Chapter 1: i cant hold your hand with my fingers crossed

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes “Goodbye, Hollander.” Shane hesitated by the door, his hand unable to curl around the handle. Rozanov was probably still sitting in bed, towel lazily draped around his waist, cigarette resting precariously between his plush lips. The picture of ease. Completely unbothered. Insanely beautiful. So opposite of what Shane was feeling right now, which was haphazardly thrown together, clutching his suit jacket with white-knuckled fingers and balancing on unsteady legs. He pressed his forehead to the door, letting his eyes close and willing the growing pit in his stomach to go away. His mouth was dry despite finishing off his glass of vodka just moments before. He thought alcohol was supposed to burn, make him feel warm and floaty. Sure, maybe he drank maybe more of it than he intended to, being the lightweight he was, but this wasn’t an ‘unexpectedly buzzed’ he was feeling, it was something deeper. Something cold and wrong. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and curl up in bed next to Ilya, to tell him that he wanted to stay, to fucking ask him for a kiss-- No. He didn’t need a kiss. He didn’t get to want Rozanov like that. It wasn’t like they were together. And even if Shane wanted to be, it’s not like the Russian would ever want him back. It’s not like they’d ever be allowed to do this in the daylight. This was a matter of convenience, a way to blow off steam. Strictly business, partaking behind closed doors in the dead of night. If Shane read too much into the soft touches to his collarbones and the sweet kisses to his inner thighs, he was only going to get hurt. That much he knew. Shane was just a good mouth, after all. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Shane tried to compose himself. He had to make his way back to the seventh floor, where any of his teammates could run into him and strike up a conversation. And while he was able to muster up friendly banter most days, he knew he just didn’t have anything left in the tank for tonight. Plus, his stupid hands were still shaking, the tremors traveling up his arms and knocking something loose in his chest. He felt ridiculous, needy. Probably still coming down from the adrenaline high of getting fucked by Ilya Rozanov. “Hollander? You are still here?” Rozanov called, breaking the TV static silence filling Shane’s head. He blinked. “Uh. Yeah, just leaving,” he answered, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. Good, that was good. He knew he couldn’t show Rozanov any weakness if he wanted to keep coming back. But did he want to come back if it made him feel like this? “Door is too heavy? Or I fuck you too good, you cannot move legs,” came Rozanov’s taunting response. Shane could practically see the tilted smirk on his face, cigarette smoke wafting around his freshly-showered curls. “Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane muttered. Not wanting to face the other hockey player, he found the strength to push down on the door handle and slip out into the hall. He let the door close softly behind him, his hand resting on the cool metal. Right. Get himself back to his hotel room. Easy. Shane looked to his left toward where he thought the elevators were. The hallway was tastefully decorated, artfully boring, and suddenly very, very long. His vision blurred as he stared and he took a step forward unintentionally -- well, staggered, really. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the floaters from his eyes to no avail. Lifting his right arm, he pressed his hand against the wall and took careful steps toward the elevators. For as light and airy as Shane’s head felt, he moved like his shoes were full of lead. He could feel every muscle in his body creaking and groaning, resisting his determined march forward. Distantly, he realized he could feel the carpet texture on his feet and looked down to find that he wasn’t wearing his shoes, only his dress socks. Fuck. He must have left his shoes in Rozanov’s room, how embarrassing could he possibly be? How is he gonna ask for those back without Rozanov making fun of him, saying he fucked him so good he forgot to put his own shoes on? How would he explain to Rozanov that yes, he did fuck him insanely good, but he also couldn’t think through the cotton in his head and the fog glazing over his eyes and the heavy, achey feeling settling into his chest? These thoughts swirled in his head, threatening to consume him as he made his way to the elevators. Except when he got to the end of the hall, he found that he was not actually at the elevators at all and was instead at