s going to turn her full attention to me. I genuinely don’t think I’ll survive, and it will be entirely your fault.” 

Shane huffs. “Okay first of all, I’m not her toy, that’s fucking gross–”

“Not like that you pervert!”

“– and secondly, it’s not like I’m dying! She’s been telling me all about her plans for my juniors career, Kingston isn’t far enough to stop her–” 

“The moon isn’t far enough to stop her–” 

“– so I’m sure she’ll be plenty busy managing me over the phone. She’s already said she’s going to try to come to my weekend games whenever she can.” 

“Halle-fucking-luah.” 

They arrive at Joseph’s Corner Store and step inside to a blast of icy cold air conditioning, immediately turning left to head to the ice cream counter. Kawartha Dairy ice cream is a cottage tradition that Shane will really fucking miss once he’s settled in Kingston. Even if he can find it in stores there, it won’t be the same as freshly scooped from Joseph’s. 

“What flavour are you going to get?” he asks.

“Bubblegum, bitch.” 

“Doesn’t it turn your shit green?” 

“It’s rude to ask people about their bowel movements, Shane,” she says in a perfect imitation of their mother’s voice. She’s really such an asshole. 

“Whatever. I’m getting–”

“Tiger Tail, I know. You’ve only picked the same flavour for 15 fucking years.” 

“Why mess with a good system,” she quotes breathily, echoing his exact response as he speaks it. Fucking douchecanoe. 

“This is why no guys want to date you, you know,” he mutters under his breath. It’s probably a low blow but whatever, sue him for being petty to the most annoying sister in the universe.

She orders for both of them (hers in a cone, his in a cup) and hands over the cash to the person behind the counter. 

“I could date any guy I wanted,” she replies primly once the cashier starts scooping their ice cream. “I just have taste, so I don’t.” 

“It’s stupid to be dating at this age anyways,” Shane says. “Better to focus on school.” 

Em snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what all your hockey buddies are doing. Focusing on school.”

Shane frowns. He knows that’s not what the guys on his hockey team are doing– they’re all dating, at least according to the chatter in the locker room. What he doesn’t know is why. Granted, most of them aren’t good enough to be going pro (or even making it on a university team, if he’s being honest), so they obviously aren’t going to be as focused on hockey as he is (another reason he’s excited to be joining an OHL team; everyone will be actually serious about the sport!) But if not hockey, then surely they should be focused on school? Building their resumes, volunteering, getting into a good university? They can date later. He really doesn’t see what the rush is.

Em hands him his cup of tiger tail ice cream and he follows her out of the store to begin their trek back to the cottage. 

“Oh,” he says as they round the wooded corner towards their lot. “I put together a presentation for the parentals to convince them to buy us both cellphones so that we can stay in touch. I’ll show you the notes when we get back, I think I make some pretty good arguments but you’re definitely going to have to be on your best behaviour if we want to win this one.” 

“They’ll get you a cell no problem, but there’s no way in fuck they’re going to get me one,” Em laughs. “They won’t even get me a laptop and that’s legit for school.”

“That’s just because mom caught you on that fucking message board talking to strangers again.”

“Oh my god they weren’t strangers, I only PM with friends!”

“People you meet on the internet are not your friends, Emily.”

“You sound like an episode of Degrassi, Shane.” 

He scoffs. “It’s true! You don’t know anything about them, they could be anyone!” 

“Okay well first of all GoLiveWire is a message board for teens, so it’s literally mostly teenagers on there. And obviously I’m not giving away any identifying information! I don’t even have my asl filled in on my profile, I could be literally anyone. And sometimes it’s just fucking easier to talk to people online instead of in real life. I fucking hate the people at school, you know that.”

And yeah, obviously, Shane does know that. Em has had a shit go of things since they started high school. Shane– awkward and fumbling as he is– mostly gets away with social faux pas because he’s got the social currency of being a jock who’s really really fucking good at hockey. Emily– if she’s known for anything– is mostly known as being his sister. And kind of weird. There was a rumour last year that she was a lesbian, which started because she tried to organize a Day Of SIlence protest at their school after the principal refused to approve of a Gay/Straight Student Alliance. Em’s just super passionate about justice and shit, but it really doesn’t tend to go over well with their peers…

“Anyways,” she continues, “we can just talk on MSN. With you out of the house I’ll have way more time on the family computer, and mom has actually been pretty chill about MSN as long as I let her go through my contact list twice a month and explain who every single person is and how I know them.” 

“She doesn’t read your chats?” 

“Oh she definitely would, but after that extremely humiliating experience in grade 8 I always delete my conversation history with everyone before I log off. And I always log off. That was my main mistake that time, I think.” 

“Pretty sure your main mistake was having cyber sex with your secret boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend!”

“That’s worse! You get how that’s worse, right!?” 

They start trudging up the final stretch of hill to the cottage. 

“Whatever, don’t talk to me,” Em huffs. “Fucking traumatizing having your parents show up at the mall in front of all your friends and ask a boy about his intentions with their daughter…” 

“Yeah,” Shane nods, “especially since his messages made it pretty clear what his intentions with you w–”

“Oh my god shut up!” she yelps and shoves him. “It was bad enough the first time, we don’t need to re-live it!” 

He laughs as he regains his balance. “I wish I could bleach my brain, honestly. Learned way too much about my sister that day.”

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up, see if I ever help you delete your browser hist–”

“Emily!” It’s his turn to shove her. “We do not speak of that night!” 

They’re both still laughing at each other as they walk up the path to the front door, knowing better than to continue the conversation within ear shot of possibly open windows. He’s really going to fucking miss his sister when he moves. 

—

December, 2008, Regina

“Just go talk to him!” she whispers furiously. 

“I fucking… ugh–” Shane grabs Emily’s arm and pulls her outside the arena where they’re less likely to be overheard. “I don’t even know what I’d say to him!” he whispers in response.

“How about ‘hi, you’re an amazing player to watch and I’m fucking obsessed with you!’?” 

Shane glares at her. “I would rather die.” 

Em rolls her eyes. “Just fucking introduce yourself! The coaches are already pitting you guys against each other, you spend more time watching tapes of his games than your own–”

“I fucking don’t!” 

“– and it’s just a nice fucking thing to do when a foreign team is playing on your home soil,” she finishes, ignoring his interruption entirely. 

He thinks he might prefer to get an own goal than go up to the Russian captain, but he definitely doesn’t want to be rude and Em is right that it is a nice thing to do to introduce oneself as the captain of the home team… 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” she asks. “He’s a dick? He trash talks you? He’s probably going to do that anyway, who gives a shit.” 

Shane scrunches up his face and looks to the sky, which is unfortunately blocked by the concrete overhang outside the arena doors. “If he’s just going to be a dick then why bother?” This is the game of mental pingpong he’s been playing in his head and with Em for the past week of the tournament. The final game is this afternoon and he’s worked himself into a fucking tizzy over this stupid idea. 

His sister grabs him firmly by the shoulders. “Shane Hollander. My brother, my wombmate, my least favourite twin. I literally do. not. care. if you introduce yourself to this boy or not, but you have been yammering about him nonstop for fucking days and you very clearly want to talk to him, so as your older sister–”

“–I was literally born first–”

“You were removed first, we both know God wanted me to–”

“You were breech and tried to take your fucking placenta with you, I don’t think ‘God’–”

“A girl causes an almost-fatal hemorrhage one time and no one ever lets her fucking forget it! Whatever! The point is that you clearly want to talk to this guy and we just saw him walk over there alone so now is your perfect fucking chance! Just go say hi! Stop overthinking it!”

“Wow, stop overthinking, what revolutionary advice. Thank you so much for that game-changing fuc–”

She punches him in the shoulder hard enough to actually hurt. “Okay how about this, fuckface: either you go introduce yourself to him or I will.” 

Shane looks her dead in the eyes as he rubs under his coat where a bruise is surely forming. “You wouldn’t.”

Emily stares back with her steeliest glint. “Fucking. Try. Me.” 

He scoffs. “What would you even say!”

“I’d say ‘hi Ilya Rozanov, my brother Shane Hollander is your biggest fan but he’s too chickenshit to ask for your autograph so pretty please could you–”

Shane is already walking away before she even finishes her sentence. Obviously he’s not about to let that happen. He’ll just go introduce himself. It’s just another hockey player, it literally doesn’t even matter. Be normal about it, whatever. Shane can be normal. He can. 

Chapter End Notes

So, look. My mom is Yuna Hollander. It is frankly a miracle to me that Shane ended up as well-adjusted as he did without a sibling to help split her loving hyperfocus. He is a stronger soldier than me fr.

As I was writing this I asked my sibling what song they think captures our whole vibe (expecting to get rick rolled, frankly). Instead, this asshole said "Would You Rather" by Phoebe Bridgers (because they're an emotional terrorist).

So this story is inspired by my absolute fuckhead of a sibling and also by that song. I will never show this to them because they might get the idea that I like them or something, but I am sharing it with all of you. Weekly updates <3

Chapter 2: when we grow up

Chapter Summary

When I grow up, I'm gonna be happy and do what I like to do,
Like making noise and making faces and making friends like you.
And when we grow up, do you think we'll see
That I'm still like you and you're still like me?
I might be pretty; you might grow tall.
But we don't have to change at all.

Diana Ross, When We Grow Up

Chapter Notes

I know in my soul that Emily Hollander was the type to have the angstiest fucking lyrics as her MSN name, but for ease of reading I used her name. I did, however, allow her to change it frequently and with many obnoxious symbols (as was common in Ye Days Of Olde).

Also the YouTube links are real and clickable!

Oh also also, book!Yuna was born and raised in Montreal and my headcanon is that when the twins are growing up she exclusively swears in French. This does not have the intended effect of shielding them from curse words, but just makes them bilingual at swearing far earlier than they otherwise would have been. Anyways, you’ll see some Quebecois curses thrown around that I don’t bother to translate, but you can just assume they’re all essentially different flavours of “Jesus fuck!” Which is, in fact, most of Quebecois cursing.

MSN, 2007-2009

~.~.em.~.~: shane

~.~.em.~.~: shanana

~.~.em.~.~: shanananadingdong

Shane: What.

~.~.em.~.~: wow the full period at the end

~.~.em.~.~: he hatessss me

Shane: I’m trying to study.

~.~.em.~.~: ur literly online

Shane: Yeah I’m doing a group project.

Shane: It’s awful.

Shane: No one has done their part except me.

~.~.em.~.~: whens it due

Shane: By the end of the month!

~.~.em.~.~: bitch dats like 2 wks away???

~.~.em.~.~: calm ur tits

Shane: Thank you for that extremely helpful wisdom, I’m ignoring you now.

~.~.em.~.~: nooooo come back!!!

~.~.em.~.~: i hav an importnt q for real

Shane: What.

~.~.em.~.~: has anyone ever told u dat u write xtremly aggro???

Shane: That’s your important question?

~.~.em.~.~: no my question is wether ur home for thxgiving and if u wanna plot wit me to trick dad into makin apple crumble instead of apple pie

Shane: Why would I do that?

~.~.em.~.~: bc crust causes depression and crumbles cause joy???

~.~.em.~.~: and u luv me

~.~.em.~.~: supposedly

Shane: What would the trick be though?

Shane: Also Mom loves apple pie.

~.~.em.~.~: i fucking no she does, hence da plot

Shane: The way you type is giving me an aneurysm.

Shane: I know you know how to spell things.

~.~.em.~.~: its called efficiency bitch

Shane: What’s your pie plot?

~.~.em.~.~: ok step 1: u develop a life threatening allergy

Shane: What the fuck is step 2??

~.~.em.~.~: i havent got there yet but its gonna be gud

Shane: Jesus fucking Christ.

Shane: Let me know when you have an actual plan.

~.~.em.~.~: but u support this rite??

Shane: Obviously.

~.~.em.~.~: cool beans

~.~.em.~.~: ill keep brainstormin n lyk

Shane: Please for the love of all that is holy, type actual fucking words.

~.~.em.~.~: You Got It Bromosapien (Y)

—

!ylime: whats that song thats sorta sad but not rly sad but kinda makes u think of fall?

!ylime: mom used to play it sometimes??

Shane: Maybe ‘These Days’ by Nico?

!ylime: yes! thx

!ylime: such a mood honestly

Shane: If you say so.

—

{em}ily: guess whos grounded

Shane: What did you do?

{em}ily: ok rude, how do u no i did anything??

Shane: I never get grounded.

{em}ily: u live in fucking kingston

Shane: What did you do.

{em}ily: stole dad’s vodka n replaced it wit water :(

Shane: You’re lucky to be alive, honestly. 

{em}ily: fortunately David is the one who caught me

{em}ily: he was Very Disappointed :( 

Shane: Why were you drinking anyway?

{em}ily: god forbid a girl have hobbies

Shane: Seriously, are you doing okay?

{em}ily: ~*~thriving~*~

Shane: You know you can talk to me, right?

{em}ily: school sux, mom sux, friends suck

{em}ily: its w/e

Shane: It doesn't sound like “whatever”

{em}ily: how about u? hows k-town treatin u

Shane: Hockey is good, billet house is okay

Shane: My billet parents are Sandra and Doug and they talk about the weather a lot?

Shane: You'd think hockey would be the obvious topic for small talk, but alas.

{em}ily: old bitches luv weather

Shane: Feels disrespectful to call Sandra a bitch.

{em}ily: interesting u assume I meant Sandra!

Shane: You're the worst.

{em}ily: penis or Japan

Shane: You're going to cheat.

{em}ily: pinky promise 

{em}ily: i wrote it on a napkin n everythin 

Shane: You always pick penis just because you think it's funny when I say it.

{em}ily: n im right rofl

{em}ily: ur turn

Shane: Let me get a sticky note

Shane: Okay, ready

{em}ily: penis

Shane: Japan

{em}ily: u didnt even write penis on one side, did u 

Shane: Shockingly I'm not interested in Sandra or Doug finding penis notes around the house.

{em}ily: no offense to SandiD but if theyre billeting teen boys they def know about penises

Shane: Knowing about the concept and trying to explain a two-sided note that says “penis” on one side and “Japan” on the other are two entirely different things.

{em}ily: fml 

{em}ily: ur so boring

{em}ily: penis or Japan has got us thru so many fancy dinners and events, and u treat it with this disrespect?

Shane: My deepest apologies.

{em}ily: i forgive u 

Shane: Oh I wasn't apologizing to you, I was apologizing to Penis Or Japan.

{em}ily: i forgive you on behalf of penises everywhere and all of Japan (hug)

—

m.ily: would u rather die by drowning or fire

Shane: You know I hate these questions.

m.ily: tabarnak, u need more whimsy in ur life

Shane: Death is whimsical to you?

m.ily: anything can be whimsical if u believe <3

Shane: Fire

m.ily: i would rather drown

Shane: Smoke inhalation would kill me before the fire does, and that seems less painful than drowning.

m.ily: not counting smoke inhalation

Shane: Technically you didn’t specify.

m.ily: lk cheating but alrite

m.ily: bubbles or starlight

Shane: Context?

m.ily: no <3

Shane: Bubbles I guess. 

m.ily: now you ask me

m.ily: reciprocal conversation is a key social skill, sharebear

Shane: I didn’t ask for this conversation.

m.ily: i didnt ask 2 b born but here we are :)

Shane: I have homework.

m.ily: homework or joy

Shane: Homework.

m.ily: wow i see how it is

—

Shane H: Hypothetically…

xxEMxx: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9jNnDovrw8

Shane H: Nevermind.

xxEMxx: noooo tell meeeee

xxEMxx: i’ll be so chill

xxEMxx: the chillest

xxEMxx: like the coolest bean on a hot summer day

Shane H: I regret knowing you.

xxEMxx: the feeling is mutual broski

xxEMxx: hit me with the hypothetical

Shane H: You still delete your convo history before logging off every time, right? 

xxEMxx: omg r u actually gay

xxEMxx: did u get a girl pregnant

xxEMxx: did u get kicked out of ur billet

xxEMxx: did ur school finally realize uve been cheating in calc

Shane H: Ostie de crisse I have NOT been cheating in calculus 

xxEMxx: u should, its gonna drag down ur whole gpa

Shane H: I fucking know that already.

Shane H: It was a stupid class to pick.

Shane H: I get it.

xxEMxx: u been hangin round white boys so much u forgot ur not actully good at math rofl

Shane H: Why do I even talk to you.

xxEMxx: u luv me

Shane H: I fucking don’t. 

xxEMxx: u neeeeeedddd meeeee

Shane H: I truly do not.

—

Shane H: How can you tell whether someone likes you?

Shane H: And do not fucking send that Avenue Q song again.

£₥؋₺¥: is this hypothetically for someone else or for u

Shane H: Hypothetically for me.

£₥؋₺¥: oh thats easy

£₥؋₺¥: no one likes u :)

Shane H: Mon etsi de tabarnak!

£₥؋₺¥: language, shannifer

Shane H: You’re the worst person I know.

£₥؋₺¥: now i kno thats not tru bromo

£₥؋₺¥: u kno hockey boys

£₥؋₺¥: science says theyre the worst people on the planet

Shane H: You know *I’m* a hockey boy, right?

£₥؋₺¥: i said what i said

£₥؋₺¥: ok for real tho, girls are p. easy to read

£₥؋₺¥: if she likes u she’ll be trying to spend more time around u

£₥؋₺¥: maybe finding excuses to come to games or watch u practice or be in group projects or w/e

£₥؋₺¥: depending on how bold she is, she might be more physical

£₥؋₺¥: touching ur arm, sitting super close, etc.

£₥؋₺¥: laughing at ur jokes

Shane H: Laughing at my jokes means someone likes me?

£₥؋₺¥: theres literly no other reason anyone would laugh at ur jokes

Shane H: My jokes are hilarious.

£₥؋₺¥: ur confidence is truly such an inspiration <3

—

m!: do you remember the shawinigan handshake

Hollander: It feels like it would be disrespectful to Canadian Heritage to forget it.

Hollander: Plus you spent like a year jumping out from corners, grabbing my neck, and screaming “Greetings from Shawinigan!” every time

m!: rofl you always screamed so loud

m!: anyway this guy in my history class didn’t believe me

m!: he was talking shit about libs (and he’s so real for that but like from the wrong side, you know?) and I was like put some respect on Jean Chrétien’s fucking party, that man didn’t literally choke a fool just for you to call his whole party a bunch of pussies

Hollander: I really try not to get political but that guy sounds like he sucks.

m!: girlypop it’s super not a brag to say you’re not political

m!: like just say you hate women and minorities

Hollander: I literally don’t hate women or minorities?

m!: exactly, which means you’re political!

m!: good talk <3

—

em—: on a scale from 1 to Parliament Tour 1997, how mad do you think mom would be if I just didn’t go to university

Hollander: Grade 10 War Museum field trip.

em—: that bad?

Hollander: Mr. Jenkinson caught you making out with Sam P. in the Holocaust exhibit. It was pretty fucking bad. 

em—: no yeah, i get that was distasteful

em—: in retrospect

em—: but you think mom would be that mad if i took a gap year?

Hollander: Gap year you could maybe get away with if you make a good enough argument for how you’re going to use the time to better yourself, but she’s definitely not going to let you just not go to university.

em—: you’re not going!

Hollander: I am if I don’t get drafted!

em—: pls you’re obv getting drafted

Hollander: That’s Plan A but Plan B is university.

Hollander: You might be able to make an argument for college but even that seems unlikely.

Hollander: There is literally no plan letter where you don’t go to post-secondary.

em—: Plan S

Hollander: Is that a suicide joke?

em—: it’s not a joke <3

Hollander: Emily.

em—: Shanaenae.

Hollander: You know I love you, right?

em—: !!!

em—: alert the fucking press, a Hollander admitted to having a feeling!!!!!

Hollander: Fuck you.

Hollander: I’m serious though.

Hollander: I know things have been hard but I care about you.

em—: tabarnak i promise i’m not literally about to kill myself

em—: i wouldn’t do that to you

em—: no one deserves to be the sole focus of Yuna Hollander’s Plans

Hollander: I’m fucking holding you to that, bitch.

em—: misogyny from my own brother???

em—: ALERT THE PRESS! CAPTAIN CANADA HATES WOMEN!!!

Hollander: Nevermind, I actually don’t love you.

em—: the feeling is mutual, brodinski <3

—

^e^: The Carpenters “(There’s No Place Like) Home For The Holidays”

^e^: Elvis Presley “Santa Bring My Baby Back To Me”

^e^: Pansy Division “Homo Christmas”

Hollander: What the actual fuck is wrong with you.

^e^: tis the season to be jolly and joyous, bromosexual

Hollander: What’s that supposed to mean?

^e^: it means it’s almost christmas, bitch!!!

Hollander: No I know

Hollander: Why did you call me bromosexual?

^e^: because you’re my brother

^e^: and you’re gay

Hollander: I’m fucking not!

Hollander: Calisse Emily, fucking delete that!

Hollander: I’m literally straight!

Hollander: Why would you even say that

^e^: super chill and heterosexual reaction

^e^: i was just joshin but you know there’s nothing wrong with being gay right?

Hollander: Yeah except I’m not!

^e^: Avenue Q “If You Were Gay (That Would Be Okay)”

Hollander: I’m blocking you.

^e^: homophobia

Hollander: it’s not fucking homophobic to be straight

^e^: oh shit he forgot to capitalize!!! he big mad

Hollander: I’m not mad!