the stairwell entry. “Fuck me,” Shane cursed under his breath. His body was growing heavier and he felt a pressure build up behind his eyes, threatening to spill over. It was either take the trek back down the hall or stumble his way down the seven flights of stairs to his hotel room, and both sounded like pretty bad options. He instead leaned heavily against the wall, chest heaving. The looming sense of dread and anxiety should have motivated him, should have pushed him into action to get to a secure location where he could break down in privacy. Where he could wrap himself up in unfamiliar bedsheets and shut his brain off until the morning -- and if he pretended it was Ilya holding him instead, that was none of anyone’s business. A small, delusional kindness he could grant himself. This overwhelming wave of emotion was unlike any Shane had encountered before and he felt it wipe out his senses entirely. There was a faint ringing in his ears that hadn’t gone away since he closed the hotel room door. Between the noise and the tears in his eyes making everything look shiny and distorted, he knew getting back to his room was going to be a challenge. Maybe if he could just make it back to Ilya’s room, he could knock and ask for a few more minutes of his time. Ask Ilya to cup his face, press his forehead against his and lick into his mouth. Run his strong hands up and down Shane’s arms and force life back into him. Make him feel warm again. Make him feel like he was worth something. Sliding down the wall to the floor, he clumsily pulled his phone out of his pocket and tried his best to type out a message to Lily. Something that wasn’t so whiney or pathetic, that would maybe make Ilya think twice about kicking him out so early. Something so witty and charming that he’d sweep Shane back into his arms and kiss him behind his ear, in the hollow of his throat, down the side of his neck. Shane let out a small whine just thinking about his touch. Through his unfallen tears, Shane looked down at the carefully worded message he crafted. Jane: Forgot my shoes ☹ Fuck me. He deleted the message. Tried again. Jane: We didn’t even kiss No. No fucking way he can send that. It’d have Rozanov howling with laughter, for sure. If it even got a response out of him at all. Jane: Ilya I need you In between Shane’s typing and deleting and typing again, a message came in. From Lily. Lily: You forgot shoes. You are okay? Shane let out a wet laugh. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he watched as more messages came in. Lily: Where are you? I will bring. Lily: I know you are awake. Tell me room number. Shifting the phone from one hand to the other, Shane felt his thumb slip across the screen. Jane: Ilya I need you Oh fuck. Oh fucking fuck he fucking sent it. Holy fuck, he sent it. Shane’s chest started to rise, fast and stilted. A chill ran through his entire body as all of the blood rerouted to his face, and suddenly he felt like he was both on fire and frozen in a matter of seconds. His phone dropped from his fingers, and then he realized he couldn’t feel his fingers, couldn’t feel much of anything, really. Where was he? Why was he on the floor? He was -- he was, at the end of the hall on the penthouse floor. And where were his legs? They felt so cold. Shane tried to pull them up toward his body but was largely unsuccessful. They stayed splayed out in front of him, shoeless, just his black socks on his feet. Why didn’t he grab his shoes? Then he wouldn’t be in this mess. God, why did everything feel like he was under water? Somehow, over the ringing in his ears came a faint buzzing noise to his left. Shane swam to the surface, rallying at the sound. He made a desperate grab for his phone; it landed face up on the ground when it fell. He could just make out the incoming call signal with ‘Lily’ written across the top. No, Shane thought, he can’t be calling. Why is he calling? Because you sent a pathetic little message begging for his attention. He’s probably calling to end things. You scared him off again, maybe for good this time. Great job, Shane. Embarrassing. Shane let the phone ring. Let it go to voicemail. Watched his screen return to the slew of messages that had arrived during his sweeping panic. Lily: Hollander. What is wrong? Lily: Where are you? Tell me you are okay. Lily: Hollander answer me. Lily: Tell me room number. I am coming. Lily: Pick up phone Hollander Lily: Shane. Pick up By the time he finished reading his messages, his entire body was shaking. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t reign himself in or calm the panic rising in his throat. Tears were welling in his eyes again, making it impossible to type an answer back in reply -- hell, he could barely even hit the call button to do as Rozanov asked. He felt useless, his body disobeying him, his brain unable to think. He wiped at his runny nose again and watched his screen flash with another incoming call from Lily. If he knew Ilya, he knew he’d call until Shane picked up. He was nothing if not determined. So, using a great amount of effort, Shane picked up on the last ring. Holding the phone in both trembling hands, he raised it to his ear. “Hollander, where are you? What has happened?” Rozanov barked, obviously angry. His tone was clipped, his Russian accent dominating his speech. Shane whimpered. He couldn’t speak, whatever signal his brain usually sent to his mouth just wasn’t happening. “Answer me, Hollander. You need me. I need room number.” He opened and closed his jaw a few times, willing anything to come out. The phone was dead silent, Rozanov waiting on the other side for an answer. A number. A sign of life. And Shane couldn’t even give him that. “Shane,” he heard Ilya say, softer this time, “please tell me where you are. I am… worried. You are not acting like yourself.” And he was asking so sweetly, so calmly. It was nothing like the tone he just had moments ago, sharp and hurried and demanding. This was nicer, encouraging. Shane could try again, for him. Opening his mouth again, Shane creaked out something that resembled a reply. “Ilya. ‘m sorry. Didn’t mean to - worry you. Sorry.” He heard Ilya gasp over the line, hot and wet. Like his throat was clogged with emotion, or something close to it. Shane cringed, knowing he caused that fear. “No, Shane. No sorries. Is okay. Just tell me your location, dorogoy. Is okay, I promise.” Shane felt a pang in his chest at the pet name -- what it meant he had no idea, but he knew from Ilya’s voice that it was something soft, sweet. “Down the hall. By the stairwell. Ilya, please-” Ilya whined at that, cutting Shane off. “Good job, Shane. I am coming now, do not move.” Shane huffed out a laugh. As if he could move if he wanted to. He’d spent so much of his life waiting for Ilya Rozanov. He could wait for a few more minutes. * * * Much like Shane, Ilya forwent his shoes when he left the penthouse suite, opting instead to wear only his open dress shirt and wrinkled tuxedo pants. They were the closest clothes to him as he got dressed, and it wasn’t like he had much time to agonize over his outfit. Hollander was on the phone, whimpering and wheezing like he was hurt. And maybe he was hurt, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with any helpful information. The sounds pulled at Ilya’s heartstrings in a way he hadn’t thought was possible; he knew he had to find him and get him somewhere safe, somewhere he could calm down. He could hear the guy hyperventilating through the tinny speaker on his phone, for Christ’s sake. Finally, with some coaxing, he got Shane to share with him his location. “Down the hall. By the stairwell. Ilya, please-” Relief swept over Ilya. While he did whine at the thought of Shane somehow lost and confused in the stairwell, he did take comfort in knowing he was close by, still on the same floor. Ilya buttoned his pants and praised Shane for answering his question, “Good job, Shane. I am coming now, do not move.” And then the Russian was running out the door, away from the elevators and toward the hotel’s emergency exit stairwell. He turned a corner, then another, and then spied a small, collapsed figure at the very end of the hallway. They were huddled on the floor, silent. Well, not totally silent. If Ilya paused, he could hear faint sniffling and hiccuping. Shane. Ilya ran faster, coming up on the end of the hall quickly. Once he reached it, he slowed, not wanting to spook him. He had no idea what had happened, why Shane was in such a state, but he did not want to make it worse. Hanging up the phone, he approached cautiously. The smaller man was resting up against the wall, his strong legs laid out in front of him. His phone was still open to Ilya’s texts. His whole body appeared to be shaking and he showed no emotion on his face besides the gathering tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Ilya felt panic rise in his chest but he pushed it back down. He could handle this, he had to. For Shane. Gently, Ilya crouched next to him. “Hollander,” he tried, but the other man did not respond. He took Shane’s face in his hands and tilted it toward him, noting that his eyes were glazed over and red-rimmed. What the fuck? The other man reacted instantly to the touch, flinching away. Ilya cursed under his breath, watching Shane’s chest speed up as he began to hyperventilate again. Those