^e^: classic thing for a mad person to say

—

em.: are you finally going to talk to that guy

Hollander: What is it you always say?

Hollander: “A crumb of context, I beg”

em.: over the summer you and mom were basically creating a one-man burnbook about that russian dude

em.: and you have not mentioned him since

em.: but mom literally never stops talking about him for some godforsaken reason

em.: anywhoodle I am just wondering if we are in for a Shane Special at baby worlds

em.: (ie a panic attack)

em.: (get it)

em.: (because your name is Shane and you specialize in them)

Hollander: I wish I was an only child.

em.: I’m sure Yuna agrees with you <3

—

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : Shane Kaneko Hollander!

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : ostie de trou de cul I fucking see you online!

Hollander: Hi Em.

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : hi em your ass!!!

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : why the fuck am i learning from fucking facebook that you have a fucking gf!!!11!!1

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : do you hate me???//

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : your own sister????/

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : your wombmate??!!1!

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : what have i done to warrant such a betrayal!!!!!

Hollander: Glad you’re not overreacting. 

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD WOULD FORSAKE ME LIKE THIS

Hollander: Jessica wanted to make it official, sorry for not sending a carrier pigeon home to ask for your blessing first. 

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : I forgive you mon frère <3

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : but next time it better be a fucking dove

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : also mom is losing her shit, fyi

Hollander: Oh fuck

Hollander: fucking START WITH THAT

Hollander: Be honest, how mad is she on a scale from 1-PopsicleGate

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : fortunately youre too far away for her to chase with a spoon, and honestly i dont think shes even that mad

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : maybe like Christmas concert 2001?

Hollander: Was that the time I turned down the duet?

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : “I’m not mad I’m just disappointed”

Hollander: I’d like to see her sing in front of two hundred people.

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : ya you woulda beefed it fo’ sho’

Hollander: Mrs. Watson only asked me to do it because she thought it would be “cute” for us to do together.

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : yuppp

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : I still killed it tho

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : even with Fucking Jason being super pitchy

Hollander: Fuck, Sandra just said mom’s on the phone

~*~ eMiLy ~*~ : thoughts & prayers bb bro :’ )

—

That Bitch (™): U OF T BITCH

Hollander: Holy shit, congrats Em!!!

That Bitch (™): thank uuuuuu

That Bitch (™): its nice to know there will always be work for me as a future lawyer

That Bitch (™): prosecuting all your teammates for sexual assault charges <3

Hollander: Technically they didn’t get charged, they just got kicked off the team

Hollander: And it wasn’t sexual assault

Hollander: It was hazing

That Bitch (™): ostie de plotte give me 8 fucking years and we’ll see what it was

Hollander: Is that seriously how long you’re going to be in school?

That Bitch (™): four year BA, three year JD, another year of articling and then the bar

Hollander: Jesus

That Bitch (™): you can still call me Emily, I haven’t forgotten my roots <3

—

ekh: would you rather eat a snake or eat a hamster

Hollander: Hamster

ekh: wtf

Hollander: They’re smaller so it would be less time eating something gross.

ekh: girl you could have picked like a garden snake or something

ekh: you’re lowkey a monster

Hollander: Would you rather get caught stealing dad’s vodka again or ask mom her opinion about your haircut

ekh: vodka, hands down

ekh: day or night?

Hollander: Like as concepts?

ekh: sure

Hollander: Day, I guess?

Hollander: Tiger tail or vanilla

ekh: you wound me

ekh: vanilla

Hollander: How does it feel to be wrong?

ekh: I wouldn’t know

ekh: Boston or Montreal

Hollander: Montreal

ekh: wow never thought you’d be shooting for second place

Hollander: Fuck you, I thought you meant as cities.

ekh: tEcHniCaLlY i DidN’t SpEciFy

Hollander: Don’t you have a boyfriend to terrorize?

ekh: ew no

Hollander: Wait really?

ekh: not for months???

ekh: do you really pay so little attention to me???

Hollander: Honestly your personal life is simultaneously both horrifying and uninteresting so I mostly just tune it out

ekh: ykw that’s fair

—

Hollander: I need Ravine Rules. 

  e m i l y : oh shit

  e m i l y : Serious Emily At Your Service

Hollander: Hypothetically 

Hollander: If one were to have a girlfriend who wanted to, you know. 

Hollander: And before you ask, I haven’t put any pressure on her and I’ve literally never even suggested stuff, she’s the one who’s initiated every time and she specifically said she wants to.

Hollander: But the guys always talk about how bad the first time is for girls and how they bleed sometimes?? And I don’t want to make her fucking bleed!

Hollander: Like that’s crazy!

Hollander: And I know we don’t talk about this stuff, but I also know that you’ve like, you know. 

Hollander: I just don’t want to hurt her.

  e m i l y :  wow my baby brother is all grown up

Hollander: I will literally kill you.

  e m i l y : i’d like to see you try, bitch

Hollander: I regret the ovary that released you.

 e m i l y : says that man who calls sex “like, you know”

Hollander: I know where you fucking live.

  e m i l y : fucking fight me twatwaffle

  e m i l y : ok for real, I think the fact that you don’t want to hurt her puts you miles ahead of other guys our age

  e m i l y : who are, no exaggeration, fucking animals

Hollander: Yes I’ve been in a locker room

  e m i l y : my condolences 

  e m i l y : do you want me to straight up give you sex advice or do you want me to like find some online resources or whatever for you to read

Hollander: So it’s true? Girls actually bleed their first time? 

Hollander: I thought the guys were exaggerating. 

  e m i l y : I mean they’re probably also exaggerating because that’s what guys do, but yeah sometimes there’s a bit of blood

  e m i l y : more if she’s on her period

Hollander: I so deeply do not want to have sex with a girl on her period.

  e m i l y : wow body shaming??

Hollander: Emily please.

Hollander: This is painful enough.

  e m i l y : okok

  e m i l y : I know you’re not intentionally body shaming (that part was a joke) but for real sometimes your period can start suddenly in the middle of sex and it’s pretty fucking humiliating if the guy is an asshole about it

Hollander: Wait seriously?

  e m i l y : ya shockingly embarrassing things are worse when other people suck about it??? how is this a surprise to you

Hollander: No I mean obviously yes, don’t be an ass.

Hollander: But how can a period start in the middle of sex?

Hollander: Like why wouldn’t you just wait until after?

  e m i l y : Shanepher

  e m i l y : Shanejamin

  e m i l y : Shanelius Shalexander The Shird

  e m i l y : please tell me you know that girls can’t hold our periods in

  e m i l y : it’s really important to me that you know that

Hollander: …

  e m i l y : SHANE

Hollander: They separated us for health class!

Hollander: How was I supposed to know!

  e m i l y : shane you’re literally not allowed to have sex with your girlfriend until you learn basic biology

  e m i l y : I’m so fucking serious

  e m i l y : I can’t believe society has failed you in something so fucking fundamental 

  e m i l y : like you actually can NOT go out into the world like this!!!!!

  e m i l y : I know we were separated for The Talk in grade 7 but SURELY you’ve taken a health class since then???

  e m i l y : we’re literally graduating soon!!!

Hollander: I don’t know they might have mentioned it?

Hollander: I feel like most of health was just don’t get her pregnant and don’t get chlamydia?

  e m i l y : chlamydia is honestly nbd

  e m i l y : herpes is forever though

Hollander: Great, I’ll keep that in mind.

  e m i l y : I’m literally going to mail you my old copy of It’s A Girl Thing

Hollander: Please don’t.

  e m i l y : open your next care package in private, bitch

  e m i l y : this is your only warning

—

em iz tired: girl why the fuck are you online right now

em iz tired: it’s like 3am on the west coast

em iz tired: how are you not dead to the world after being A Big Deal (™) all fucking night

Hollander: I can’t sleep

em iz tired: dude 2nd overall draft is still fucking incredible

em iz tired: I know you wanted first but honestly montreal is probably a better fit anyway

em iz tired: you did it, my guy

em iz tired: you’re going to the fucking pros

em iz tired: you can take a breath now

Hollander: Why are you awake?

em iz tired: some of us have summative projects to finish and exams to study for

em iz tired: not everyone gets an LA vacay during finals

Hollander: Oh

Hollander: Right.

em iz tired: oh right, he says

em iz tired: you know I would be there if I could, right?

Hollander: I know

Hollander: So.

Hollander: I had kind of a weird thing happen in the gym tonight?

em iz tired: you’re a freak for going to the gym on draft night

em iz tired: I just need that noted for the record

Hollander: I wasn’t the only one there

em iz tired: omg was it ~Him~

em iz tired: your mortal enemy, your arch nemesis, your greatest foe

em iz tired: did you fight

Hollander: We did not fight.

em iz tired: did you kiss

Hollander: WTF!

Hollander: NO!!!

Hollander: Why would you even ask that!?

em iz tired: what do boys even do together other than fight or kiss

Hollander: We raced on the treadmills and then talked

Hollander: Super normal

Hollander: What guys do you know that are kissing?

em iz tired: in my head, all guys are secretly kissing

Hollander: I can’t tell if you’re joking or not

em iz tired: honestly samesies

Hollander: It’s important to me that you know that not all guys are secretly kissing.

em iz tired: sure but if it's secret then technically we don’t know which ones *aren’t*

Hollander: Literally what are you talking about.

Hollander: That would be crazy.

em iz tired: what part bromo

Hollander: Kissing Rozanov?

Hollander: He’d probably kick the shit out of me.

em iz tired: maybe he’s a lil fruity

Hollander: I’m not 100% but I’m fairly confident that you’re not allowed to say that.

em iz tired: I can if I’m also a lil fruity

Hollander: For clarification: what does fruity mean in this context?

em iz tired: I’m saying I’m a little gay, Shane

Hollander: Holy shit.

em iz tired: rofl

em iz tired: you’re literally such a man

Hollander: I literally am a man, yes?

em iz tired: pro tip: when someone says something vulnerable to you, you shouldn’t respond with “holy shit” and then fucking silence

Hollander: Sorry let me try again

Hollander: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9jNnDovrw8

em iz tired: ive truly never been prouder

Hollander: You said that earlier when you called to congratulate me on the draft

em iz tired: i was lying then to make you feel better, this is my actual proudest moment

Hollander: Good night, Millipede.

em iz tired: sleep tight shart <3

Chapter End Notes

I will never confirm or deny which of these moments were pulled from my actual life, but when they said “write what you know” I said “bet”

(okay actually I will confirm that my sibling (a homosexual) and I (also a homosexual) did used to send Avenue Q’s “If You Were Gay” back and forth to each other as a “joke” when we were both “straight” teenagers 20+ years ago. The Ally™ to Fruitcake pipeline is an ancient and noble path)

Also the 2009 draft was held in Montreal but that was inconvenient for plot reasons so it’s in LA instead (which it actually was for the first time in 2010)

Chapter 3: we are golden

Chapter Summary

Teenage dreams in a teenage circus
Running around like a clown on purpose
Who gives a damn about the family you come from
No giving up when you're young and you want some.
We are not what you think we are
We are golden, we are golden.

MIKA, We Are Golden

Chapter Notes

Both the book and show sort of gloss over what Shane does in the year after he’s drafted/before he starts his rookie contract, but Google says that typically players continue with their current teams for 1-4 years (depending on whether they’re drafted from collegiate teams or the minor leagues/Europe). So I'm assuming Shane stays on his OHL team for the '09-'10 season, which is why both he and Rozanov are still eligible to play for World Juniors at the end of ‘09 in Ottawa. Then, because they’re both generational talents who don’t need further development, they start their rookie season in '10-'11 (“see you in October”)

(everything I know about hockey I learned in order to make my gay fanfiction more realistic, and this is the only acceptable reason I can think of to know anything about men’s sports)

1997

Shane is in the living room rewinding his home-recorded ‘Shane TV Shows’ VHS to watch the zamboni episode of Mighty Machines again. Emi is whining about something, as usual, but it's his turn to watch TV. Mummy said so. So Emi can go eat an elf for all he cares. 

“Shane? Em? Can you come to the kitchen please?” Daddy calls softly. 

“What did you do now?” Shane asks her, because whatever it is is definitely her fault. 

“Nothing! They probably cancelled hockey because no one wants to play with you,” she snipes back. Shane shoves her on his way past. They didn't cancel hockey. Probably. Right?

Their parents are standing in front of the sink, and the cupboard where the garbage can lives is open by their legs. 

“Shane, Emily, do you see what's going on under the sink?” Mummy asks. Shane looks and sees a pile of food scraps behind the garbage can. Gross. 

“Do either of you know anything about this?” Daddy asks, crouching in front of them both. 

“No,” Shane says, because it's the truth. 

“No,” Emi says, which might be the truth but might be a fib because she's a lying liar who lies, so who knows.

His parents look at each other in that way that leaves Shane feeling like he's been left out of a whole conversation, even though neither of them have actually said anything with their words (which is extra annoying when he’s always supposed to use his words and not just look in the direction of what he wants). 

“You know, this is the third time we've found all this stuff piled up under there,” Daddy says, patient as ever. Shane really wishes he was watching how zambonis work. “If someone in this house is angry or upset, Mom and I want to hear about it. You don't need to be pulling garbage out to get our attention, you can always come talk to us.” 

“Okay,” Shane says, because he knows that already, and also it's his turn with the tv and he wants to get back to it. “Can I go watch Mighty Machines now?”

“Sure, bunny,” Mummy nods. 

Shane goes back to rewinding the VHS to the right spot, but Emi is shouting from the kitchen so unfortunately he can still hear her side of the conversation. 

“I didn't!”

Hushed voices, murmur murmur, whatever. Ooh, the episode of The Elephant Show where they go skating. Maybe he should stop here and watch this instead? No, he was really looking forward to seeing inside the zamboni again. He keeps rewinding.

“Why don't you believe me!”

More murmuring from his parents. 

“You believed Shane when he said no but you don't believe me! You think I'm just a garbage kid!”

Finally, the zamboni episode. He presses play and starts to hum along to the theme song. 

—

February 2010

Emily Hollander: shanaenae youre in oshawa playing the gens in two weeks right?

You: Yes.

Emily Hollander: and then you have two days off before your next game in kw?

You: Guelph, not Kitchener/Waterloo

Emily Hollander: oops there it goes!

You: There what goes?

Emily Hollander: the point

Emily Hollander: flew right by your head

You: Enlighten me then, asshole.

Emily Hollander: oooh he’s feisty!

Emily Hollander: you have two days off after your game against the generals, correct?

You: Correct.

Emily Hollander: perf. thats during my reading week, my roomie is going home, you should come visit me!

You: Why?

Emily Hollander: jeez dont sound so excited

Emily Hollander: for some godforsaken reason I miss you, buttface

Emily Hollander: come visit me

You: Aren’t *you* going home for reading week?

Emily Hollander: I would rather die than spend a week alone with yuna <3

Emily Hollander: laura (roomie, not that I expect you to remember) said I could sleep in her bed and you can have mine. come have a sleepover! my microwave makes excellent popcorn and my mini fridge has a gingerale with your name on it

You: I’m not going to drink alcohol or go out to clubs or “stop by” any parties in your res.

Emily Hollander: what part of “popcorn and gingerale” made you think “alcohol and parties”

You: I’ve met you.

Emily Hollander: and youre truly so lucky for that!!!

Emily Hollander: school is just kicking my ass and all of my friends are going home for the break and i feel like we barely got any time together over christmas with the stupid cup going on

You: You have to pick me up at Union so that I don’t get lost again. 

Emily Hollander: yay!!! we can meet by the cinnabon

Emily Hollander: you just have to follow your nose to find it, its literally impossible to miss

Emily Hollander: altho i would have said that about the 407 from yorkdale mall and you somehow managed to drive yourself to the danforth, so

You: I told you, Jessica was navigating. That wasn’t my fault. 

Emily Hollander: no no its actually impressive. I didnt understand how much until i moved here

You: Shut up. I’ll see you in two weeks.

Two Weeks Later

Sitting next to his sister in her single bed with her laptop balanced precariously on his knees, Shane’s mind could not be further from this room. 

Em nudges his ribs and he realizes the credits are rolling. 

“That was fun,” she says.

He stares at her. “That was depressing as fuck.” 

“It’s literally a comedy.” 

And sure, he understands objectively why ‘I Love You, Man’ is marketed as a comedy. There are jokes, the actors are mostly comedians, it’s got a happy ending or whatever. But god, he thinks, whoever wrote this fucking movie must have no idea what it’s actually like to be facing down your wedding with no actual fucking friends to have in your wedding party. 

“I feel like this is going to be my life,” he admits. 

Em turns to him, poking him in the cheek to force his eyes to meet hers. “There is no way in fuck that is going to be your life, mon ami.” 

She has no idea. No matter what he does, it’s like it’s impossible for him to make friends. He has the guys on his team and they’re friendly enough, sure. It’s not like he eats lunch alone or whatever loneliness looks like on tv. It’s just that he can’t think of a single one of his teammates that he would go to for advice. Not one that he would talk to about anything serious. He can joke and laugh with them, they practice together and go to school together and travel together just fine. But when he broke up with Jessica he looked online for how to do it. When he has questions about sex, he looks online or (begrudgingly) asks his sister. When he has questions about hockey, he asks his coach or his mom. And like yeah, obviously his future hypothetical wedding is still aways away, he’s only 18 for fuck sake, but he’s been with the Frontenacs for two and a half years and there’s not one guy who stands out above the rest as a real friend. He’s honestly not sure how it’s going to be different when if when he joins the Voyageurs next season. Plus– not only can he not think of anyone who would stand with him as his best man at his imaginary future wedding– he can’t even picture his imaginary future bride. He’s got some vague sense of a figure in white standing across from him, but when he tries to think about what she looks like or what he likes about her, his mind is just sort of blank. 

It’s not like he can say all of that to Emily though, so he just shakes his head and shrugs. 

“Shane,” she says, still looking right at him, “I’m not going to let that be your life, okay dude?” 

He huffs. “Yeah? You going to make playdates for me with my MLH teammates next year so that I can find a bestest bud?” 

“Ew, no,” she wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Men suck. I’ll be your best man.” 

“I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to say that men suck.”

She elbows him in the ribs again. “That’s actually my emotional support misandry and it’s anti-feminist to try and take it from me.” He rolls his eyes but he can feel his mouth creeping up into a smile.

“Seriously,” she continues, “I don’t think that’s going to be your life, but if you don’t have a best friend by the time you’re ready to get married then I’ll be your best man. I’ll look amazing in a suit, and my signature is way prettier than whatever chicken scratch most hockey players call an autograph. Plus I’d throw you the best bachelor party ever.” 

God, he can only imagine the type of news-worthy debacle an Emily Hollander bachelor party would be. She must understand from the quirk of his eyebrow and the glint in his eye, because she begins to lay out her vision without further prompting. 

“First, we’d go to Swiss Chalet for dinner. You’d get a half chicken with garden salad, and I’d pretend not to notice when you used the chalet sauce both for the chicken and as dressing even though it’s objectively gross–”

“Em–” he starts, but she pushes through. 

“– and I’d order a Shirley Temple because you’d never order one for yourself, but it’s your day so I’d let you have some even though sharing straws is fucking disgusting because I know how you boys are with water bottles and you’ve probably all got HSV by now–”

“Emily,” he groans as she continues. 

“Then we’d head home; oh, did I mention that dinner is at 4pm? To miss the rush, because you hate restaurants at peak meal times. So we’d be home before 6 and I’d let you put on mom’s old VHS recording of the 1993 Stanley Cup Finals and narrate all five games to me. I will be requesting junk food to suffer through this, but I’ll make sure you have dried seaweed or something to munch on so that you don’t develop sudden onset diabetes or whatever it is that scares you away from gummy worms these days. And we’d be tucked away in bed before midnight because sleep hygiene is a key component to Shane Hollander’s most perfectest bachelor party ever.” 

Shane isn’t going to cry, because that would be insane and stupid and a totally disproportionate reaction to his annoying sister describing what would in fact be pretty much his ideal night. So instead he carefully sets her laptop on top of the minifridge and then grabs her by the head and gives her a noogie. It quickly devolves because she’s a cheating cheater who cheats by pinching, and soon they’re full-on wrestling on the floor as he attempts to pin her wrists in one hand while using the other to pinch her in retaliation. She somehow escapes his grasp just enough to stick one of her fingers in her mouth which he knows means a wet willy is imminent, and that’s a personal line he refuses to cross because the cursed feeling doesn’t end once the finger is removed and he’d rather not be dwelling on that sensation for the rest of the night imagining the mouth germs that are festering in his ear canal so he says “Emily Kaneko Hollander!” in his most captainly voice to get her to stop. 

But of course Em has never been on a team with a captain and is therefore immune to Captain Voice, so she responds by saying “it’s not my ear drums that’ll get infected with mouth germs!” and she’s got a point so he calls uncle and collapses off to the side. 

“Shane, you absolute mooseknuckle!” she shouts as she punches him one more time (in direct violation of uncle principles!) “God, what the fuck is wrong with you, don’t they teach you manners at hockey school?”

He laughs, feeling freer than he has in a while, even while rolling around on this ancient carpet that probably hasn’t been deep cleaned in several decades. “Famously not,” is his breathy reply. 

Later, once the lights are off and he’s tucked into his sister’s bed while she’s three feet away under her roommate’s blankets, he asks a question he’s had noodling at the back of his mind for a while. 