tears that were brimming before finally started to fall, fat and relentlessly down Shane’s cheeks. They landed on his dress shirt, darkening the fabric. His shoulders shook violently. Before his very eyes, Shane Hollander was falling apart. “No, no. Hollander, is okay. I am… here to help you. Please, let me help,” he all but begged, his voice cracking. Shane was scaring him, and he knew if either of them were caught out in this hallway they’d never explain their way out of it. Their careers would be over, and while Ilya never really cared much about his own, he knew that losing hockey would absolutely crush Shane. At the sound of Ilya’s voice, the other man made a concerted effort to relax. It was as if he noticed his presence for the first time -- maybe he was. The heaving of his chest slowed slightly, though his shoulders still shook. “Rozanov?” Shane asked, his gaze sliding slowly toward Ilya’s direction. Although he did not make eye contact, he did appear more lucid than a few moments ago. “Ah, Hollander. Yes, is Rozanov. You know, famous hockey player? More famous lover? Big, strong, handsome?” Shane raised one side of his mouth into a smile lazily. “Modest, too.” Ilya laughed. A little too enthusiastically, yes, but he was just happy to see Shane responding to some stimuli. “Can you walk, Hollander?” Shane’s eyebrows knitted together at the question, his bottom lip wobbling. Ilya desperately wanted to lean forward and kiss it, to pull his lip gently into his own mouth and suck. Remembering how touch-adverse Shane seemed to be right now, though, he thought otherwise. A pang of longing hit him squarely in the chest. This was an entirely different man than he had seen only an hour ago. Had it already been an hour? After a moment, Shane made a weak attempt to stand but it was like none of his limbs were cooperating. His arms were practically useless at his sides, shaking too hard to support weight. He slumped back against the wall, defeated. His head lolled to look at Ilya, tear tracks still evident on his pale face. His black hair stuck up in all sorts of odd directions from both of them repeatedly running their hands through it earlier. It was almost too endearing a sight for Ilya. Big, brown, pleading eyes stared up at him and he felt his heart break. “Ah, ah, I see, Hollander. I have you,” Ilya tutted, “Is okay to touch?” His hands hovered over Shane’s body, desperate to hold him. “Please,” Shane groaned, and it was all Ilya needed. Placing Shane’s left arm over his own shoulders, he slotted himself right up under his armpit and clamped his other hand just above Shane’s hip. “Up we go,” he muttered, mainly to himself, but it got a small grunt of acknowledgement out of the other hockey player. They slowly meandered back to Ilya’s room, Ilya’s grip tight on Shane’s hand and waist. The man’s skin was unnaturally cold and clammy. I need to get him warm, under the covers. He is too cold. Maybe something hot to drink? He made a mental note to check the room for tea. Did Hollander even drink tea? It seemed like a Hollander thing to do, but he had never witnessed it. It took them some time, with Shane’s legs largely uncooperative and buckling under his own weight, but they made it back inside and safely away from any onlooker’s eyes. Ilya breathed a sigh of relief as he deposited the other man on the now clean bed, the covers still rumpled from his abrupt departure. Shane sat at the edge of the bed, his shoulder hunched. He looked like he was barely able to keep himself upright. There was a deep-seated exhaustion in his eyes that Ilya had not noticed before. It hurt him to see his rival like this -- it hurt him to see Shane struggling in any capacity, but this was something new entirely. A sickening guilt settled in his gut, knowing he must have caused this but not knowing why. His cold skin, his hazy eyes, his full-body tremors. Ilya knew that he and Hollander could never be anything, meant almost nothing to each other, but he could not help but feel like he needed to take care of the man. To gather Shane to his chest and comfort him until… this passed, whatever this was. Ilya crouched down in front of him, his hands planted firmly on Shane’s knees. He rubbed his thumbs in small circles on the inside of the joints, hoping it was soothing. “We will take clothes off now. Not for sex. Just to warm you,” Ilya informed him. Shane didn’t make any noise, just brought his fingers to his chest and started to clumsily unbutton his dress shirt. It was a pitiful sight -- his fingers kept missing the top button, struggling to hold something so small. Gently, Ilya covered Shane’s hands with his own and lowered them to the other man’s lap. Shane