“Hey Em?” he says quietly into the darkness. 

“Yeah?” she replies in an equally hushed tone. 

“Remember when you told me you were a little bit gay?” 

“Yeah?”

“How did you like… know?” 

The silence stretches and he feels his heart rate pick up the longer she waits to respond. He has a piece of her flannel duvet between his thumb and finger and he rolls it back and forth over and over, feeling weirdly vulnerable here in this strange dark room waiting for an answer he’s not even sure why he’s interested in. 

“Girls are just like, really pretty, you know?” 

He blinks. He’s not sure what he was expecting but it wasn’t that. 

“I think I’ve known for a long time,” she continues. “Do you remember my best friend Tina from elementary?” 

“‘Course”

“I think she was my first crush, back in like grade three maybe? I just wanted to be around her all the time, and I was always wondering what she was doing and what she was thinking and whether she wanted to play with me. And when we played together I couldn’t stop watching her. The way her hair bounced when she skipped and how soft her skin was when we did make up and when she smiled at me it felt like I had swallowed worms.” 

He huffs a tiny laugh and says “That’s really cute,” because it is. 

“Yeah,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “I think I’ve probably had crushes on boys too over the years, I mean I’ve definitely dated a bunch of guys and they were nice enough I guess. But girls are just so… I don’t know how to describe it. Like sometimes I meet a girl and I just want to bite her? And I’ve never had that feeling about a boy.” 

He’s not sure he can relate to wanting to bite someone, but he’s definitely known people that he thinks about all the time and constantly wants to be around. Or, well, one person. One person whose game tapes he watches obsessively and whose company he desperately wants to find himself in and whose sweaty throat he maybe wanted to lick that one time before he spooked himself with his own thoughts and ran away.

“Oh,” is all he manages to say out loud. 

“I don’t know if I’m, like, fully gay or bi or what my label is, but I definitely… definitely like girls.” 

“I, um,” he starts and finds his throat suddenly dry. 

“I haven’t told the parents yet,” she adds. “I’m not hiding it, I’m just not… I just feel like mom’s going to have a million questions that I don’t have the answers to yet, you know?” 

“Yeah,” he definitely knows. 

“I’m out to friends here, though. And I’ve met some other queer people who are super cool. We go to the Gaybourhood and it’s amazing, there are so many rainbows and people who are like, visibly queer and holding hands and living their lives just like, free? Laura and I are both moving home for the summer, obviously, but we’re going to come back for Pride in June. You could come too, if you want?” 

He’s immediately terrified and fascinated in equal measure, which is an unusual experience for him. Usually terror wins, except in hockey where emotions don’t come into play at all (hockey is just pure focus and adrenaline). But this weird feeling of wanting and not wanting— or, maybe more accurately, wanting and being scared of the wanting— that’s not something he’s encountered a ton of in his life. He can actually only think of a handful of times he’s felt like this and there’s a common denominator he refuses to acknowledge.

“Shane?” Em asks, and he realizes he never responded. 

“Sorry yeah, I mean, maybe. I might be training or whatever, you know.” It’s a cop out and he knows it and he knows that she knows it and he desperately hopes she doesn’t call him on it. 

“Okay,” she says, but her voice sounds small somehow. 

They lay in silence for a while longer but sleep refuses to come. 

“Shane?” Em asks into the dark. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re like… okay with it, right?” 

“What?” 

“With me being queer? Or whatever label I land on?” 

Oh fuck fuck fuck, he forgot to mention he loves her no matter what! “Yes! Oh my god, Em, of course! I love you no matter what.” Nailed it.

“Gross, don’t get all sappy on me, Hollander.” 

He huffs a little laugh, glad they’re still okay. 

“I know that hockey is like… kind of not great. Like, as a culture.” 

She really knows how to make an understatement. 

“Do you think it’s going to make it harder for you? Like, if word gets out that I’m not straight? I don’t know why it would, it’s not like we run in the same circles at all, but I know mom’s got a whole master plan to make you the most famous hockey player of all time or whatever and–”

“Em,” he interrupts her rambling, “it doesn’t matter. Guys have always said shit and they will always say shit. If it’s me having a gay sister, whatever. Right now it’s because mom is Japanese and I’m a ‘half-breed,’ or my wristshot is weak and that makes me gay somehow, because limp wrists or something, I don’t know. I don’t know how they’d find out about you, but I don’t want you to worry about it. Live your life. You deserve to be happy.” 

He’s spent the last decade doing everything he could to prevent his mom from hearing the absolutely vile shit guys say about her, and he’ll happily add his sister to the list of family members to protect. Most guys don’t even know he has a sister anymore since he lives away from home and she never comes to his games and he maybe tries not to talk about his personal life very much. If he’s honest, he likes it that way. The less guys know about the people who matter to him, the less those people can be weaponized against him. 

“Okay,” she says again, and it sounds a bit more relaxed. “You know you deserve that too, right?”

“Deserve what?”

“To be happy,” she says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

I am, he knows he should say but he can’t quite force the words out of his mouth. Huh, weird. He’ll add that to the growing list of things he doesn’t think too deeply about. 

*

In the morning, Em takes him to a little breakfast spot that takes her student card as payment. He tells her about how his season has been going and she tells him how little she cares and it’s nice. Normal. 

As they’re walking back to her res, she says “so just to be super clear because I know you need explicit instructions, do not tell the parents that I like girls.” 

“Yeah,” he says automatically, “no shit.” 

“I don’t think they’ll be bad about it or anything–”

“Yeah no for sure.”

“– I just don’t want them to worry.” 

“I get it,” he nods. 

“Do you?”

He quirks an eyebrow at her, because why wouldn't he get it? Of course he doesn't want the parents to worry. 

She sighs and shakes her head and says “you're like, the prodigal son. You can do no wrong in their eyes, even though you're objectively a loser.”

“A loser, eh? Pretty sure my stats say otherwise.”

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes and Shane has to quickly sidestep someone coming at them on a bike who definitely should not be on the sidewalk. “Mom and Dad worry about you in the sense that like, they want to help you succeed and be the bestest hockey player you can be. But they don't worry about you the same way they worry about me. You see that, right?” 

Shane nods even though he doesn't really get it. Because yeah, his parents have always treated him and Em differently, but that's because he's always been a rule follower and she's always been… not that. But he's pretty sure they worry about the two of them equally. They certainly love them both the same amount. 

“You're the golden child and I'm just…”

A memory comes back to him and he's speaking before he's fully formed the thought, “a garbage child?”

Em laughs, loud and bright. “Exactly! You're the Golden Boy and I'm the Garbage Girl.”

“Didn't you actually used to play in the garbage in the kitchen?” he chuckles as the memory takes shape in his mind's eye. Bread crusts and orange peels and coffee filters all piled up in the back corner under the cupboard, absolutely disgusting. 

“What the fuck no!” Em says with a shove to his shoulder. “I'm not a literal garbage kid, Jesus Christ.”

He recounts what he remembers and she shoves him again, because she's truly an asshole, but fortunately her memory of the event is a bit more fulsome than his. 

“It wasn't me, it was rats! Apparently it was common because of how close we were to the ravine, don't you remember the guy coming to set up traps?”

It's his turn to laugh, because he definitely does not remember that, and he thought she had admitted to it eventually.

“Ugh, it was a false confession under duress!" she says with a groan. “Mom used her negotiating voodoo on me to trick me into saying it was me, and by the end of it I genuinely thought I had done it and just didn't remember! But fortunately she eventually saw the giant fucking rat in action. They apologized to me for not believing me, but yeah that's exactly the shit I'm talking about. They believed you but just assumed I was in trouble.”

She sighs and turns to look at him while they wait to cross the street. “If you were gay and came out to them, Mom would probably have a branded marketing strategy by the end of the business day and it would be like, one more amazing barrier for you to break. But when I come out, even though I know they're going to love and accept me, I feel like it's just going to be one more thing for them to worry about with me. One more way I've disappointed them, one more hope of theirs I’ve crushed. You know?” 

He thinks about clarifying that he's not gay, so this is a stupid hypothetical. Then he has the urge to say that even if he were gay and mom did spin it into a good thing for the media, it would still be a huge fucking problem for him in the locker room and on the ice and mom definitely knows enough about hockey culture to be very, very worried about him if he were to come out to her. But then he remembers what one of his teachers used to say to him, which is that he often misses the forest for the trees, and he realizes this is probably an example of that stupid metaphor. Because while Em is talking about him hypothetically being gay, she's also talking about being scared to come out to their parents, and that’s probably the more important part of what she's saying right now. 

He takes a deep breath and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Well,” he says, "I can't speak for them, but you’re at one of the best schools in the country studying to be an amazing lawyer and actually do some good in this fucking world, so I'm not worried about you at all.” 

Em snorts. “Because you don't think about me enough to worry, right?”

He squeezes her shoulder. “Exactly,” he says with a smile. 

“Yeah, yeah, same to you, fuck face.” Her accompanying eye roll might as well be a returned declaration of love.

He bumps her shoulder as they continue weaving through the pedestrian traffic, and she bumps him back harder because she always has to win at everything, and he thinks about their parents and their childhood and how they were raised by the same people and have the same anxieties but are somehow still so fucking different. Because even though he knows Em is wrong about how her being gay would be a unique disappointment to their parents (he’s confident that if he were gay it would be equally disappointing to them), she’s also right in the sense that their parents have always had different expectations for them. Not different rules, because Yuna is nothing if not committed to fairness, but different assumptions about them for sure. And that really fucking sucks.

As they’re crossing the street a car suddenly cuts in front of them even though they absolutely have the right of way to cross, and Em shouts profanity at the driver while Shane tries to drag her quickly towards the safety of the sidewalk. 

“You’re going to be the victim of someone’s fucking road rage one of these days,” he chastises as they continue their journey back to her res. 

“Please, like I couldn’t take some limp-dicked casualty of the patriarchy who doesn’t even know how to drive,” she says casually.

Shane just shakes his head. “I want to say that university has changed you, but I think you were born precisely this insane.” 

“There’s not a single sane woman in our bloodline, I don’t see why I have to be the first.”

Chapter End Notes

thank you for being patient while I set up this sibling dynamic and drop some revised Hollander-family lore, I promise we’re finally getting quality Rozanov time in the next chapter!!

also for those of you who know UofT, Emily is a polisci major in UC and she’s living in Whitney Hall. It literally doesn’t matter for the story, but it’s important to me personally lol.

also also, crazyyy that I have to say this, but I don't use genAI or AI at all to write. Why would I ask the computer for suggestions when I could ask my pal Higgsy and get such loving notes as "we get it, Shane is anxious and repressed, you're being redundant now" and "I am deliberately not proofing Emily's text messages but I need you to know your habit of making ginger ale one word is causing me physical pain <3". AI could never.

Chapter 4: let your yeah be yeah

Chapter Summary

You wear a plastic smile
I know by your eyes
You speak with indefinite style
You're telling me lies
You've got to face reality
What is wrong with you and me?
Why can't you free your honesty?
Let your yeah be yeah
and your no be no, now.

Let Your Yeah Be Yeah, The Pioneers

Chapter Notes

July 2010

“Shane, are you listening to me?” 

Shane pulls his eyes from the rink to look at his mom. “Yeah, wear Reeboks, I get it.”

“This is a really big deal, Shane. You’re the youngest player they’ve ever signed to a deal this big and it means a lot to–”

“Other kids who don’t see themselves in hockey, I know, mom.” He resists rolling his eyes but only just. Every conversation with his mother is about hockey, sponsorships, or visibility as the first Japanese-Canadian blah blah. He just wants to fucking play. 

“Okay, well just make sure you wear the Reeboks when you leave this evening. I said I would take Emily shopping for some kitchen stuff and help get her unpacked, but we’ll meet up again for breakfast tomorrow morning, alright? You remember your way back to the hotel from here? It’s just across the street and down one block.” 

“Yeah, Mom, sounds good.” He’s already stopped paying attention, his eyes drifting back down to the rink where the production team are shooting Rozanov skating solo. 

“If you run into any issues, call me. It’s convenient they booked this at the varsity rink; Emily’s new place isn’t too far so I can always come back early if needed,” she adds, anxiety bleeding into her tone as she joins his gaze towards the Russian rival. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says, turning to look at her once more. “Seriously. Just get Em set up, I know she’s looking forward to settling in before classes start.”

“I don’t know why she insisted on moving back so early, there’s nothing for her to even do here for the next month.” 

Shane swallows his sigh and maintains control over his eyeballs. He is not getting into a fight with his mother about this; there’s no point, and also he doesn’t have anything to say that Emily hasn’t already explained to their parents numerous times. “I think she just likes the city,” he lands on as a true and relatively neutral comment. 

“Well, it’s nice to have you both in one place again, even if it’s just for the day,” Yuna says with a sigh. She pulls her Blackberry out of her purse and fires off a rapid text before giving him a hug and saying, again, “Okay bun, call me if you need anything.”

He knows it’ll be his turn soon for solo shots, so he makes his way down to the dressing room to get geared up. 

*

Skating over to the bench as the crew rearranges the lighting for the third time, he leans over the board to grab his bottle of water. The fact that Rozanov is also here has nothing to do with this choice; Shane is just thirsty and this happens to be where he left his drink. 

“You’re looking very pretty,” Rozanov says all-too-casually. 

Shane huffs and rolls his eyes. He’s wearing make-up for the shoot, which he knows Rozanov is too, but even without that it’s hardly the first time an opponent has thrown ‘pretty’ at him like an insult. Fortunately, he’s had years of practice both on ice and at home with responding to petty remarks. 

“Thanks,” he says with the disarming grin he learned from watching his sister taunt bullies her whole life. “It's too bad the makeup team couldn’t do more for you, though.”

Rozanov’s face cracks into a wide-open smile as he barks out a laugh. “Hollander, no one tells me you have jokes!”

Shane shrugs and he hopes it comes across as cool. “Who’s joking? I guess it’s to be expected though, they’re makeup artists, not magicians.” 

The other man’s smile fades only slightly but Shane can see him mouth the word ‘magicians’, and it occurs to him that they’re not exactly on equal footing when they’re chirping in his first language and Rozanov’s second. “Magicians are people who do magic,” he offers without making Rozanov ask, “people who do tricks that seem impossible. Like making you pretty.” Okay maybe he’s over-explaining it now. 

The toothy grin comes back and Shane feels it warm from his stuttering heart right down to his sweaty toes. 

“Ah yes, cannot make me pretty no matter how hard they try. Not their fault, I am too, uh, what is word? Like man-beautiful?” 

“Handsome?” Shane suggests, refusing to acknowledge the fluttering in his chest. 

“Da, handsome,” Rozanov chuckles. “Too handsome to make pretty. Not like you, doing both.” 

“You calling me handsome, Rozanov?” Shane hopes it sounds like a chirp and not like the earnest question his traitorous brain is actually asking. His mind unhelpfully flashes back to ‘maybe he’s a lil fruity’ and the treadmill race and his heaving chest and pulsing throat and the startling urge Shane felt back then has returned tenfold. Jesus fuck, he needs to get his imagination under control.

“Mm, da, handsome and pretty. Man who does it all. This is why they call you generational talent, no?” 

Shane sees the opportunity to steer this conversation away from the minefield it’s become and back into the much safer zone of hockey.  “Pretty sure I’m a generational talent because I’m the best at hockey, not because of my face.” 

“Second best,” Rozanov smirks, and the twist of his mouth and pitch of his voice is doing something to Shane’s pants-area that he’s absolutely not going to investigate right now.

“I dunno, last time I saw you you were wearing a silver medal and I had gold.” That’s right, stay focused on hockey. Chirping, teasing… panting… mouth… neck… chest… bulg– nope, not going there!

“And time before, I am picked first overall at draft. And time before this, I am wearing gold. Keep up, Hollander.” 

Yeah, Hollander, Shane thinks to himself, keep up! With the chirping, which is what this is, and definitely not anything else! He’s never felt more grateful for makeup than right now, because he’s sure that underneath the foundation he is absolutely glowing red. 

*

By the time they’re let go from the photoshoot, Shane is endlessly grateful that all the laughter and calls for ‘more intensity’ in the face of said laughter has at least relieved his pants-problem from earlier. Unfortunately the relief is short-lived as Rozanov joins Shane in the showers and Em’s old question of ‘what do boys even do together other than fight or kiss’ haunts his vision as he stares resolutely at the tiles in front of him.

If he just keeps his back to Rozanov, it won’t be a problem. Or at least, not an obvious problem. The rapid swelling he's experiencing at even the idea of being naked with this guy is absolutely a problem for Shane to contemplate later, alone, but hopefully not one he needs to deal with right now. 

Which is an excellent plan for all of 60 seconds until Shane’s already-traitorous body glances over his shoulder, apparently lacking even a modicum of self-preservation when the opportunity to catch an eyeful of what’s under all that gear is presented to him. 

And of course it’s a moment when Rozanov is looking back. Fuck. 

“You usually stare at guys in the showers, Rozanov?” Shane chirps, attempting once again to regain some semblance of normalcy to this insane day. 

“Ah, no,” Rozanov replies with that god-damn lopsided grin. “Usually nothing to stare at.” 

Shane’s surprise makes him turn to better assess the vibe of that statement, which has the unfortunate side effect of displaying what he had previously been attempting to hide from his so-called rival’s prying eyes. 

Rozanov’s self-satisfied smirk as his eyes meander down Shane’s body and land on his extremely obvious and now fully hard dick is downright pornographic. As Shane's gaze follows the movement of Rozanov's ripped arm down to where his callused hand is stroking his own also-hard cock, Shane's brain fully blue-screens. It’s as if there's a forced shut down of his higher functions as all notions of risk and privacy and decorum in public spaces are completely drowned out by something deep in the recesses of his animal brain screaming yeswantneednow. He will deny to his dying day the exact order of what happens next, though the memories are burned so brightly behind his eyelids he knows he will never forget.

Because really, when it’s all said and done, what does it matter who moved first? What difference does it make who grabbed whom, and whose tongue first breached the other’s lips, and whose knees hit the tiled floor almost immediately, and who pulled off just in time to get a load to the face, and who licked whom clean under the spray of the lukewarm shower, and who returned the favour with such enthusiasm and skill that the whole thing was basically over almost as soon as it began? Unimportant details, as far as Shane is concerned. 

Because now that the haze of that earth-shattering orgasm is fading, he finds his brain is back online and he has other things to be concerned about. Like what the fuck he was thinking, and tabernak anyone could have walked in, and holy shit that was so much better than anything he and Jessica ever fumbled through, and oh my god they can absolutely never tell anyone about this ever ever ever. And also ostie de chrisse when can they do that again??

It’s not until Shane’s robotically pulling his shoes on (yes the fucking Reeboks, christ) that the adrenaline and dopamine and whatever-else all comes crashing down and a possibly-maybe-slightly-unhinged laughter is ripped from the depths of his core entirely without his consent. 

“Hollander?” Rozanov asks from a few lockers down, his joggers slung low and his chest still bare. 

Shane would respond if he could, but the inappropriately-timed giggles have overtaken his body and he is but a vessel for maladaptive coping that at least he comes by honestly. The memory of Yuna whispering harshly to him and Em as they giggled through Granny’s funeral floats to the front of his mind, doing nothing to quell the laughter that has overtaken his lungs. They were banished to the foyer of the funeral home until they could ‘pull themselves together’, and Em found a bowl of individually wrapped sugar-free candies that she made Shane stuff into his pockets since her dress was pocketless, and at the visitation afterwards he became the sugar-free candy dealer to all the kids who were bored out of their skulls at the overly formal event that was absolutely not designed with children in mind. 

The knowledge that Shane Hollander, (hockey robot according to his Juniors team), only laughs this freely at funerals and forbidden locker room sex is a personal realization that he probably needs therapy to fully understand and which, instead, he is mentally adding to the rapidly-overflowing box of things he Does Not Think About. Maybe he needs to build a whole new room in his mind palace to store all these forbidden thoughts. Like the room-sized safes that banks have in movies, with comically large circular doors and cranks and–

“Hollander you are having panic attack,” Rozanov says from much closer than he had been standing last time Shane was aware of his presence, and oh that’s because he’s now crouching between Shane’s legs as Shane continues wheezing through this fit of laughter, wiping away tears and trying desperately to catch his breath. Rozanov’s hands are hovering above Shane’s legs as though he wants to touch but isn’t sure it would be welcome, or maybe he doesn’t want to touch but thinks perhaps he should? Alas, Shane’s in no state to interpret. 

“Issa… Shane… Special…” he manages to gasp out in between giggles, clarifying precisely nothing and probably doing more to scare Rozanov away (as if he hasn’t thoroughly decimated any chance of a repeat performance already). It’s really not funny but he’s cackling like a loon regardless, so he might as well embrace the headrush. He wonders briefly how long it takes for oxygen deprivation to have permanent effects. He should probably know that, as an athlete.

Rozanov’s hands grasp firmly on Shane’s thighs, squeezing the muscle and grounding him to the present. Shane looks at them and realizes how big they are, how far the strong fingers can reach around his well-developed quads, and he manages to take his first quasi-deep breath in minutes. 

“Da, breathe,” Rozanov murmurs, and Shane learns that his lungs respond better to his on-ice rival’s instructions than they ever have to his own fucking brain. Another thing for the mind palace bank-safe-room. “Good, Hollander. Again.” 

Rozanov’s thumbs keep working little circles into Shane’s inner thigh, and the steady rhythm gives Shane something to focus on, and eventually his breathing is normal again and he can feel the heat of humiliation of the last few minutes searing across his cheeks and down his neck. 

He shakes his head and crinkles his nose and huffs a little “sorry,” to the guy he just exchanged blowjobs with who then very kindly talked him through what was obviously, in retrospect, a panic attack. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov says gently, and the softness in his tone kind of makes Shane want to sink into the floor and die. 

He can’t bring himself to actually look at Rozanov’s face and the other man’s thumbs are still making their little circular journeys so he keeps his gaze focused on that as he says “yeah?”

“Hollander,” the tone is more insistent this time, not angry but firm. One of his hands leaves Shane’s thigh and makes contact with his chin instead, guiding his face until he has no choice but to meet Rozanov’s startlingly green-gold eyes with his own. 

“Hi,” Shane says, crinkling his nose again when he realizes how stupid that is to say in this context.

The corners of Rozanov’s mouth curve up ever so slightly, and even Shane can see the relief in his eyes that Shane is back to normal-ish and not in immediate need of medical intervention for being clinically insane or whatever. 

“Hi, zaychik,” he huffs, and with a roll of his eyes he suddenly pulls back and plants himself beside Shane on the bench. 

The sudden shift has Shane subconsciously chasing the contact, but he manages to notice his lean and pull himself back to upright. Hopefully before Rozanov noticed, but Shane doubts he’s that lucky. If he did spot it, he’s kind enough not to say anything. 

“So…” Rozanov starts, giving Shane space to explain what the fuck just happened. As if he could. 

“Sorry,” Shane says again instead, because that’s sort of the best he has to offer.

“Your first time with man?” Rozanov asks. 

“Uh, yeah.” Shane’s blush hasn’t receded at all but somehow manages to deepen, which is just great. This is all going super well for him. Awesome. 

There’s another minute of silence before Rozanov asks, “Was it, uh, okay?” and if Shane didn’t know better he would think Rozanov sounded almost nervous?

“Yes!” Shane says probably too quickly, but whatever. Overenthusiasm is better than the straight-up shitshow of an emotional display the poor guy was just forced to witness. “Yeah, it was totally okay. More than okay, even! Sorry, again, for like, freaking out,” Shane should make it very clear that this is a him-problem. “It wasn’t you, I’m just… yeah,” he ends the ramble with a half-hearted shrug. Eloquent as always, dude.

“Ah,” Rozanov nods, as if Shane actually explained anything. “Can be scary, first time, but–”

“I’m not scared,” Shane interrupts, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Rozanov just raises his eyebrows and tips his face forward in a way that very clearly says ‘are you fucking shitting me right now’. 

“But,” Rozanov continues pointedly, “this does not have to be big deal. I like it, you like it, nothing for freaking out about, yes? Just fun. Casual,” he shrugs. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” Shane says seriously, suddenly filled with fear that maybe this sort of thing is common in Europe and Rozanov doesn’t understand how deeply not-casual blow jobs in locker rooms are in North America. Not only does he not want him to spill Shane’s secret, but he’s now terrified that Rozanov is going to try this in Boston and get his shit absolutely rocked on the first day of training camp. 

“No shit,” the Russian replies, rolling his eyes in a distinctly colder way than he had previously. He stands up from the bench and walks over to his locker, finally pulling his shirt on. 

“I’m serious Rozanov, this is like–”

Rozanov mutters something in Russian under his breath, and Shane doesn’t have to know the words to understand what frustrated cursing sounds like in another language. “Hollander, we have same secret. Obviously I will not fucking tell. Obviously you will not fucking tell. No fucking shit, is fucking secret!” Some more murmured Russian, as though English isn’t enough to fully articulate the depths of Shane’s stupidity. Which like, rude. 

“Sorry! Just… just checking.” He glances nervously around the locker room, even though he knows logically that they’re alone. “I’ve never, you know, and I just don’t know what the fucking rules are, okay!” 

He knows as soon as it’s out of his mouth that he should not have said that and winces at his own idiotic vulnerability. Even more humiliating than the panic attack, if he's honest. He really wishes he had the power of spontaneous combustion. Or time travel. Or maybe just invisibility. Or–

“Okay Hollander,” Rozanov sighs, having now finished getting dressed. He closes his locker and moves back to stand in front of Shane, once again taking Shane’s chin in an inexplicably gentle-rough embrace, tilting it upwards. The height difference with him sitting and Rozanov standing means the tilt is much more extreme, and his neck feels very exposed at this angle. He’d be surprised if his pulse isn’t visible, thumping fast and hard through his carotid arteries. 

“You need rules, I say rules, yes?” 

Shane gulps and nods, restricted as he is with his head being held firmly in place by the grip Rozanov has on his jaw. 

“Rules are: we tell no one, we have fun, and we do only what we both want to do.” He counts off on his thumb and first two fingers as he lists the three rules, and then he stops, assessing, and Shane feels as though he's being fucking x-rayed with the intensity of Rozanov's gaze. “You don’t want something, we don’t do it,” he continues, apparently having decided to further clarify. “You want to stop, any time, even in the middle, you say and we stop. If you never want this again, we never do it again. Stays secret no matter what. Agree? Rules clear?” 

“Thank you,” Shane murmurs, mesmerized and terrified and turned on in equal measure. No one has ever laid out rules so clearly and with such little judgement, and there’s a swooping feeling in Shane’s stomach that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He catalogues each point in his mind, carefully filing them away verbatim in accented, clunky, perfectly-understood English. Finally, a social rulebook he can actually fucking follow.

Rozanov leans down and presses a quick kiss on his lips before pulling his hand away. “Zaychik needs to know where fences are in order to play,” he says almost to himself with a little chuckle. “You can always ask, I’m happy to tell.” 

He throws another devastating smirk Shane’s way, and turns to grab his bag to (presumably) leave. In a moment of either insane stupidity or inspired bravery, Shane calls “wait!” and when Rozanov turns back and raises a questioning eyebrow, Shane rushes to say, “How can I reach you to ask?” 

Rozanov rolls his eyes and it’s definitely fond this time, and Shane tries not to visibly preen when he realizes he can actually tell the difference. “You have phone?” Rozanov asks. “Give.” 

Shane mentally adds the speed with which my body follows Rozanov’s instructions without my brain’s permission to the secret room in his mind palace that he doesn’t dare to explore. Even in the dark he can tell that one’s gonna be a load-bearing wall, and he absolutely Does Not Think About It any further. 

Chapter End Notes

Shane Hollander, who has spent his teen years living in a country with legalized same-sex marriage: What If Russian Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Who Is From Russia, Thinks Gay Sex Is Socially Acceptable In This Famously Homophobic Sport That We Both Play???
The Ilya Rozanov in question: these fucking north americans with their fucking lack of basic fucking world knowledge, what the fuck am I going to do with this fucking stupid, annoyingly earnest, perfectly freckled(!!!), infuriating little bunny who was apparently designed by god and/or the devil himself to torture me specifically???

Like I need y’all to understand the speed with which Shane “Sexually Repressed Freak™” Hollander lunged at this man in the showers. Ilya was not prepared. He will dream about it for months. He will actually never recover. He does not know that yet.

Chapter 5: god only knows

Chapter Summary

I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I’ll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I’d be without you.

God Only Knows by The Beach Boys

Chapter Notes

CW: there’s some casual mention of femicide and marital rape laws. Shane is a 19-year-old hockey player about it. I love him but he’s an idiot, your honour. Let bottoms contain multitudes or whatever.

July 2010

As they approach an absolutely gaudy-looking diner with neon lights and a weirdly aggressive overhang, Shane looks at his mother to gauge her reaction to this monstrosity of a restaurant that Emily insisted on bringing them to.

“Well this is…” Yuna says, clearly trying to find words to describe it without being rude, “interesting.” 

“Fran’s is basically a Toronto institution, you have to come here if you’re in the city,” Emily explains as she opens the door. 

Inside it looks like a 50’s themed stereotype, with greasy vinyl seating that no amount of wiping down could clean from the years of accumulated grime. 

“It’s open 24/7, and their morning glory waffle is the perfect hangover cure.” 

“Which I’m sure you know nothing about from firsthand experience,” Yuna says, dragging a finger along a nearby table top as though she’s checking for dust. 

“Dad and I always come here whenever he visits,” Em continues, ignoring her mother completely. “He says it reminds him of a place that was just off campus back in his day.” 

At that, the ghost of a smile crosses their mother’s face. “Well, we’ll have to see how their omelettes measure up.” 

When Shane looks through the menu, he’s immediately relieved to see a “Light Breakfasts” option with fruits, yogurt, and oatmeal. He’ll get some eggs and peameal bacon too for the protein, but the idea of caramelized apples and syrup atop a ‘jumbo waffle’ makes his stomach churn. It’s not even 9am. 

Once they’ve placed their orders, Emi turns to him and says “I’m surprised you didn’t get a Franwich.” 

“It’s breakfast time?” 

“Yeah but breakfast time for normal people is already lunch in Shane time. Or were you not up at 4am hitting the hotel gym?” 

“Whatever,” Shane mumbles. He was in the gym at 5:30am, thank you very much, but he doubts that distinction will make much of a difference to his sleep-loving sister who’s more likely to see the sunrise from the opposite end of the night than to ever acknowledge an alarm clock. 

Em's mouth spreads into a concerning and slightly nefarious grin and he just knows she's about to choose violence. “Did you ever figure out how to crack eggs, or did I traumatize you too much?” 

“Oh fuck you,” Shane replies, rolling his eyes. “You gave me bad instructions on purpose!”

“Um I believe you mean to say ‘thank you for teaching me how to cook, my most beloved sister and pal’?”

“You literally didn’t, you just said so yourself!” 

“Guys,” Yuna says with a sigh. 

“How was I supposed to know that you’d open the egg into your hands instead of the bowl?” 

“You told me to put my thumbs in and pull the shell apart!”

“Pull so that the egg has a clear path downwards, not into your fucking palm–”

“Guys,” Yuna repeats more firmly. 

“Still one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen,” Em adds with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“I hate you,” Shane grumbles.

“So Shane,” his mom says in an obvious attempt to change the topic, “how did you handle Rozanov yesterday?” 

Shane chokes on his saliva. Em’s eyes sparkle like a kid on Christmas morning. He kicks her under the table. 

“I– he– it was fine,” he stammers. “No handling required. Super professional.” 

“Didn’t you say he was a dick?” Yuna asks. 

“Yeah, Shane,” Em chimes in unnecessarily. He wonders if 19 years is too late for a selective abortion. 

“Em’s a dick and we still invite her to things,” he mumbles. 

“Shane,” Yuna chastises. Emily beams. Shane just rolls his eyes. 

“We trash talked a bit, it was mostly for the cameras, otherwise it was fine. He’s actually kind of funny.” 

“Funny?” his mom asks as her eyebrows lift up towards her hairline. 

Shane shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to calculate how much more he needs to say before the conversation is exhausted and they can move on to other things. “It was a long shoot day with lots of boring down time while they moved shit around. It was cool to have someone my age to hang out with during breaks, that’s all.” 

Em, apparently deciding to take mercy on him and/or trying to balance out her karma deficit for otherwise being a monster, says, “It’ll be nice once training camp starts and you can spend some time with your new teammates, eh?” 

And thank fuck for that, because Yuna is happy to chatter away about training and development and scheduling his move to his new apartment with minimal input from either of them. 

Part way through breakfast, a blue-haired person with a truly shocking number of facial piercings spots Em from across the diner and comes bounding over. Shane catalogues Em’s smile as genuine but her rapidly shifting side-eye towards their mom as obviously anxious as hell. 

“Emi, ohmygod, I didn’t know you were here over the summer!” the blue-haired person says as they lean over to hug his sister. “Are you here-here or just visiting? A bunch of us are going to The Barn on Thursday, you should come!” 

“Kai, hi!” Em says, and Shane is delighted to see her blush. Ha. “Yeah, I’m back in the city now. This is my mom and brother.” 

“Hi mom and brother!” Kai waves. “You’re welcome to come to The Barn too!” 

“I don’t think that’s exactly their scene,” Em chuckles nervously. 

“You’re going to the Air Canada Centre?” Yuna asks. “Is there a concert?” 

“The…” Kai starts, clearly confused by Yuna’s confusion. 

“Different barn!” Em almost shouts with a slightly unhinged laugh. “Kai, it was so nice to see you! Text me the details, okay?” 

This back and forth has the intensity of a tennis match, and Shane wonders whether Kai is going to pick up what Em is putting down. He doesn’t know what the fuck The Barn is, but even he got from context clues that it is not the home rink of Toronto’s hockey team. Yeesh, Yuna. 

Fortunately, Kai takes the dismissal kindly. “For sure,” they say with a smile. “Nice to meet you, mom and brother.” 

As soon as they’re gone, Yuna’s on Emily like a targeted missile. “What barn?” 

“It’s just a club,” Em offers. 

“Do you go to clubs often?”

“Mom.”

“I’m just asking!” 

“I literally just turned 19.” 

“Please, like that’s ever stopped you.”

“Mom!” 

“How old is Kai? She looks older than you.” 

“They’re 21, we’re in one of the same clubs on campus,” Em grumbles. 

“Hm,” Yuna frowns. “I know your classes haven’t started yet, bear, but–”

“Mom, I’m in university, I go out sometimes, it’s not that big a deal. It doesn’t impact my classes, and socializing is part of being a healthy, well-rounded person. Isn’t that what you always told Shane?” 

Okay rude, no need to drag his name into this, Shane thinks. 

“Excuse me for expressing concern about my daughter’s wellbeing! I worry about you, that’s all. Shane was never sneaking out or watering down Dad’s vodka, I can only imagine the trouble you get into!”

Em makes pointed eye contact with him and yeah, okay, he hears it. Mom definitely worries about her in a different way than she worries about him. 

“Thank you for your concern, Mother,” Em replies icily. “Most first-years drop at least one grade-point average when they start university and I maintained an 86% in both semesters, so I’d say I’m doing pretty fucking swimmingly.” 

“Language, Emily,” Yuna says. Em rolls her eyes. “Just because you’re living on your own now does not mean the rules of civil engagement have changed,” their mom scolds. 

“Speaking of rule changes,” Shane interrupts, suddenly inspired. “I’m feeling a lot better going into my rookie season with rule 48 in place. Never thought we’d see the day, right mom?” 

Yuna, clearly not wanting to be done with her interrogation-slash-lecture but also incapable of not taking the bait, shifts in her seat and turns to Shane. “It’s certainly long overdue.” 

“Do you think guys will have a hard time adjusting?” Shane asks as he imagines leaving a little trail of conversational reese’s pieces for his mom to follow away from Em. “Old school players are used to targeting the head, or at least used to not having to worry about it, right?” Em sends a grateful half-smile his way.

“Well it’ll be interesting to see how it plays out, things move so quickly in hockey I’m not sure refs will be able to enforce it consistently…” and she’s off, talking through the obvious need for player safety and the concern she has for how it’ll be enforced and whether it will lead to an increase in investigations. 

Shane looks to Em, who is looking right back, and they have the type of silent conversation that only they are able to have. 

‘Thanks for the save,’ Em offers.

‘You saved me first,’ Shane replies silently.

‘Oh yeah we are definitely not done with whatever the fuck that reaction was.’ Em’s eyes twinkle as she takes a sip of water. 

‘We are absolutely not talking about it,’ Shane tries to communicate as sternly as possible. 

‘We absolutely are.’ 

‘Do you want mom to go back to talking about school with you? Because I can go.’

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

“... and that’s another thing,” Yuna continues, “players can just argue that a hit to the head wasn’t avoidable if they’re ‘just finishing their check’, and the language of the rule says…” 

*

Waiting in the lounge at Billy Bishop for their flight back to Ottawa, Shane checks his phone. 

Emily Hollander: so rozanov…

You: Nope. 

Emily Hollander: that was an awful lot of choking on air for a super chill hockey buddy

You: You’re imagining things. 

Emily Hollander: next time you’re in town you should come to the barn with us

You: What makes you think I want to spend time with you at all?

Emily Hollander: i can be your gay guru

Emily Hollander: your sexuality sherpa

Emily Hollander: your queer questmate

You: I’m not talking about this with you.

Emily Hollander: was he nice to you?

Shane sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s a secret. That’s literally rule number one. We tell no one. But… Rozanov was nice to him. Fully clothed. And fully unclothed, but that’s besides the point. Rozanov is actually, under his asshole interior, really fucking nice. Kind. He talked Shane through a panic attack even though he could have just left, and he didn’t chirp Shane at all for not knowing the rules. 

You: Yeah, he was nice.

He lets his head fall to his chest. God, he can’t believe he fucking did that in a public shower. He’s almost glad that his sport is super homophobic, because apparently he loses all sense when a guy so much as jerks off in his direction. 

He looks down at Em’s texts again. Gay guru, she offered. He’s not gay though, is he? Surely one experience with a guy doesn’t change anything. It’s normal to experiment as a teen, isn’t it? He’s pretty sure it is. He knows he could ask Emily, but he absolutely isn’t going to do that. Not just because of the Rozanov-of-it-all, but just, like… talking about sex with your sister is weird as hell. 

Not that he’d had sex. It was just blowjobs. He’s gotten them from girls at parties before whose names he didn’t even know; every guy on his team has at some point or another. He and Jess have also gone all the way a couple times too, so he definitely likes girls. 

He tries not to think about how he ended his draft night fisting his dick to thoughts of Rozanov in the gym, and how his breakup with Jess afterwards didn’t even feel sad. 

He can’t help but think about how good he felt with a dick in his mouth, and how close he’d been to coming from that alone. How easy it was to fall apart when their roles were reversed and it was his dick in Rozanov’s mouth, the mere memory of which makes his pants tighten uncomfortably.

The only times he came with previous partners was when he closed his eyes and really focused on it. With a dawning sense of doom, he realizes that his semi is rapidly deflating when he thinks about girls.

Fuck. 

Maybe he just hasn’t met the right girl yet. That’s probably it. When he gets to Montreal next month, he’ll put more effort into meeting someone. Or maybe after training camp. Once he’s settled into the season, definitely. Yeah, once he’s got a rhythm for his new schedule, that’s when he’ll–

“Shane? We’re boarding soon,” Yuna announces. “You remembered your headphones? And charger?”

“Yup,” he snaps back into the present. “I got everything I need.” 

—

August 2010

Emily Hollander is a fucking monster, actually. 

His first mail at his new apartment in Montreal is a slip to indicate he’s got a package waiting for him at the post office, except he didn’t order anything. He asks his mom whether he should be expecting something from Reebok and she’s just as perplexed. “Let me know what it ends up being,” she says as he makes his way to Canada Post to pick up the mystery package. 

Emily is just lucky that he waited until he got home to open it, because otherwise she would be getting a skate to the neck and he’d figure out a way to make it look like an accident. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he growls into the phone before she’s even said hello. 

“Oh good, you got it! It’s a housewarming gift.” 

“Why the fuck would you mail me a fucking…” he drops his voice to a whisper, despite the fact he is home alone in his bedroom with the door closed, “dildo, you freak?” 

“Most men are really sleeping on the wonders of the prostate, and–”

“Nope!” he interrupts, “we are absolutely not having this conversation!” 

“You asked!” 

“You mailed me a neon pink dick! With balls! And fucking… veins!! You’re the worst person I’ve ever met and I’m including every hockey player I’ve ever known, even the fucking rapists!” 

“So you admit some of them are rapists,” she says, completely missing the point. 

“Emily!” he shouts, “It is actually insane to mail your brother a sex toy! Like that’s next-level fucking crazy!” 

“I knew your internalized whatever would make you too chickenshit to ever man up and get one yourself.” 

“Remind me of the legal term for murdering your sister.” 

“Sororicide, which falls under the umbrella of femicide. Which isn’t a legally recognized concept yet, but people are starting to argue that it should be. You know, since violence against women is still one of the most under-prosecuted crimes globally.” 

Shane takes a deep breath. “You are absolutely not allowed to turn this into a feminist thing. You mailed me a fucking dildo.” 

“You’re such the patriarchy, Shanuel,” she sighs.

“Remember when women were seen and not heard?” 

“Remember when marital rape was still legal when mom and dad were first married?” 

“Wait, what?” 

“1984, bromosexual. For the full first year of their marriage, dad raping mom would have been legally not a crime.” 

And– look. Shane likes to think he’s a pretty good guy. He’s nice to people, he donates to charity, he holds open doors and helps people with their grocery bags and signs Green Earth petitions whenever he’s accosted on the street. He never uses slurs or insults people’s girlfriends or mothers, and he figures that’s actually a pretty low bar but he’s apparently one of the only guys to think so, which has given him a reputation for being relatively polite on the ice. And he likes that reputation. He is polite, damn it. But he is absolutely, at his core, just a fucking jock. And Em is a fucking genius, and arguing with her never ends well for him. Case in point: this whole god-damn dumpster fire of a conversation. 

“Be honest, how much of your time do you spend thinking about the sex lives of your family members?” he asks, partially because he’s genuinely curious and partially because he’s still hoping to convince her that, global femicide or whatever aside, it is objectively insane to mail your sibling a sex toy. 

“The personal is political, my guy,” she says, which is not an answer. “Don’t use silicone-based lube with that toy, it’ll leave microscopic holes for bacteria to colonize.” 

“I’m not using this fucking thing at all, please never talk or even think about my prostate ever again.” 

He hangs up and paces the apartment trying to figure out how to get rid of this cursed cock. Eventually he wraps the whole box in a black garbage bag, tapes it shut with half a roll of movers tape, and throws it out in a public park on his evening run. He makes a mental note to never run through the park again, just in case there were cameras that saw him and think he’s the next unibomber or something.

Later that night he goes online and orders a not-pink dildo with no balls and no fucking veins that his sister has never laid eyes on and will never know about, because unlike some people he has fucking boundaries and also he’s not a fucking chicken!

He also buys some water-based lube because apparently silicone sticks to itself on a molecular level or something. Whatever, he’s not a fucking scientist. 

*

Men are really sleeping on the wonders of the prostate. Tabarnak.

Chapter End Notes

me googling “hockey rule changes 2010” to give Yuna something to rant about lmao

fyi The Barn was a queer club in Toronto that did epic drag cabaret (RIP). A barn is also hockey slang for a team’s home rink. You can understand Yuna’s confusion (even Shane does not understand Yuna’s confusion).

Chapter 6: nineteen

Chapter Summary

I felt you in my life
before I ever thought to
I felt the need to lay down
beside you
and tell you
I feel you in my heart
And I don’t even know you.
– Nineteen by Tegan and Sara

Chapter Notes

November 2010, Montreal

The day before Shane’s first game against Boston, which is fortunately a home game for him, he gets a text from Lily asking for his address. 

He really wants a repeat of the showers. 

He really does not want anyone to see Ilya Rozanov in his building. 

Therefore, Shane obviously ends up booking a hotel room and telling the person on the phone that it’s for his parents, who are coming to watch his game. The clerk is deeply uninterested, but it’s still a good cover story in case anything leaks. He texts Rozanov the room number, and gets a thumbs up in response. Cool. Casual. Fun. 

*

The thing about playing against Ilya Rozanov is that he is, in fact, an asshole. When their season first started and people were talking about what a dick Rozanov is, Shane had sort of assumed it was blown out of proportion. By the second month into the season and half way through their first game against Boston, Shane is convinced that the commentators are actually right. Rozanov is cocky in interviews, a downright menace on the ice, and also apparently helps people through panic attacks after locker room shower blowjobs at a photoshoot designed around their rivalry. Ilya fucking Rozanov contains multitudes or whatever.

The second period is coming to a close and every single time Shane has been within earshot of the Russian, he's heard non-stop chirping. Not just towards himself, to literally everyone. Even the fucking refs! 

Either fortunately or unfortunately— Shane can't quite decide— Rozanov also has the indisputable talent to back up his giant fucking mouth. Shane played him twice in Juniors, obviously, but the last time was almost a year ago and Rozanov has gotten undeniably better. He's fast as fuck, practically a blur on the ice, never where you expect him to be, and can force a play out of thin fucking air. 

Shane's hockey IQ has been lauded as the best in a generation, and certainly he's self-aware enough to recognize his own skill in seeing potential plays unfold seconds before they happen and reacting accordingly. But Ilya Fucking Rozanov remains a god damn enigma no matter how many hours Shane's spent watching his tapes. Maybe it's his combined Russian and American development, or maybe Rozanov is just a fucking magician, but twice in the last 40 minutes Shane has seen this infuriating man create an impossible play out of a teammate's fumble and it fucking works! No amount of hockey IQ can explain it, it's the difference between a traditionally choreographed quickstep and some sort of freestyle pop-punk-European-fusion witchcraft on ice. His technical skill is undeniable, and to add insult to injury the fucker looks like he’s having fun too. It is infuriating to watch. Shane has never been more horny.

By the end of the second they've both scored once— a balm to Shane's pride— but Rozanov's also got an assist and he’s so fucking smug about it. Montreal is down one and Shane will not be held responsible for his actions if he's forced to meet up with a gloating Rozanov after the game. Which he's obviously going to, regardless of how the rest of the match unfolds. Meeting up is not in question. But he's not going to be fucking happy about it if Rozanov wins, that much is for sure. 

At the start of the third, crowds are chanting HOLL-AN-DER! RO-ZA-NOV! Over and over and over, and Coach Theriault taps Shane’s shoulder to send him out for the face-off. Across the rink, he can see the Boston coach do the same for Rozanov.

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov purrs as they bend over in their first face-off against each other on MLH ice. “Will you disappoint them?” 

Shane smirks. “Nope.” He pops the ‘p’, locks in, and wins the fucking draw. 

After some quick passes back and forth with his winger to get around the Bear’s forwards, Shane breaks away and pushes off as fast as he can. He sees one of the defensemen dip their shoulder to check him so he taps the puck forward just before they make contact and then flips his body over their lowered back. Landing on his feet, he picks the puck back up before anyone else can grab it and he’s feinting left only to bury the puck in the top right of the net. The whole thing unfolds in under ten seconds and the teams are tied at 3-3 (and Shane is now beating Rozanov in the scoring race, ha!)

It’s not his first goal in the MLH, but he knows it’ll be in his highlight reel when awards season comes around. It’s a beaut.

Following a quick celly with his teammates, the d-man whose back he flipped over (thank you mom for insisting he take aikido for so many years) says “disgusting goal, rook,” but he’s got a huge grin on his face so Shane’s pretty sure it’s a compliment. 

*

Rozanov bursts through the hotel door the second he opens it and they’re kissing before Shane has even managed to get a breath in. 

“That flip,” he growls, biting along Shane’s jaw and ear and neck. “Landing on your feet after? You are tank. You are fucking… бульдозер.” 

“Bulldozer?”

“Da,” Rozanov murmurs against his skin, “same in English, good to know. You are fucking beast, Hollander.” 

Shane doesn’t have time to respond before Rozanov is pulling his shirt up and over Shane’s head, and then stripping his own shirt off, lips only leaving Shane’s skin just enough to accomplish the task. 

Shane’s head is swimming from the contact and the praise and the hard length he can feel pressed against his thigh as Rozanov’s whole body presses his into the wall. 

“I want to fuck you,” the Russian purrs into Shane’s ear, and Shane’s body tenses. He didn’t realize that was on the table tonight. He didn’t… prepare for that. He’s not…

“Only if you want,” Rozanov adds, pressing kisses into the hinge of his jaw and down the side of his neck and along his collarbone. “Only if we both want, always.” 

“Not… not tonight,” Shane manages to say between gasps as Rozanov drags his teeth over one of Shane’s nipples. 

Rozanov just hums and sinks to his knees, bringing Shane’s pants and briefs down with him. 

Shane returns the favour with enthusiasm right there in the hallway and is brave enough to swallow this time. It hits the back of his throat and he barely tastes it, but the noise Rozanov makes as it happens rearranges Shane’s auditory processing on a fundamental level. He’s pretty sure he spontaneously develops an understanding of classical music and perhaps Art more generally. Like he gets it now, why people talk about thunderstorms and bird songs and the sound of spring. 

The bed is still untouched when Shane heads back to his apartment, but the room has served its purpose. 

—

December 2010, Boston

The next time they meet, it’s Rozanov’s turn to book a room and he gets a suite close to the rink for Shane’s convenience. They make it to the couch before they’re fumbling off clothes, desperate as ever. 

Shane wonders if they’ll always be this desperate for each other, or if it’s just that the thrill hasn’t worn off yet. 

Rozanov climbs over top of him on the couch and starts kissing his way down Shane’s torso and all other thoughts disappear. 

After his own orgasm, Shane pushes Rozanov back to sitting and kneels on the floor between his legs to return the favour. It’s nice, Shane thinks, arms resting on Rozanov’s thighs as his tongue works over the head and his hands double fist the length. He’s not sure what it is about this activity that always manages to clear his head, but he thinks he might be able to live and die between this man’s knees without any regrets. 

He sucks the tip and drops one hand beneath Rozanov’s balls, massaging his perineum. 

“Fuck Hollander,” Rozanov moans, hand threading through Shane’s hair. “Who taught you how to do that?” 

Shane assumes it’s a rhetorical question and redoubles his efforts, bobbing his head and moving his hands in a rhythm that makes the other man tense his quads. 

“Zaychik,” Rozanov murmurs reverently, his hand gripping tighter into Shane’s hair. Shane continues his efforts but looks up to meet the other man’s eyes, his own spent dick making a valiant second attempt at the sight. Rozanov is flushed, panting, pupils blown and mouth open, looking like he’s hanging on by a thread. He continues speaking Russian and the tone sounds absolutely wrecked, fucked out and fucked up and fucking perfect.

Shane keeps working his hands but pops off to say “gonna come for me, Rozanov?” and barely has time to close his eyes before ropes of jizz are splashing onto his face. In any other circumstance he’s sure he’d find a facial disgusting, but the immediacy of the response fills him with pride and delight and he finds himself giggling. 

“You kill me, Hollander,” Rozanov says as he catches his breath. “I am dead.” 

Shane licks off what he can reach with his own tongue, and Rozanov pulls him up into his lap and finishes the job. Licks and kisses and nose nuzzles all over his face and neck, Shane melts under the attention. Once Rozanov deems his face clean, Shane tucks his head into Rozanov’s neck and Rozanov’s hands stroke up and down his bare back. Shane wants to stay here forever.

Shane’s skin cannot stay like this a second longer. Within minutes it feels tight and grimy and even with freshly clean teeth (he assumes, given the minty freshness of Rozanov’s breath when he first opened the door), Shane can’t help but visualize the mouth germs colonizing his pores and turning his face into a petri dish of bacteria. 

“Come, zaychik,” Rozanov whispers into his ear as he taps his lower back. “Shower time.” 

In the shower Rozanov is happy to discover Shane’s relatively short refraction time and gets him off once more with soapy hands and sweet kisses on his neck and ear. 

After, as Shane is rinsing out his shampoo, Rozanov hands him another tiny bottle. 

“What’s this?” 

“Uh, balm rinse?” 

Shane looks at the bottle. “Conditioner?” 

“Da, sure. For after shampoo to keep hair healthy, yes? Or do you have fancy special one you use for pretty, pretty, hair?” 

Shane laughs, shaking his head. “I just use whatever’s available. It’s a tiny bottle, you can use it if you want.” 

“I am going home tonight, you are going back to hotel.” 

Shane doesn’t usually use conditioner. At home he has a 3-in-1 body wash, shampoo, and something that he uses all over, and when he’s travelling he just uses bar soap and whatever shampoo is available. But if it’ll make Rozanov happy, he supposes it won’t hurt. 

“Tough guy like you got a multi-step hair care routine, Rozanov?” he asks with a smirk as he pours the cream rinse into his palm. 

“Oh, is caring about my hair gay, Hollander? You know what else is gay? Sucking my–”

Shane interrupts him with a kiss. 

“You cannot tell me you do not also take care of hair,” Rozanov continues after they part. “It is too soft and shiny, I know you are secretly very–oh what is word, I just learned–” he snaps his finger as it comes to him, “high maintenance!” 

“I am not high maintenance!” Shane scoffs. “I only use shampoo, it just looks like this!” 

Rozanov narrows his eyes. “You are liar.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, incredulous at the accusation of lying over something so insignificant. “Seriously! I never got into all that stuff, my eyes glaze over when girls talk about it.” He and Emily have had heated debates about the link between personal hygiene and misogyny, with Em claiming that men’s lack of personal grooming is a symptom of the patriarchy. He’s not even going to try to explain her argument though, he barely understood it.

“Your hair, it just– just looks like this? Is just perfect and thick and–” Rozanov makes a weird motion in the air over Shane’s head, “–with nothing, no effort?” 

“I mean, I use shampoo? It would get greasy if I didn’t. And I learned my lesson to not use bar soap, because that also makes it greasy but in a dry way? It was weird, do not recommend,” Shane shrugs. 

Rozanov mutters something in Russian, shaking his head. When Shane quirks his eyebrow in question, the other man translates, “God clearly has favourites,” with an adorable scowl. 

—

January 2011, Nashville

Shane is sent to the All Stars game in his rookie year. It’s a huge fucking deal. And of course the league finds a way to turn it into yet another rivalry thing. 

Instead of the typical East vs West it’s Team North America vs Team Europe, because god forbid Shane and Rozanov ever get to play on the same side. The fact that Russia is in Asia is a minor detail, according to the league. Or maybe none of the execs passed geography. It’s hard to tell with jocks in charge of business decisions. 

Whatever the reason, rivalry clearly sells more than friendship. Which would be fine, except that the other players also seem to think that Shane and Rozanov are genuinely mortal fucking enemies. 

“Glad I don’t have to figure out how to captain that Rozanov kid,” Scott Hunter laughs at Team North America’s team dinner. 

“He’s an asshole, right?” asks someone from Vancouver. 

“Jackass for sure,” San Jose nods, “but you can’t deny the kid’s got hands.” 

“No amount of skill is worth that mouth.”

“Hollzy hates him the most.”

“That press conference this morning was a class act, rook.”

“Hollz here has all the same talent but his mother actually taught him some fuckin’ manners.”

“Unlike yours, Taylor.” 

“Your mom didn’t have any complaints about my manners last night, Dickie!”

“Alright, alright,” Hunter says above the racket. “Let’s all keep it in our pants.” 

Shane shares a tight-lipped smile and takes a sip of his ginger ale. He’s pretty sure it would be weird to defend Rozanov, especially with the amount that Rozanov chirps him in the press, but he can’t quite bring himself to openly hate on the guy either. 

On his way back to his hotel room after the meal, Shane checks his phone. There are three messages from his mom, one from Hayden, one from Em, and one from Lily. 

He opens Lily’s message first. 

Lily: 1221

You: Is that a good idea before the game tomorrow?

Lily: u planing to suck my soul out my dick tonite so i cant play tomorow?

You: Jesus Christ, delete that!

You: No girl would text something like that

Lily: u want to cum or no? up to u

You: Yeah, obviously. Let me know when.

Shane shows up at exactly 11pm, hoping to minimize the amount of time spent loitering in the fucking hallway, but of course Rozanov takes ten million years to answer the fucking door. 

“You are being chased?” the fucker asks as soon as Shane pushes inside his room and shuts the door. 

“Anyone could have seen me!” Shane doesn’t bother to wait for a response before he’s pouncing on Rozanov’s mouth. He really needs to get laid more often, fuck. That plan to meet more girls never really amounted t–

“Get on your knees,” Rozanov murmurs against his lips, and Shane hits the ground without thought. He’s pulling the other man’s sweats down and swallowing the half-hard cock before he can even fret about how easy it is to follow Rozanov’s instructions. 

“Fuuuck, Hollander,” Rozanov moans as his cock stiffens. 

Shane hums in response. Was he anxious about something? He can’t remember. All his usually-buzzing thoughts have settled and all he can focus on is the soothing weight in his mouth and the soft muscle under his fingers. He’s kneading Rozanov’s thighs rhythmically and bobbing his head and everything is quiet. 

Rozanov threads his fingers through Shane’s hair and it feels so gentle. Shane doesn’t notice the ache in his jaw or knees or neck. He breathes through his nose and closes his eyes and just lets himself enjoy this, this one thing he does just for himself. 

“Hollander, you want to move to bed?” 

Shane gazes up blearily at the man speaking. 

“Krasivyy,” Rozanov murmurs, swiping a thumb along Shane’s cheek. He doesn’t need to know what it means to feel the warmth with which Rozanov says it; it sounds impossibly soft. 

Rozanov gently pulls out and tugs Shane up until their lips meet again, and then he’s scooping Shane into his arms and carrying him to bed and it’s so stupid, Shane can fucking walk, but he suddenly never wants to leave this man’s arms. 

He’s laid carefully on the bed and they’re both grabbing at each other’s clothes, trying to undress without sacrificing the press of their lips and tongues and, occasionally, teeth. It’s so fucking hot and so fucking soft and Shane realizes this is the third time they’ve met like this and the first time they’ve actually made it to a bed. 

Rozanov’s mouth is everywhere; Shane feels his hands smoothing up and down his body, under his ass, down his legs, constantly moving, and he thinks he’s maybe died and is honestly fine with that. 

He assumes Rozanov is moving towards his very hard dick but the other man continues his path of kisses down and around, nuzzling at Shane’s balls, moving his hands under Shane’s thighs and pressing them up and out. Shane grabs his knees on instinct, unsure of what’s going to happen next. 

“Has anyone ever kissed you here?” Rozanov murmurs, his breath hot against Shane’s hole. 

He clenches automatically. “No.” 

“Can I? Just my mouth, nothing inside.” 

“Yes,” Shane exhales, “please.” 

It feels so startlingly intimate and so fucking good that Shane’s throat makes a noise he didn’t know humans were capable of and couldn’t reproduce if he tried. 

Rozanov’s lips are warm and wet and his tongue alternates between broad licks and little circles and his hand reaches up to stroke Shane in time to the rhythm and it’s not a sexual activity Shane had ever considered before, frankly, but it is easily the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. His orgasm strikes like lightening and he’s fairly certain a new neural pathway is forged through his brain in the ensuing electric storm. He knows with a concerningly confident certainty that he will never, ever be able to touch himself in that spot again without thinking about Ilya fucking Rozanov.

1. Tell no one ✅
2. Have fun ✅
3. We only do what we both want ✅

Thank fuck Rozanov never said anything about Shane not sexually imprinting on him like some sort of horny duckling who’s never gotten his ass ate before. That’s a rule he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to follow. 

Chapter End Notes

Okay again, everything I know about hockey as a game comes from my desire to write gay fanfic so let’s all be super nice about it! That being said if I made any egregious errors please let me know (gently! I am fragile!). This is truly more hockey than I planned on including in my hockey fic, but I saw a clip of Crosby fully flipping over some guy’s back and landing on his feet like nothing happened, and I thought: yeah, Shane does that. Please, writers who know hockey, this is my humble request for more fics of Shane being an unstoppable force/immoveable object on ice 🙏

Also this is me shamelessly advancing my agenda that Shane is a JOCK who does not know about skin care, hair care, or frankly any brands beyond his comfort items and the contracts his mother signs on his behalf. He is a 3-in-1 boy to Ilya’s 12 step routine and I will die on that hill thank yew.

Chapter 7: the rainbow connection

Chapter Summary

Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name
…
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm s'posed to be
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Rainbow Connection, The Muppet Movie (1979)

Chapter Notes

Post-season 2011

The Voyageurs are kicked out of the playoffs in the first round, but they actually fucking made it to the first round after a 6-year dry spell so that’s something to celebrate. Em’s done with her winter semester and summer classes haven’t started yet, so they’re both spending the week at home in Ottawa. It’s weird to have everyone under the same roof again; he hasn’t really lived here for four years now. 

In the basement, he and Em are sparring. She took up kickboxing when they were 12 because their parents insisted that having a sport is healthy during puberty or something. Shane doesn’t remember the details; all he knows is that Mom read a book about it and Em cycled through a few things and eventually landed on punching as her sport of choice. Unsurprising, really. 

“So,” she huffs, throwing a left hook that he parries, “how’s your team? For real.” 

“Fine,” he replies with a jab that she weaves around, “normal.” 

“Try again,” she says with an uppercut that lands way harder than necessary, making his teeth clink from the impact.  Just a friendly spar, she said earlier. Liar. 

“Fucking ow!” He steps back and stretches his jaw side to side before getting back into position. “The team is actually fine.” They bob and weave around each other, throwing punches back and forth that they both avoid. “I kinda got adopted by one of the guys, Hayden? His wife is a really good cook.” 

“Glad that she’s good for something,” Em says with a roll of her eyes. “Does OfHayden have an actual name or is she just seen and not heard?” 

“Jackie.” He jabs again and she easily parries. “She’s in culinary school.” 

“Fuck yeah, go Jackie,” she grins. “So Hayden took pity on you?” 

“Fuck you he did not take pity on me, he just like…” she hits him again while he’s trying to figure out how to explain it, which is definitely cheating. Fortunately she actually is pulling her punches, otherwise that would have been a broken nose. “It’s like he decided we were already friends and eventually it seemed stupid to fight against?” 

“He’s a good egg?”

“As far as I can tell,” Shane shrugs. “I’ve never heard him use slurs or talk about his sex life in the locker room or cheat on his– on Jackie.” 

“Wow the bar is really in hell,” Em replies with another left hook. 

Shane ducks. “There’s another guy, JJ, who always makes sure to invite me out even though I say no more often than not.” 

“Hard to go out when you’ve got a 9pm bedtime.” Jab. Parry. Hook. Duck.

“If they went somewhere quiet enough that we could actually talk–”

They bob and weave in a circle. “Gotta petition the libraries to stay open later, Shangela.” 

“Fuck you. I just mean like, clubs are always so fucking loud, you can’t even hear anyone, I really don’t get the point.” 

“Honestly,” she says with a jab, “if the normal conversation is slurs and testosterone, not being able to hear anyone talk might actually be an improvement.” 

He laughs. “You’re probably right. And I do go sometimes.” 

“Nah, you should stick to Jackie and her husband. They sound like way better company.” 

“You go to clubs though, right?” He asks and she nods in response. “Why do you like them?” 

“I like not being able to hear myself think.” Jab, duck. “Just letting go and really living in my animal body, you know?” Parry, hook, jab. “Moving to the beat with a bunch of other people who are all doing the same thing, it’s nice. Feels like belonging,” she says with a shrug and an uppercut. 

Shane has never once felt like he belonged in a club. If anything, the environment always makes him feel more alien than ever. 

“How’re you living that big playboy lifestyle if you’re not out clubbing?” Em asks as she continues to circle him.

He snorts, mirroring her movements. “You know I’m not like that.” 

“Oh right sorry, I forgot you don’t believe in sex or fun.” 

He responds with a quick left jab/right hook combo that she manages to duck around with a laugh. He doesn’t mention that he actually enjoys both sex and fun but unfortunately only with one person and that person is a man who is also his professional rival.

“So does the league send you a cut of every article written about how different you are from Rozanov, or…?” 

He drops his fists at the sound of the other man’s name and her hook lands hard on his cheek. “What? No. What?” She’s not actually a mindreader, right? She can’t be. Right?

She drops her fists. “So that’s a yes.”

“Shut up,” he says, as he feels his stupid face flushing with more than just exercise-induced heat.

“Shane be normal about Rozanov challenge, level impossible.” She’s basically cackling as she backs up, ripping open the velcro on one of her gloves with her teeth before pulling it off and grabbing her bottle of water. 

“Em be normal in general, challenge impossible,” he huffs in response. At her exaggerated grimace, he adds “yeah yeah, I hear it. Bad chirp.” 

“I’m surprised they even let you on ice with insults that weak, my dude.” 

He pulls off his own glove and she tosses him his water bottle. “I’m too busy scoring goals to bother slowing down to chitchat with an opponent.” 

“Rozanov scored just as many as you this year and he always has time to chat. Maybe he’s just more talented?” 

He narrows his eyes. She is testing him, and he will not rise to the bait. “We’ll see who’s better when they announce me as Rookie of the Year.” 

“Alright confident Shannon,” she grins while snapping her fingers, “slay queen.” 

Em be normal challenge failed once again, he thinks to himself, but knows better than to say. At least she lets the topic drop for now.

*

“To the future of the Voyageurs,” Mom says with a raised champagne glass. 

Dad and Em repeat after her, Em with a roll of the eyes. They all clink their glasses together and Shane tries not to blush. He hates when his mom does this shit. He hasn’t even won any awards yet.

“Incredible season, son,” Dad smiles warmly. “And Emily, you’re halfway through your degree! That’s a big accomplishment too.” 

“We’re so proud of both of you,” Mom nods. “I can’t believe my babies are 20! Feels like just yesterday we were bringing you home from the hospital.” 

“What was your favourite class this year?” Shane asks Em, hoping to skip the birth story they’ve both heard at least 20 times now.

“Sex, Sexuality, and Sexual Difference,” she answers before taking a bite of pasta. 

Shane immediately regrets ever speaking to her, and silently tells her so with his eyes. 

“That sounds interesting,” Dad says. “I loved that about school, being able to take classes on all sorts of different things.”

“Does that count towards your degree?” Mom asks. 

“Yeah, it’s a cross-listed PoliSci and Cultural Studies course,” Em nods. “My final paper was about the concept of sexual citizenship, which is like the ways people are seen or not seen as sexual beings in public life. I wrote about the sexualization of young girls, the damage it causes to women’s relationship to their own bodies as adults, and how that ultimately serves the patriarchal agenda.” 

“Neat,” Dad says with a smile. 

“Mm, it’s a huge problem,” Yuna nods. “I remember buying things for you two and Emily was always a size or two ahead even though your measurements were the same. Girl’s clothing is just made smaller. It surely doesn’t do anything for girls’ self esteem.” 

“I always liked when you guys wore overalls,” Dad adds, “you looked like little train conductors.”

“Oh David, do you remember the little striped OshKosh ones?”

“I think we had them in every colour!” 

Well, at least they’re not talking about sex at the dinner table anymore, Shane thinks. 

“And now you wear those skin-tight jeans in every colour,” Mom says to Em. “Doesn’t do any favours for your hips but I do love that bold colours are back in style. Pastels were so unflattering with your complexion.”

“So who do we think is going to win the Cup this year?” Em asks, and Shane smirks into his chicken. Shows her for trying to fluster him about sex at the dinner table. 

Summer 1995

“Naenae, it’s thundering!” Emi comes bursting into their room at the cottage, pulling back the sheet on Shane’s carefully constructed fort. “Thunder and light-ing and so much rain, like the lake is falling outta the sky!”

Shane crinkles his nose at the disruption. He’d been looking at the pictures from the hockey book Mummy got him from the library. 

“Come outside and play with me!” 

“You just said it’s raining.”

“Yeah! It’ll be so fun! Daddy said yes!”

“I don’t wanna get all wet.” Rain water is cold and unpleasant and he can’t imagine why anyone would voluntarily go outside to get wet on purpose. 

“Shaaaaaane,” she whines, “why do you hate fun.” Her bottom lip is sticking out in an impressive pout and if Mummy was here she’d say you could park a truck on it.

“I don’t hate fun!” He’s literally looking at pictures of famous hockey players right now. He lives for fun! It’s not his fault if his sister has a stupid definition of the word.

“Pleeease? I’ll let you dump a whole boot of water on my head!” 

And so that’s how Shane finds himself standing on the lawn in a torrential downpour. His clothes are soaked almost immediately and the feeling is so wrong he immediately strips them off, chucking them into a pile near the door. Emi thinks it’s a brilliant plan and quickly joins him in the impromptu nude dude dance party, and they can hear the warm laughter of their dad as he watches through the screen door. 

“Okay now take off your boot to fill it with rain!” Emi instructs.

“No way, wet grass is…” he shivers, grimacing, unable to think of a word bad enough to describe it.  

“Okay I take off my boot, I don’t care about grass.” 

The rain doesn’t fill the boot quite as quickly as they imagined, but they find an extra-squishy patch of grass to stomp in while they wait. He can’t deny that it makes a very satisfying squelching sound. Emi tilts her head to the sky and opens her mouth, trying to catch the rain on her tongue. He does it too, closing his eyes and shaking his head like a wet dog and laughing into the storm. 

Once the boot is full-ish, he dumps it over a screeching Emi’s head and they both fall over in fits of giggles. He barely notices the grass, the rain’s made everything so wet it’s indistinguishable from his skin.  

“Do you think the blue sky is hiding behind the clouds?” Emi asks, staring upwards. “It’s gotta be, right?”

“All I can see is grey,” he says. 

“I think the grey is clouds.”

“No, clouds are white,” he replies confidently. 

“I hope the blue comes back.” 

Shane reaches over to hold her hand. “I think it's gotta.”

Once the rain slows and the wind begins chilling their skin, they trudge inside for a bath. “I wonder,” Daddy says, pouring bubbles into the tub, “if we’ll see any rainbows after that big storm.” 

“Why would it rainbow after a storm?” 

“Well,” Daddy explains, “after a big storm, the air is filled with teeny tiny little bits of water still floating around. And when the sun shines through those little water droplets, the light refracts— or uh, splits, sort of— and you can see all the colours of the rainbow.”

Shane tries very hard to understand this new information. Rainbows live in water but in secret? And sunshine breaks the water open? To reveal the hidden rainbow insides? 

“Like a Kinder egg?” he asks, clarifying. 

“Uh…” Daddy seems confused.

“Exactly like a Kinder egg,” Emi confirms with a nod. She gets it. 

They head back outside after, on the hunt for rainbows. The sky isn’t grey any more, it’s filled with white clouds and bits of blue peeking through now. Daddy takes them down to the dock and they see not one but two rainbows, side by side, stretched across the sky over the lake and dipping into the forest far off in the distance. 

“Whoa,” Emi says. Shane can only nod. Whoa is right. 

Later that night, after songs and books and cuddles, Mummy tucks them both in on the bottom bunk of their shared cottage bed. 

“What was your favourite part of the day?” she always asks. 

“Nude dude dance party,” Emi giggles. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “And rainbows.” 

“Yeah and rainbows!” 

“You two played so well together today,” Mummy says with a soft smile. “I hope you never stop dancing in the rain together, and always find your rainbows after every storm.” 

“‘K Mummy,” Emi yawns. “Night night.”

“Good night, bear.” Mummy kisses her forehead and nuzzles their noses together. She tucks Emi’s new Doodle Bear under the covers next to her, and gives Dood a quick kiss too.

“Night night,” Shane murmurs, squeezing his arm around his beloved Zeddy bear. 

“Sleep tight, bunny.” She kisses his forehead but skips the nose nuzzles. She knows he doesn’t like them. Zed gets a kiss too, and then Mummy leaves. She keeps the door cracked open though, so that they know they’re safe. 

“Good night, Naenae.” 

“Sleep tight, 'Mily.” 

June 2011, Las Vegas

It is coming up on a full year of super chill and casual hookups with Rozanov, and they still haven’t actually had sex. Mostly because they only meet in hotel rooms immediately following their games, and Shane hasn’t figured out how to make time for the type of cleaning he obviously needs to do before he lets the other man inside of his butt.

And he knows, okay? He knows that virginity is socially made-up or whatever; Em went on a whole rant about it over Easter that his parents allowed presumably because they didn’t know how to shut her up without her choosing an even more awkward topic of conversation, and also she kept citing academic sources so maybe they decided to let her pop off because it’s technically school-related. 

So yeah, he’s aware that anal sex isn’t ‘more real’ than oral, or whatever. It’s all equally sex, according to his very smart sister who he actually does trust on this topic (not that he would ever admit that to her). But also, hand and mouth things feel extremely less scary and intimidating than letting another person fully inside your body. Anal sex just seems so… vulnerable? Even moreso than rimming, which just about fucking kills him every time. Trusting someone to be gentle, relaxing enough to literally let someone in? That’s a lot. 

Plus Rozanov hasn’t asked since that one time in the fall, apparently content to wait until Shane brings it up again, which means Shane is going to have to like, actually say what he wants. Out loud. With his words.

Awful.

But he has his own hotel room tonight, on a different floor from his parents. 

And the afterparty lasts for hours, which gives him plenty of time to sneak away and prep. 

He just needs to put on his big boy pants and fucking ask.

*

Asking Rozanov to his room tonight is not going well. Not just because Shane’s nervous as fuck— that was always going to be a given— but because he can’t fucking find Rozanov anywhere. He just disappeared part way through the awards and hasn’t come back. 

“Congrats, rook!” Hunter says as Shane approaches the bar. “Some of us old fucks are doing shots with the rookies. Where’s your boy Rozanov?” 

And isn’t that the fucking question. 

“He’s not– we’re not–” Shane stumbles over his words. “I haven’t seen him.” The truth comes out easier than the lie. 

“No worries, I’m sure someone else grabbed him.” Hunter puts his hand on Shane’s back and guides him down to where some of the older guys are, in fact, doing shots with a group of rookies. 

“Hollander! King of the rooks!” one of the young guys from Ottawa— Chewy, maybe? Terrible nickname— shouts happily as he approaches. 

“Eyyyy!” the other guys shout in general agreement (or something approximating that). A shot gets put in Shane’s hand and he downs it, grimacing at the burn. 

“It’ll put some hair on your chest,” Marlow, an older d-man from Boston, laughs with a manly slap to Shane’s shoulder. 

Shane very briefly considers asking if Marlow knows where Rozanov is before realizing that would be a deeply weird and stupid thing to bring up, and he takes another shot in an attempt to drown out thoughts of Rozanov entirely. 

Several rounds later his head is spinning and his vision isn’t quite keeping up with the movement of his body. The camaraderie is definitely nice, and for once he doesn’t feel like an alien wearing human skin, but he also doesn’t feel quite like himself. Or maybe he’s more himself, and he’s not used to that because he doesn’t believe in sex or fun. Except he does believe in both of those things, and he had a plan, damn it. 

“I’m gonna go have sex,” he slurs to the group of guys, because apparently alcohol drowns out his verbal filter before it rids him of Rozanov-related ideas. 

A chorus of “fuck yeah, buds!” and a shower of hand slaps rain down on him as he wanders away. 

He should go to his room and douche. He’s not sure he’s coordinated enough to douche in his current state. His extremely thorough colon-cleaning plans did not include alcohol-induced dysfunction. 

Fuck. 

He decides to get some fresh air in order to sober up, and somehow makes friends with a group of also-very-drunk women in the elevator. 

“He’s so cute, I want to keep him!” one of them says, trying to wrap him in a feather boa that he dodges because the feathers feel like knives. 

“I just wanna put him in my pocket!” 

“Your dress doesn’t have pockets!”

“Aww,” the pocketless one makes a sad face, as though her lack of pockets are the main barrier to this plan and not the fact that Shane is, you know, a 200lb hockey player. 

They part ways on the rooftop, Feathers promising to think of him on her wedding day and Pocketless kissing him on the forehead with an extra loud smooch while the other women in their party pull them away.

He stumbles in the opposite direction, hoping to find some solace and maybe sober the fuck up a bit. He’s pretty sure he’s never been this drunk. What the fuck was in those shots? 

The air up here smells damp, and he figures it’s just his luck to have it rain on his parade in the middle of the fucking desert. How many days a year do they even experience weather here? It can’t be many. 

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a nice break from the dry heat, though. 

“Hollander,” a voice says from the shadows, causing Shane to practically leap out of his skin. 

“Roz–! Fuck, you scared me!” 

Rozanov takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Always so jumpy.” 

“Always so… smoking,” Shane rebutts. It’s not his strongest comeback, he can admit. But he won Rookie of the Year so suck it, Emily, who’s more talented now. 

Rozanov looks him up and down, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth and over the side of the building. “You are drunk.” 

“I am… maybe drunk, yes. A little.” He holds up his finger and thumb to indicate the smallness of his drunken state. 

“Good for you.” Rozanov looks back out over the skyline, continuing to smoke. 

“Do you want to… like…” Shane starts, trying to find his words. Are words always this hard to remember? 

“You are drunk, Hollander.” Rozanov still isn’t looking at him. 

Shane looks around, just to confirm that they are, in fact, alone right now. “I thought we could, you know…” he whispers, bumping his elbow softly against the other man. 

Rozanov sighs and stubs out his cigarette. He looks to the sky and closes his eyes. Shane has seen the weird cross necklace he always wears and wonders once again if Rozanov is religious. Maybe he’s sending a prayer up to heaven or something right now. What he would possibly be praying about in this moment, Shane has no idea. His family isn’t religious and he’s pretty sure religious people don’t pray about sex. Or maybe they do, he really wouldn’t know. Feels like awkward timing, regardless. 

“We are not going to do anything while you’re drunk, Hollander,” Rozanov murmurs, still not looking at Shane. “Wouldn’t be right.”

“I’m not like, stupid drunk,” Shane frowns. “I still know what’s going on and stuff.” 

Rozanov finally looks at him, eyes bouncing back and forth and all over Shane’s face, assessing in that way he does. “Your eyes, they are not… right. It’s not fun if someone is–” he makes an open-handed motion in Shane’s general direction “–blurry.”

“You’re blurry,” Shane spits back. His chirping really is better than this usually. Fucking shots. Fucking Rozanov.

“That’s the problem, Hollander.” 

“I’m literally–”

Rozanov cuts him off with a kiss. It’s not particularly heated; compared to what he’s used to, it’s practically chaste. “Not tonight, zaychik,” he murmurs as he rests his forehead against Shane’s. 

“What are you doing this summer?” Shane asks, hoping maybe they can–

“I’m going to Russia.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Shane searches his brain for something to say next, but he’s soon spared the trouble.

“Have a good summer, Hollander,” Rozanov says as he walks away.

*

When Shane wakes the morning after, head pounding like the downtown core during construction season, he checks the time on his phone and sees a triple message waiting for him. He smiles, blinking through the brightness of the screen as he reads the texts sent after he passed out last night.

Lily: drink lots of water and eat greesy breakfast, will help with hangover

Lily: and congrats on win

Lily: could not have gone to more boring player

Chapter End Notes

“It’s a romance, not a documentary. No one wants to hear about Shane’s bathroom routine–” au contraire Jacob Tierney, I actually want to hear everything about it!!! Because I know this anxious lil bunny is googling douching and erasing his browser history multiple times before finally working up the courage to try it himself. He is testing out his cleanliness with his secret dildo, inspecting it for possible evidence afterwards. He’s adding psyllium fibre to his smoothies and his Performance Diet is growing more bottom-friendly by the day! Meanwhile Roz, if Shane just fucking asked, would be like “is ass, Hollander, is where shit lives. I am guest in shit’s home.” He is unbothered, he is moisturized, he is not thrown off by a touch of shitdick. A true anal king custom-made for his soon-to-be-discovered size queen rival/lover.

Chapter 8: strangers like me

Chapter Summary

I see myself as people see me
I just know there’s something bigger out there.
I wanna know, can you show me
I wanna know ‘bout these strangers like me
Tell me more, please show me
Something’s familiar ‘bout these strangers like me
- Strangers Like Me, Phil Collins

Chapter Notes

I highly encourage you to re-listen to Strangers Like Me (yes, from Tarzan) while thinking about a baby gay’s first time at a Pride event. You’re welcome.
Also Em makes a Buffy reference in this chapter but to be clear we do hate Joss Whedon in this house (Em just doesn’t know that yet)

Summer 2011, Montreal

His mother seems to have a very different understanding of “summer break” from other native-English speakers, because she has absolutely packed his time off with sponsorship meetings, commercial shoots, and meticulously arranged “candids” of him wearing variously branded accessories “in real life.” It is fucking exhausting.

Emily, in a fit of either deep sympathy or evil scheming, invites herself to Montreal for a few days during the one week he planned to have no plans. He is very graciously trying not to lose his mind about it. 

“Em, what the fuck did you do to my blender?” He shouts from the kitchen into the void of his apartment.

From the living room, she calls back, “I made a milkshake, why?”

“You didn’t wash it!”

“I rinsed it, I knew you’d just be making your weird protein abomination later so I figured it wasn’t worth taking it all apart and putting it back together a million times a day,” she explains as she walks towards the kitchen, resting her hip against the counter once she gets there. “You don’t seriously wash it multiple times a day, do you?” 

“I wash it every time I use it because I’m not a fucking animal?” 

“Dude, you’re only supposed to put things up your ass that make you feel good, not–” she waves a hand in his general direction, “whatever this energy is.” 

“Wash the fucking blender and stop thinking about my ass you fucking degenerate,” he practically growls, shooting one more pointed glare in her direction before walking away to change into his running gear. 

The blender is, mercifully, clean by the time he comes back downstairs in his kit. He takes out the frozen fruit and greens and Greek yogurt and various supplements he needs to make his smoothie. Putting on his kitchen headphones, Shane shouts “loud!” before flipping the switch to give Em a chance to cover her ears. 

Once it’s fully blended he chugs it quickly; its edibility rapidly decreases the longer it sits and he really isn’t in the mood to make himself gulp down anything worse than it already is. He takes off his headphones and washes every piece of the blender— because he is civilized— and then heads over to where Em has planted herself on the couch.

“I’m going for a run, you wanna come?” He prays her answer is no.

“Is someone chasing you?” 

“I’m an athlete, they literally pay me to exercise.” 

“I don’t think you could pay me to exercise.”

She does not join him on his run, thank fuck. 

When he spots a dog during his cool-down a few blocks away from home, he stops and asks to pet it. He takes a picture of the dog while chatting with the owner, a girl around his age whose face is turning redder the longer they talk. 

“Sorry, this is so stupid,” she says, “are you… do you happen to play hockey?” 

“Uh, yeah, yes I do,” he offers an easy smile, hoping to ease her obvious nerves. 

“Oh my god, I thought I recognized you! Shane Hollander, right? My dad is like the world’s biggest Voyageurs fan; he was so excited that you guys finally got back into the playoffs this year!” 

“Oh, thanks,” he replies, standing from where he’d been crouched with the pup. His hand runs through his hair and over the back of his neck; he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to being recognized out in public. “I’m lucky, it’s a great team.” 

“Would you mind…?” She holds up her phone, questioning. 

“No yeah, for sure.” He smiles his media smile as she takes a few selfies, his hand respectfully floating above her back.

“Thank you so much!” 

“‘Course,” he nods, setting back off to finish his run. He adds a few extra blocks, trying to escape the uncomfortable feeling of being unexpectedly perceived. 

*

After lunch they’re sitting on the couch and Em has put on some weird musical episode of an old vampire show that he can’t bring himself to care about despite her enthusiasm. He sent Rozanov the picture of the dog and got back an indecipherable string of emojis and several rapid-fire follow up texts.

Lily: name?

Lily: age?

Lily: boy or girl

Lily: did you tell them they are best dog in whole world? 

Lily: Hollander did you tell them!!

Shane grins at his phone, shaking his head. 

You: I didn’t ask for their whole life story but the owner seemed very nice so I’m sure the dog is well looked after. 

Lily: HOLLANDER

Lily: IS RUDE TO PET DOG WITHOUT ASKING NAME FIRST

Lily: like asking for sex without buying dinner first!

You: You’ve never bought me dinner, Rozanov

Lily: you pounced on me in showers before I had chance

You: And all the other times?

Lily: what can I say, you are easier to pet than dog

“Shane,” Em nudges him, “pay attention to this part.”

“Hm?” He glances at the screen and then looks back down at his phone, blushing.

“It’s so cool because the whole Slayer thing can be read as a metaphor for queerness,” Em explains earnestly. “It’s this super secret identity that you don’t have a choice over and you aren’t supposed to tell anyone about, giving you access to this whole underground world that regular people don’t know about, and by this point in the series she’s majorly struggling because she identifies more with the monsters than humans. Falling in love once already almost cost her everything, and now–”

“Em?” he interrupts. 

“Yeah?” 

“I cannot overstate how few fucks I give about this.” 

She just laughs. 

“We should go out tonight!” 

Shane glares at her, tucking his phone into his pocket. “No.” 

“It’ll be fun!” 

“No.”

“Montreal’s got a great queer scene.” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Emily…” 

“Allyship sells, right? Come on, be an ally to your poor queer sister who never has any fun.” Her exaggerated pout and big puppy dog eyes hold no power over him after a lifetime of desensitization.

“You could park a truck on that lip,” he replies flatly.

“Please?” She continues her new quest. “It’s basically a crime to live in Montreal and not check out le Village, it’s one of the gayest cities in Canada.” 

He shakes his head and refuses to smile. “I thought Toronto was the gayest city in Canada?” 

“Let’s do some fieldwork to compare and contrast!” 

“I hate you.” 

“Homophobia? From my own brother?” 

Shane groans, tilting his head back dramatically. “Is it really homophobia if I hate all clubs equally?” 

“You asked me a while ago what I like about clubs, let me show you! If it sucks we can leave, I promise.” 

He wants to explain that he can’t. That it would be bad for his brand. That it would be awkward if they ran into any fans, which is apparently a thing that happens to him now. He’d never hear the end of it if his team finds out. But his stupid sister is sitting there looking so excited, and she’s queer so she has every reason to be in those places, and for whatever reason she wants to bring him along. 

The part of himself that he keeps very tightly locked away is practically vibrating at the possibility of being surrounded by other people who maybe also keep parts of themselves hidden. Even if they don’t know he belongs there, even if he doesn’t know how this piece fits into his broader whole. Even still, he just… can’t quite bring himself to agree.

“Em, I just… look, I don’t even know any of the queer clubs in town, okay? Just drop it,” he says with finality, turning back to the TV. “What’s this chick got against bunnies, anyway?” 

Em mercifully lets him change the subject.

Later they’re sparring when his phone rings and he answers it without thinking, happy to have an excuse to take a break from getting punched in the head by his stupid sister. 

“Hello?” 

“Hollander, my friend!” JJ Boizou, his boisterous teammate, answers in rapid French. “What are you doing tonight? Nevermind, the answer is that you’re coming out with me!” 

Shane suppresses an audible groan only due to years of practice, but his head thumps forward, chin to chest, as he realises how hard this is going to be to get out of and how thoroughly he does not want to deal with this right now. “I can’t tonight, JJ,” he responds in the same language. “I’ve got company.” 

“Company!” JJ practically squeals in delight, “Hollander I was not aware of your game!” 

Em quirks an eyebrow in his direction and Shane’s sure she can hear the overly enthusiastic man’s voice on the other side of the phone. “Teammate?” she mouths. He nods. “One of the gross ones?” she whispers. 

“I–, gimme a sec JJ,” he says in French, muting his call. “He’s nice,” he responds to Em’s question. “Loud as fuck but in a friendly way?” 

“Tell him your gay sister is visiting and she’s only willing to go to gay clubs.” 

Shane sputters. “Em what the fuck? No!” 

“I wanna go out whether you come or not,” she shrugs. “Plus I’m curious how he’ll react. Like a litmus test, you know?”

Shane does some rapid calculations in his head: JJ definitely uses some gay slurs but not the really bad ones; they’ve had a couple good conversations about being minorities in a super white league; when San Jose brought Pride Night to the MLH in the spring he wasn’t one of the guys who complained about it in the locker room; and, perhaps most importantly, Shane knows JJ has a bunch of siblings who he loves very loudly so… all things considered, it’s probably a safe enough risk to tell him about Emily. Hopefully. 

And if not, well, at least Shane’s had some more practice punching people. 

He unmutes the call and puts it on speakerphone. “JJ, you’re on speakerphone with my sister,” he says, switching back to French. 

“Salut JJ,” Em calls out. 

“Ostie de crisse, Hollander, this is not how you lore-drop a sister, my guy!” 

Em laughs and Shane rolls his eyes. “Sorry, let me try again. JJ, I’ve got a sister, she’s visiting this week and she wants to ask you something.” Then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “for some fucking reason.” 

“Allo Hollander’s sister, it’s nice to learn you exist,” JJ says cheerfully. “Your brother has literally never mentioned you before, please tell me he’s showing you around town and not just taking you to the gym and back every day.” 

“Unfortunately Shane can’t help who he is,” Em replies like a traitor, easily joining their French conversation. “But I hear you’re the man to ask about clubs?”

Shane doesn’t quite get her whole plan here but he trusts her, so he’s going to roll with it.

“Hollander, did your sister get all the fun genes? Fuck yes I know clubs, come out with us tonight!” 

“Ah but JJ, I’m a girl of discernment! I don’t want to get hit on by gross losers in front of my brother, I want to go dancing in the Village where the men won’t be interested in me and I can actually just have fun.” 

And like, damn, Shane thinks. That’s smoother than he gave her credit for.

“I know he’s a quiet one but I’m sure your brother would be happy to defend your honour,” JJ responds, entirely missing the point. “And I don’t know if you know which of his teammates I am, but fighting men is something I take great pleasure in both on and off the ice.” 

Em lifts an eyebrow in his direction and Shane bites down his grin. What do boys do other than fight or kiss, indeed. 

Emily laughs and takes the phone from his hand. “I can’t blame you for assuming since I know Shane doesn’t talk about me, but trust me when I say I am more than capable of defending myself–”

“Of course!” JJ interrupts, “I have heard stories of your mother. I know the Hollander women can more than hold their own.” 

“So you know we get what we want,” she smirks into the receiver, “so are you the guy to ask about queer clubbing in Montreal, or do I need to find someone else?”

*

“Just the tiniest bit.”

“No,” he says again, standing firmly against the ‘guyliner’ she’s trying to convince him looks good. 

“Can I at least style your hair?” 

“Emily.” 

“Okay, we can nix the hair and eyeliner but you cannot wear a linen button up and chinos to a club. You just can’t. Plain white tee and dark wash jeans and that’s my final offer.” 

“I’m not one of your Barbie dolls, you know.” 

“If you were one of my Barbie dolls you’d be wearing a crop top and glitter.” 

He changes into a t-shirt and jeans without further discussion. 

*

The club is, as expected, overwhelmingly loud. Bodies pushing against bodies, some dancing and some just passing through on their way to the bar or bathroom or wherever else they’re headed. The strobe lights shift through a rainbow of colours and the bass keeps thumping and Em takes his elbow and drags him towards the back where the bar is located. JJ is immediately lost in the crowd doing god knows what. Shane can’t hear what Emily orders and he watches in horror as two purpley shots are poured in front of them, but before he can protest she downs them both without so much as a wince. When a cup of sparkling golden liquid is passed her way, she takes it and hands it to him with a nod and drops the change she gets back into the tip jar. 

He sniffs it suspiciously but can’t detect any alcohol, and she rolls her eyes and leans right next to his head to shout, “It’s just ginger ale!” 

She takes him by the elbow again and guides them along the perimeter of the space, away from the business of the bar but not too close to the speakers at the front of the club. They find a tabletop to lean against and he tries to settle into this space, sipping his drink and allowing the sound to wash over him. He spots JJ, a foot taller than anyone else, absolutely cutting loose on the dancefloor. He must have pre-gamed before coming, something that Emily suggested and Shane had resolutely shot down. His teammate somehow managed to find a girl to dance with, and Shane wonders if he has some sort of special ability to spot straight people in a predominantly queer space. Then he remembers that bisexual people exist and he feels slightly guilty for having assumed, even in the privacy of his own head. God he’s a terrible ally.

Em is bopping her head to the beat but otherwise content to stand next to him until a girl passes by close enough to touch them both. She’s got long blonde hair and skin-tight clothes and wouldn’t look out of place as a WAG, Shane considers. Once the girl is a few feet away she looks back over her shoulder, not at Shane, but at Em. He turns to his sister and sees her wink at the stranger before shouting at him, “I’ll be back!” and walking over to take the woman’s hand. It’s a strange feeling of relief, that he isn’t the one the woman wanted to dance with. When he goes out with the team, girls are constantly flirting with him and it always feels like such a chore to respond in kind. 

Not wanting to watch his sister dance that closely with, well, anyone, Shane lets his gaze drift over the dance floor. Em’s dance partner aside, most of the patrons here look nothing like the club-goers he’s used to seeing. There are all kinds of bodies and pairings, women with women, with men, men with men, groups of all sorts moving to the same beat that Shane feels thumping through his veins as well. It’s different from the clubs he’s been dragged to before, where there’s really only one combination allowed and all the girls look like generic Barbie dolls in various shades.

It’s a fascinating experience, watching from the sidelines. Without anyone beside him, he doesn’t need to make conversation or perform interest or pretend any type of way at all. He can just observe almost anthropologically, making note of the various mating rituals and pro-social behaviours demonstrated by the synchronized movements of the crowd. Em had been rambling earlier about some chick named Margaret Mead and he supposes some of her words must be sticking at the front of his brain as he watches from the sidelines.

It’s not that the club gets quieter, but after a while he’s almost able to tune out the noise. He sees patterns emerge as he watches how the crowd shifts as songs change: high-energy jumping to rhythmic side-to-side and, at one point, seemingly-choreographed drops down low during one song in particular. Some pairs don’t respond at all to song changes, seemingly lost in their own world and happy just to grind against each other. Others are smiling and laughing, pointing excitedly sometimes and singing along. 

The range of styles is fascinating as well. Some men are dressed like he is in relatively plain clothes, whereas others are wearing bright colours, netted shirts, some are in leather, others are barely wearing anything at all. The women are possibly even more diverse, not just in style but body type too. Thin, tall, short, fat, long flowing hair and buzzcuts, makeup, glitter, leather harnesses worn across chests of all sizes. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen so many different-looking people all in one place. He remembers in high school being teased about always wearing the ‘hockey bro uniform’ of joggers, tees, and a snapback, and he thought it was a bit of an exaggeration. Most guys wore shit like that. But here, there’s truly no uniform he can discern. Em said that his button up and chinos would look out of place, but he can’t figure out the rules of what fitting in actually mean in a place like this. 

He’s deep in his own thoughts when a hand is pressed to the small of his back and he feels someone’s presence behind him. “Wanna dance?” a man asks, and Shane freezes. He needs to say no, needs to shut this down, move away from this stranger, get the fuck outta dodge; but when he looks over his shoulder the man looking back is… not Rozanov, but certainly Rozanov-esque. Unfairly attractive, honestly. Blonde curls and sparkling eyes and broad shoulders that Shane’s gaze can’t help but linger on. The man’s tight white tank is practically translucent and his muscles are sculpted, not functional like an athlete but clearly hard-earned in a decorative sort of way. 

The man presses closer, his body hot across Shane’s back. His mouth is so close to Shane’s neck that he can feel the guy’s warm breath ghost over his skin as he asks, “Or we could just get outta here?” 

“S-sorry,” Shane stutters, finally remembering how to move his body to turn and pull away, “I’m here with someone.” 

“He’s welcome to join us,” the man smirks, and he’s suddenly not like Rozanov’s at all. Where the Russian’s mouth teases, cocky but kind with his sparkling lopsided grin, this man looks predatory, sharklike. Shane realizes with a forceful clarity that danger is only fun when it’s not actually dangerous, and he feels a bit stupid for not having known earlier something so obvious. 

“Move along, asshole,” Em’s voice says in startlingly loud French. He didn’t even see her approach, but she’s wrapping her arm under Shane’s and dragging him away before the guy has a chance to respond. 

She pulls him through the crowds towards a hallway that is, thankfully, much quieter. Next to a sign for the bathroom, she asks if he’s alright. 

“Yeah,” he shakes his head, his body betraying his thoughts. “Sorry.” 

Em clicks her tongue. “I shouldn’t have left.” 

“I’m a grown-ass man, I can be left alone,” he scoffs. 

“Turning down guys is a bit of a different thing than turning down girls,” she says with a sad sort of smile. “One that I’m assuming you haven’t had much practice with.”

“I–” Shane starts, and then shuts his mouth. The only guy he’s ever had the opportunity to turn down before tonight is one that he has never once wanted to really say no to. “Yeah, I guess not.” 

“Let’s get outta here, I’m tired.” 

He doubts it’s true, but he loves his sister for saying it. He goes to text JJ but he’s already got a message from the man saying he’s heading home with a girl. It’s been less than an hour. Shane wishes his own life could be so easy.

*

When his alarm goes off at 5am he silences it and keeps sleeping because that’s what his body is telling him to do and it’s the fucking summer so who cares. 

When his next alarm goes off at 7am, he does begrudgingly roll out of bed. Technically this alarm is telling him to wrap up the yoga that he should have been doing before going for a run, but whatever. No one is going to ask, and if they did he’d just blame Emily for being a terrible influence. Which she absolutely is, so it’s not even a lie.

He wanders into the kitchen and jumps at the sudden sound of the blender. Em responds unhelpfully by saying “sorry, loud,” once she’s already done blending. 

“Why are you up so early?” he yawns, scratching his head and moving to the fridge for water. 

“Low-key assumed you’d be having a nervous breakdown, so I set my alarm for ass o’clock before passing out last night.” 

He pauses his search in the fridge and turns to her with a frown. “Why?” 

Em raises her eyebrows, shakes her head, and smiles. “Nevermind what I said yesterday, whatever you’re putting up your ass has definitely chilled you out as a human being.” 

He throws a blueberry at her with a scowl. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop thinking about my ass, you freak.” 

She dips a finger into the blender and flicks smoothie juice in his direction. “Whatever you say, bromosexual.” 

“I maintain clubs are too loud to actually hang out with people.” 

“Hanging out isn’t really what they’re for, no.” 

She pours the smoothie into two glasses and pushes one in his direction, jerking her head towards the ingredients to show him she followed one of his recipes. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. 

“You know I love you no matter what, right?” 

“Nope.” 

“I’m just say–”

“We’re not having this conversation.” 

She holds up her hands in defeat. “Alright, heard. No conversations to be had.” 

Settling in with her on the couch, Shane opens his mouth to say something and stops himself several times over because he’s not quite sure how to word his thoughts. 

“Spit it out, dude,” Em eventually prompts. 

“With hockey I can’t really…” he stops himself again, knowing he’s already not explaining this right. He tries to rewind, starting further back in his train of thoughts. “I get the feeling that you maybe, like… suspect things. About me.”

She hums noncommittally, giving him space to continue. 

“And I’m not saying… well, I dunno,” he huffs, shaking his head, annoyed with himself. “I know you’re pretty open about stuff with your friends and things, but you get that it’s different, right? With me being in the public eye? And with hockey, like, specifically? Different pressures, different responsibilities, different, I don’t know, culture?” 

“Say different again.”

He hits her with a throw pillow.

“Look asshole, I’m just saying I’m already different, or whatever fucking word you’d use. And I don’t fucking want to be. I can kinda fly under the radar because of our last name, but…” 

“You’re still visibly different in a sport where differences aren’t super welcome.”

“Yeah.”

Em nods thoughtfully, taking a sip before continuing. “I get to surround myself with queer leftist academics who pontificate about identity politics for fun, meanwhile your life is kinda like a whole silent discourse on the intersections of masculinity, race, desire, and the performance of manhood in Canadian sports.” 

“Uh,” he says, not entirely sure how to respond to that. Shane’s not stupid but he’s also only got a high school diploma and has very clearly been more focused on hockey than whatever the fuck ‘discourse’ Em is talking about. 

She smiles, putting down her glass and turning on the couch to face him fully. “It’s like… people assume that being manly looks a certain way, right? White, attractive, strong, heterosexual, dominant, big dick, all that shit,” she explains and he nods along, following.

“The further away you are from that ideal, the less manly you’re considered. And in a sport like hockey, where manliness is a prerequisite for both belonging and respect, the pressure to be as close to ideal as possible is huge, right?”

“I guess?” 

“So for you, someone who isn’t white, who isn’t considered ruggedly handsome— no offense— who's got this public image of being nice and polite— which you also need to have, by the way, because being seen as rude or unbecoming is something only white boys can get away with— it’s like you’re expected to make up for all of those unspoken ‘deficits’ by being even better than everyone else. More dominant, more skilled, highest hockey IQ, a generational playmaker; you have to be undeniably talented if you’re gonna have the fucking audacity to be Asian in a white man’s sport.”

He releases a long breath through his mouth, running a hand through his hair. “I mean yeah that’s… pretty much exactly it.” He kind of wasn’t expecting her to get it, but of course Em has better words to describe his life than he does. 

“And not only is there all this pressure for you to be better and to prove you belong, there’s also the added thing of being the first and paving the way for other people like you. White guys only ever represent themselves, but you’re expected to represent every Asian kid with a puck and a dream. And if you fuck up, they’ll pay for it too.”

“So you’ve heard Mom’s role model speech,” he says with a sad little grin. 

“Girl I could give Mom’s role model speech.” Em rolls her eyes. “Which is why also, hypothetically, if someone in your position had even more differences— maybe ones that aren’t so visible?— I can see there being a pretty big fucking incentive to hide that,” she adds while attempting to make pointed eye contact. 

He gulps and shrugs and does not meet her gaze.

“We don’t have to talk about it. But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m around, you know?” 

He stares into his smoothie glass. “I’m pretty sure I just… haven’t met the right girl yet?” 

Em bites her lips, clearly refraining from saying what’s on her mind. “Mhm.” 

“People can like both.”

“For sure.” 

“Please just let me have this.” 

“There’s genuinely no rush to figure yourself out. I just…” she looks at him, her mouth twisting in a way he can’t quite decipher. “I just hope you’re not ashamed, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with you, whoever you like. And there’s nothing wrong with keeping it private, either. It’s nobody’s fucking business.” 

“You really don’t think there’s anything wrong with me?”

“Oh no there’s definitely something wrong with you, probably clinically,” she laughs, tossing back the pillow he’d thrown at her earlier. “Just not your sexuality. Whatever it is.”

“Oh fuck you!” he joins in her laughter. “I kind of can’t believe I actually went to a gay bar?” 

“I know, eh! I’m so proud!” 

“If there end up being pictures online, I’m fucked.” The mood dims a bit as that fact looms over the space like a dark cloud. 

“I’ll keep an eye on the Facebook page for that club,” Em says, “but it was a random Wednesday in the summer so I think it’ll be fine. And your teammate was there too, so like, it’s not just you.”

Shane sighs. “He left with a girl though.” 

“Technically so did you.”

“Gross,” he grimaces, his brain absolutely refusing to categorize his sister as a girl.

“Well if all else fails you can just deny it’s you and call people racist for thinking we all look the same,” Em shrugs. 

“Wow, really getting a head start on that lawyering thing.” 

“I’m just saying!” she laughs once again.  “Flip the script on them, those white boys’ll be stumbling all over themselves! Obama is president, people aren’t allowed to be racist anymore.”

“Pretty sure Obama didn’t solve racism, Emily.” The corner of his mouth tugs towards a smile but he holds himself together.

“No no he did,” she giggles, “just like how Thatcher solved sexism back in the 80s.” 

He shakes his head, rapidly losing the battle of solemnity. “You’re a fucking nutbar.” 

“It’s got almonds!” she says with an accent through her laughter, setting off his own once more. That stupid quote from that stupid movie he can’t remember the name of, which they used to say back and forth in their terrible attempts at an accent neither could really do. God he loves her. She’s so fucking dumb. 

There’s still a spark of anxiety in his stomach at the idea of possibly being caught in that club, but it’s not turning into an all-consuming flame of panic. He’s not feeling the instinct to deny his desires, either, which is new. It makes his life harder, certainly, liking men (one man) the way he does, but maybe Em is right that he doesn’t need to add shame on top of it all. Maybe he’s allowed to hold out hope at finding the right girl, and also enjoy what he does with that one man in the privacy of his home and brain without, like, making it a whole thing. 

The theory is easier than the practice, but practice is at least something he’s good at. Repetition to the point of perfection, he can certainly do. 

Chapter End Notes

Rachel Reid: Shane doesn’t have trauma from growing up gay and Asian in hockey.
Me: let me just *inserts a character who can validate and give Shane language for his experiences*
Shane: ohhh so this crippling anxiety, debilitating shame, and obsession with perfection is actually a normal response to systemic oppression and circumstances beyond my control, not a unique failing on my part? Gotcha gotcha, cool cool cool, I’ll just make a quick lil notesy here. C'est some bullshit, ostie de crisse.

And that’s not even touching on the autism of it all!!! Whatever. Thank you Rachel for these characters, we’re gonna take it from here.

Also you cannot tell me that JJ Boizou, the man who canonically knows multiple queer men to set Shane up with, would be unaware of the gay scene in Montreal (an extremely gay city btw!!!) I firmly believe that all Shane had to do was ask and JJ would have been so fucking happy to drag his ass all over le Village.

Also also, did anyone else get an “it’s got almonds” vocal stim from Mandy Moore’s 2004 classic Chasing Liberty? Just me and my sib? Awesome, just checking.

Chapter 9: closer

Chapter Summary

Here comes the breathe before we get a little bit closer
Here comes the rush before we touch,
Come a little closer.
– Closer by Tegan and Sara

Chapter Notes

4k words of smut and a normal amount of forehead kisses between two super casual rivals who sometimes fuck but like, just casually.

October 2011, Boston

Over the summer, Shane and Rozanov keep up a semi-regular exchange of texts. It started with him sending the Russian a grainy picture of his greasy breakfast following the awards ceremony in June, which Rozanov responded to with an equally low-quality shot of airport coffee. They don’t say much, but it’s nice to stay in touch even in this small way. 

Lily: Hollander 

Lily: is you 

Lily: [image: a street cat under the table of an outdoor cafe, glaring daggers into the camera]

You: Fuck you

Lily: angry little kitten

You: I’m not a fucking kitten

Lily: whatever you say, zaychik

Shane’s not sure which is more thrilling: the peeks into Rozanov’s ordinary life that he gets from random stray animal or Russian food pictures, or the dick pics that the man steadily provides at all hours of the day and night. No pattern, no way to tell whether it’ll be a random cutesy photo of the gay swans or a raging boner. Shane quickly learns to only ever open the text thread in private. Ideally with a bottle of lube nearby. 

On the team flight to Boston for their first game of the season, Hayden keeps up a steady stream of conversation beside him despite Shane’s obvious disinterest. 

“– I’m telling you man, it was fucking crazy. Literal octopus on a plate, not breaded or anything.” 

“Mm,” Shane hums. 

“Jackie said it was incredible but I couldn’t even bring myself to try it. The cheese though, have I told you about the cheese? I ate cheese at every fucking meal, man, the Greeks seriously know how to do cheese–”

“Did you just eat on this vacation, or did you actually explore Greece?” Shane finally asks. 

“I mean Jackie had a list of restaurants she wanted to eat at so that was kinda the main goal but yeah we also explored. We spent a few days on Aegina and it was fucking sick, absolutely gorgeous–” Shane tunes him out, tilting his phone to reread his latest texts with Lily (he’s already deleted the pictures, obviously).

Instead of another hotel room, Rozanov has sent his actual address. Shane, trying to convince himself that this doesn’t mean anything and failing abysmally, has been debating all morning whether to clarify their plans. Is this Rozanov’s way of hinting at more? (Unclear.) Is he expecting to go all the way? (Doubtful.) Does Shane want that? (Yes.) If they win and Shane says he has to go out for a drink tonight to celebrate with the team, he can offer to come over after and that could give him time to go back to the hotel and prep before heading over. He hid his supplies in the lining of his suitcase, just in case. If they lose though… well, he’s not planning on losing so hopefully it won’t come to that. 

Is it just sex, or does the invitation to his home imply a longer encounter? Is he being invited to sleepover? Is that weird? Maybe Rozanov just doesn’t feel like buying yet another hotel room for less than an hour of use. 

The memory of Rozanov saying “you can always ask, I am happy to tell,” so gently after their first time floats to the front of Shane’s brain. He could just fucking ask. He should just fucking ask. That is, ostensibly, what they first exchanged numbers for. 

He absolutely does not want to ask. 

Instead, he grits his teeth and opens a different text thread. He doesn’t want to ask here, either, but at least he can predict the precise flavour of chirping he’ll receive from this person (unlike with Rozanov, whose chirping remains a fucking mystery. Sometimes sharp, sometimes funny, sometimes almost… caring? It’s a fucking crap shoot.)

You: What’s the etiquette after a hook-up at someone’s house?

You: Ravine rules, obviously. 

Emily Hollander: fuck buddy or one night stand?

You: Are those really the only two options?

Emily Hollander: friend with benefits, girlfriend, boyfriend, sex worker, teammate, teammate’s spouse? I don’t fucking know your life

You: Jesus fucking Christ.

You: Fuck buddy I guess? 

Emily Hollander: clean up, maybe cuddles depending on the vibe, head home after. 

Emily Hollander: do NOT throw a towel at them afterwards to clean themself up

Emily Hollander: chivalry may be dead but basic fucking manners still apply

You: what the fuck?

You: People do that?

Emily Hollander: men are animals, ask any woman our age

You: Not touching that one

You: Also, fuck buddies cuddle?

Emily Hollander: aftercare isn’t just for romantic relationships, but some people aren’t into it so it just depends on the specific people involved. communication is key, regardless of whether it’s a one time thing or a regular link

You: Thanks

You: Never speak of this again, obviously

Emily Hollander: they grow up so fast :’)

And that is how Shane finds himself with a sparkly clean colon, breaking curfew for the first time ever on his way to Ilya Rozanov’s penthouse. The buzz of nerves and trill of excitement is almost enough to stamp out the irritation of losing to Boston in fucking overtime. Almost. 

“Ah, team so sad you have to drown their sorrows?” Rozanov says as he opens the door. 

“Shut up.” 

“Took you very long time, did you tuck them all into bed one by one?” 

Shane is absolutely not going to explain what took him so long, so he pushes Rozanov against a wall and kisses him instead. 

“Mmph,” Rozanov moans, letting Shane attack his mouth. After a minute or so, he gently shoves Shane off and takes his hand to lead him deeper into the apartment, “Come along zaychik.” 

His bedroom is massive, with plain white walls and a king-sized bed covered in navy sheets. There are far more lamps than Shane would have thought necessary, but it’s otherwise a fairly plain space. Rozanov pushes him onto the bed and crawls over top of him to continue their making out, far less rushed now that they’re horizontal. 

When Rozanov moves his mouth along Shane’s jaw and starts kissing down his neck, Shane moans and his hips buck up without permission. 

“Always so desperate for it,” Rozanov murmurs, nipping his ear lobe. He grinds down onto Shane’s body briefly before pulling away again, teasing as his mouth continues working his neck, making no apparent effort to move any lower.

“I want–” Shane gasps.

“Tell me.” 

“You.” 

“You have me, Hollander.”

Shane nearly creams his fucking pants. It feels almost juvenile what they’re doing, kissing fully clothed and not even attempting to hurry things along. It’s heady, taking their time without the usual pressure of scrambling for more. All the more thrilling because tonight Shane knows he wants more. He wants it all. 

“I want you,” he tries again with a roll of his hips to emphasize the point, “to fuck me. Please.” 

Rozanov pulls back to make eye contact and his pupils are huge, blown out with hunger and lust and something that almost looks like awe? No, that can’t be right. But his mouth is slack and his breathing is heavy and for a moment they just look at each other, drinking each other in.

“You are sure? Rozanov finally whispers. 

“Please,” Shane repeats. 

Rozanov says something in Russian and kisses him again, much harder than before. Licking into Shane’s mouth, tongue on tongue and then teeth and lips and back in again, tasting, exploring, consuming. 

“We go slow,” Rozanov assures him, kissing across his cheeks. “Can stop any time, you just say.”

“Don't wanna stop, want it, want you,” Shane finds himself panting. 

“Bozhe moy,” Rozanov rasps before pulling back and stripping. “Clothes out, off,” he gestures at Shane, prompting a quick disrobing. Once they're both naked Shane slides up further onto the bed and Rozanov follows, pressing their bodies together as they resume their kissing, much more heated now that their bare cocks are grinding together with every roll and drag. 

“Have you ever touched yourself here?” Rozanov asks, hand reaching between their bodies as Shane spreads his legs. 

Shane just nods, reaching forwards to suck on the other man's shoulder, needing something, anything in his mouth. 

Rozanov pulls away to reach for something in the bedside table and Shane whines, soliciting a low chuckle and teasing smirk from the other man. 

“I'm not going anywhere, zaychik, just getting lube and condom.” 

“Hurry the fuck up.”

“So impatient,” he tsks. “Maybe ask nicely, hm?”

“Please,” Shane murmurs. “Please fuck me, I'm already stretched, please.” Any other time he'd be mortified to hear himself say please so many times, and maybe he'll be embarrassed about it later, but right now all he can think about is Rozanov's cock and how much bigger it is than his dildo and how desperate he is to be fuller than he's ever been and entirely at the other man's mercy. He's currently living every wet dream and masturbatory fantasy he's ever had and he doesn't think he can wait a minute longer. 

“Already stretched?” Rozanov asks, slicked finger slipping between his cheeks and prodding gently at his softened hole. Shane wasn't sure how much time they'd have tonight and he knows from all his solo sessions that preparing for the intrusion is the most annoying part. Plus he read some things online that said prepping before a hook-up makes things easier for everyone. Rozanov presses one finger in and then two, feeling around until…

“Oh fuck!” Shane yelps, hips bucking wildly at the sudden stimulation. 

“There we are,” Rozanov smirks, rubbing over the same spot as his fingers move in and out, his other hand reaching up to stroke Shane at the same time. 

Shane is at the mercy of his body as his hips jerk again without permission and his moans get breathier. “Roz– fuck, I can’t– you can’t–” 

“Oh but I can, milyy mal'chik.” 

The orgasm that tears through him as a third finger presses in is sudden and strong and entirely unpreventable. 

“Fuck,” Shane pants, trying to regain his composure. “Fuck you, I wanted to fuck tonight!”

“Mm, yes,” Rozanov smirks, withdrawing his fingers and pressing a kiss into Shane's inner thigh. “We will. This is just to take the edge away.” 

“Take the edge off?”

“Da. I'm going to get towels and water and I'll be back for round two.” 

Shane shudders, his body still coming down from his release. Round two might just kill him. 

True to his word, Rozanov returns with a warm damp cloth to wipe off Shane's stomach, two bottles of water, and a small pile of towels. 

“You planning a spa day?” Shane asks, aware of how weak a chirp it is. 

“Easier to put down towel than change sheets every time. You are rookie at having sex so I don't expect you to–”

“Fuck you I'm not a rookie at sex! I've had loads of sex!” He has had sex maybe five times with two different women, but Rozanov doesn’t need to know that.

“Okay Mr. Loads-of-sex, so you understand the towels then, yes? Is crazy to change sheets every time, ruins post-nut glow.” He shoos Shane out of the way and lays a towel down on the bed. 

“Who the fuck taught you post-nut glow?” Shane asks, returning to his position once the towel is spread. 

“Your mother.”

Shane scoffs.

“I have lived here over a year, Hollander,” Rozanov rolls his eyes. “You think I don't prioritize sex vocabulary? Please, I have reputation to hold up.” 

“Uphold,” Shane corrects automatically. “Your English is getting really good.”

“Yes I am genius, we know this. Smartest English speaker, best hockey player–”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” 

“Number one draft pick, hottest MLH player–”

“You were not voted hottest MLH player!” 

“Bah,” Rozanov swats the air as if banishing the thought. “Only because they choose picture during playoffs before I fix teeth over summer. Was rigged. With teeth I am definitely hottest.”

“Some of us have our teeth all year round,” Shane grins. 

“Yes yes you are far too pretty to punch, everyone knows this. Thank god I do not have to avenge your beautiful face every other game, would be very annoying for me.” 

“You'd avenge me?” Shane can’t even begin to process how that thought lands in his brain and body. His dick twitches and he thanks whatever god exists for his youthful refractory period.

“Mm yes,” Rozanov says simply, turning to crawl over Shane's body once more. “Anyone who messes with your mouth will have to pay. Is my favourite feature.” 

Shane spreads his legs as Rozanov crawls over his body once more. The man presses his weight down as he kisses Shane’s mouth, then chest, stomach, and hip. “Maybe top three favourite,” he murmurs, moving to ghost a soft kiss over Shane's hole before re-slicking his fingers and pushing them back in. 

Young dick or not it’s definitely too soon and Shane considers stopping him to give himself more of a break, but he quickly discovers that the pain is on the right side of too much and it doesn’t take long for his cock to get with the program once again. 

Rozanov takes his time working his fingers in and out, scissoring them, pushing three in right up to the knuckle and twisting back and forth. Every time Shane urges him to hurry, Rozanov slows down instead, apparently relishing Shane's growing impatience and whiny moans. 

“Whoever taught you to come stretched is bad lover,” Rozanov says, nibbling at Shane's hipbone while knuckle deep.

“Surely some… prep… is… important,” Shane pants, barely holding onto his composure. 

Rozanov hums. “Maybe shower, but–” he twists his wrist, grazing over that sweet spot once more, “–even that is just, eh, cherry on the cake, you know?”

“Cherry on top?”

“Mm, yes. I would take you right after game, fresh off double shift. Peel off your jock with my teeth, open you up right in locker room–”

Shane moans at the imagery, immediately taken by the fantasy of how hot that would be.

“T-that’s disgus-s-sting,” he stammers.

“I think you like it,” Rozanov coos, fingers pushing in and out with increasing speed. “Your muscles would be so sore, maybe we went into overtime. You fought so hard but ah, so sad, could not make final push.”

Shane's not sure what his body is doing, so lost in the sauce he doesn’t even care to argue his hypothetical loss in this insane fantasy. 

“Is okay though, zaychik, I will take your head out of the game. I always take care of you, hmm?”

“Y-yeah,” he whimpers.

“Yes, that's right,” Rozanov murmurs with a suckling kiss at the juncture of Shane’s groin. “I would come to your locker room and strip you out of your dirty kit… lick sweat off your neck, your chest… bend you over the bench, all damp skin and shaking muscles. Such a pretty picture you would make, spread out for me. Should I let your team watch?”

Shane’s entirely beyond words now, panting and writhing and more desperate than he’s ever been. What Rozanov is describing is objectively gross, entirely unhygienic, surely not the least bit hot… Shane makes a vaguely guttural sound, not any known language, and Rozanov presses on.

“No, I agree. You are too good for them. Keep you all to myself, I think.”

This is literally deranged, why is Shane’s dick pulsing so strongly?

“I'd work you open so carefully, take my time to make sure you're soft and ready for me. Just fingers, or mouth you think too?”

Another throaty groan escapes as knuckles continue to slam against his stretched rim.

“Spit and lube, yes, you’re so right. Clean you off with my tongue, open you up and spit right into your pretty pink hole? And maybe your mouth too as I fuck you. Would you be good for me and swallow?”

Shane nods and whines and opens his mouth, waiting. He’s never wanted anything more in his life. 

“Fuck, look at you,” Rozanov groans. “So fucking pretty, you want my spit that bad?” 

He nods wildly, sticking his tongue out in response and Rozanov’s spit lands off-centre so Shane licks his lips to capture it all and audibly swallows. He can feel a dazed sort of smile on his face as Rozanov says “good fucking boy,” and Shane mindlessly beams at the praise.

“You still want me to fuck you?” 

Shane is well beyond being able to examine what type of animal he sounds like at this point, but he knows he must sound absolutely wild. He feels feral with desire. 

“Lost your words, zaychik? Your noises are so pretty, but I need to hear you say you're ready for me.” 

“Mm redd,” Shane attempts. God this is so fucking incredible, he didn’t know his body could feel this way. He wants this to last forever, he needs to feel like this always. He needs and needs and needs…

“Hmm,” Rozanov withdraws his fingers and Shane moans at the loss. “You want more? Or all done?” 

“Mmore pleasss,” he slurs. 

“You still want my cock? Can be all done too, that is okay.” 

Shane shakes his head, pouting. Don't take it away, no, please, this is too good, it's all so good, please never stop, please let me live here, let me stay where it's quiet and safe and so fucking hot.  He gathers himself up, pulling his brain from the depths of where it descended, forcing his verbal processing back online so that Rozanov doesn’t stop now. “N-not done, please, please.”

“Okay, okay,” Rozanov soothes, petting along the side of Shane's body, getting up on his knees to roll the condom on and drench himself in lube. Folding Shane’s knees upwards, he lines himself up and presses in ever so slowly. His whispers switch to Russian and Shane lets the consonants and vowels wash over him, breathing deep and exhaling to allow the new intrusion, muscles melting as his body is pushed further than it's ever gone. 

“Is okay?” Rozanov asks once he bottoms out. Shane can see the tremble in his muscles as he holds himself completely still, giving Shane time to adjust, to speak up, to feel every inch of it. 

“Soookay,” Shane moans, eyes closed as he attempts to process the overwhelming sensation. 

Rozanov moves slowly, a careful half-pull outwards and gentle thrust back in. Shane can only groan his pleasure, completely drowning in the feeling of so-much-not-enough-need-more. He jerks his hips in an attempt to communicate his desires, and Rozanov quickly gets the memo.

He shifts Shane’s legs onto his shoulders, pulling Shane’s ass up as he leans back on his heels to pick up the pace, hitting deeper as he grips Shane’s hips and tugs his whole body in time with the thrusts. Shane grasps at the other man’s forearms, anchoring himself as the sensation morphs and grows into something almost familiar but also entirely new. It’s only vaguely like his dildo because this is actually so much more, hot skin and weight and surrender.

“Still okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Shane feels like he's being split in two, speared open on the cock of a god who is surely going to kill him with the amount of all-consuming pressure but also the pleasure of it all, tabarnak, he will die a happy man. Every single one of his nerve endings light up, zinging signals back and forth, overloaded and overwhelmed and perfect, every microcosm of sensation outdone by the next. 

His legs start to shake so Rozanov lowers them and then nearly folds him in half, thrusting hard and fast and hitting so deep Shane can practically feel it in his throat.

There's a sudden blinding heat, white light, and his full body is spasming as waves of pleasure crest and crash and seize him everywhere. His brain shuts off and Shane doesn't even identify it as an orgasm at first because it's just so much more than anything he's ever felt before, what the fuck. 

Deep breath, soft whispers. He's coming back to himself. He's not sure where he went. 

Opening his eyes, he realizes he's safely blanketed by a hot, sweaty body that's not his own and there’s a hand gently petting up and down his side. “Rozanov?” Shane murmurs, throat dry and scratchy. 

“Welcome back, zaychik,” Rozanov smiles, brushing the hair off Shane’s forehead and gently pressing a kiss there.

Shane just blinks at the unexpected display of care, trying to get his brain back online. 

“Did I… pass out?”

“Mm, maybe just for moment. Was very hot, nearly squeezed my dick off.” 

Shane flushes in embarrassment and buries his face into Rozanov’s neck. None of his research prepared him for that possibility. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Sorry for what?” he asks, pulling back just slightly so Shane can’t hide. “Sorry for super hot sex? For blacking out from my dick? Oh no, poor me, pretty man comes so hard on just my cock he sees sounds and hears colours, how will I survive such tragedy?”

And okay, yeah, that makes Shane smile a bit. “You're going to be insufferable about this, aren't you?” 

Rozanov laughs, bright and clear and light. “I suffer greatly, yes. Hot man naked in my bed, comes untouched from the power of my–”

“Alright, alright,” Shane joins in the laughter. Rozanov shifts, reaching between them as he pulls out slowly. Shane’s body flutters, briefly squeezing around nothing as the ring of muscle adjusts. He takes a few deep breaths but Jesus fuck, he feels wrung out and satiated and just fucking good for once. 

Rozanov rolls out of bed but doesn’t go far, passing him a bottle of water from the nightstand.  “Little sips.”

Shane obeys, sitting up and drinking carefully.

Rozanov then wanders off and Shane lets his mind drift, entirely unbothered at the moment by his corporeal form. He’s obviously had sex before but never like that. He suddenly understands why everyone’s so obsessed with it if that’s what it’s supposed to fucking feel like. Is it always that good, or is it something unique to sex with his arch rival? Very briefly, in the privacy of his own mind, he allows himself to hear the tiny voice that whispers it doesn’t feel like this with women because you’re not into them. 

The soft thwap of a used condom hitting a garbage can pulls Shane’s attention back to his body, where the feeling of come drying on his stomach has quickly moved from hot to horrible.

“Go,” Rozanov says, crawling back into bed. He gestures with his head towards a door further into the room. “Towels are fresh, use whatever you need.”

Shane starts to get up and then pauses. “You don't wanna…?” 

“Some of us did not have nap, Hollander, I am still catching my breath.” Rozanov huffs and Shane knows it’s just playful but the rejection still stings. He knows the rules, though: cuddle, clean up, go home. Earth-shattering orgasms aside, this is just a hookup. 

He gives himself a perfunctory wash, focusing on rinsing away the tacky come on his stomach and slick sensation of lube between his cheeks. He'll be more thorough when he gets back to the hotel. Hopefully Hayden is asleep by now.

As he returns to the bedroom he sees Rozanov still naked, sprawled across the bed without a care in the world. Shane collects his clothes and dresses quietly, unsure if the other man is already asleep. He turns to leave and hears the bed move and then Rozanov saunters over to hug him from behind. 

“Was good?” Rozanov murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of Shane's neck. 

“So good.” 

“Worth the wait?” 

“Always,” Shane smiles into the dark. 

Rozanov pulls back and clears his throat. “I walk you to door.” 

At the door with a still-naked Rozanov, Shane feels entirely unsure of himself. “I'll, um, see you around?” 

“Yes Hollander,” Rozanov huffs a soft chuckle, “you will certainly see me around.” 

Shane leans in and kisses Rozanov once, then again. Then, not sure what comes over him but unable to stop himself, he presses a kiss onto Rozanov's forehead too. 

“Bye.”

And if he's grinning all the way back to the hotel, that's no one's business but his own. 

Chapter End Notes

Ilya standing naked in his front hall after Shane leaves, thousand-yard stare into nothingness: oh fuck fuck fuck I am so fucking fucked.

I also need you to know that I (a lesbian) texted my ex-husband to ask what his refractory period was like at age 20 and he said “this is for gay fanfic reasons, isn’t it?”. So. I’m a Known Freak™ if by freak you’re picturing the Sleeptime Bear who writes gay smut.

(Also he said ten minutes but the interval gets longer after every orgasm, in case you're wondering)