lifted his head and stared at him in confusion. Tentatively, the Russian smiled. “Let me, Hollander. I have you.” Within a few seconds the buttons were unfastened and the larger man was carefully pushing the shirt down and off Shane’s shoulders, freeing him of the stiff fabric. He practically moaned in response, rolling his shoulders experimentally. Ilya planted a soft kiss on each one, then got to work on removing his pants. “You like to keep socks, yes? Yes, I think so,” he murmured, sliding the trousers down his strong, muscled legs, now all soft and compliant. With Shane stripped down to just his socks and briefs, Ilya made quick work of removing his own clothes and climbed into the bed, pulling Shane with him. He resituated both of them underneath the covers, taking care to tuck the duvet tightly around the shivering man in particular. Ilya pushed Shane lightly onto his side so that the two men were facing each other. He noted that those brown eyes looked a little less vacant, a little less bottomless. Maybe this was working. The other man was still trembling, but not as violently as he had out in the hall. Ilya wrapped his strong arms around Shane and threw a leg over his hip, tangling their legs together. Their mouths were so close that their breaths mingled together with each exhale, warming the skin on their faces. Almost on instinct, Ilya reached up the hand that wasn’t wrapped around a broad set of shoulders and cupped Shane’s face, lightly passing his thumb over his freckles. “Tak krasivo,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the smattering on each cheek. Shane's eyelids fluttered close in response, and Ilya felt the panic that had consumed him earlier start to melt away. The tension was fading from his frame, finally registering to him that he was safe. Looking at him head on, Ilya finally had the time to study the fine features of Shane’s face. His most notable favorites were his freckles, but up close he could see the soft, dark lashes that fanned over his cheekbones and the plushness of his full bottom lip. He fell into an easy rhythm of admiring a section, then leaning in to kiss said section once he felt he had mapped it. Within no time, he’d have Shane’s entire face memorized. Not that that meant anything. What was the saying, keep your friends close and your secret friends-with-benefits arch rivals closer? It struck him as he went in to brush his lips against Shane’s brow bone that they had not kissed at all that night. Not at the door, not when Ilya was slamming into Shane from behind like a wild animal, not even afterwards when they shared a drink and a cigarette -- well, they didn’t share the cigarette, that was all Ilya. Shane would never, this he knew. Usually they couldn’t keep their mouths off of each other, but Ilya realized he had made the unconscious effort to pull back. Withhold. He grimaced, kicking himself. This breakdown was most definitely his fault. Ilya was not stupid -- he knew when feelings were starting to get involved. Feelings were messy, burdensome, feelings got people in trouble. Hurt. It was not safe for him to bring these feelings into fancy hotel rooms and dark stairwells, it was not fair to Hollander. So after thinking about it, he decided to pull back. Text Hollander less and less, if at all. Only fucking, no kissing now. He couldn’t deny himself the hockey player completely, but he could deny himself the parts he loved the most. It was brutal, sure, but it would be better for both of them in the end. Except apparently it hadn’t been. Not for Shane. After a half an hour, he felt Shane’s body twitch as he came back to himself. He paused his next kiss, aimed for Shane’s chin. Watched his eyes flutter open, more alert as they took in his surroundings. Confusion overtook his features almost instantly. Delicately, so as not to spook him, Ilya spoke. “Is okay, malysh. You are safe. How do you feel?” he asked, his voice so soft even he did not immediately recognize it. Shane stared back in response. Then, “Better.” Thank fucking god. Instant relief. Ilya felt his own eyes pricking with tears for a moment. He offered Shane a tight smile in response, hoping his face did not give the depth of his concern away. “Good, very good. You need hydration. Water?” Shane nodded. He whined slightly at the loss as Ilya untangled himself from the bed, but Ilya was quick to grab a water bottle from the minifridge and return to his side. He perched on his side of the bed, angled to face the melty mass of Hollander twisted up in the sheets. “Sit up,” Ilya instructed. On weak arms, Shane pulled himself up and rested heavily on the pillows behind him. Uncapping the bottle, Ilya raised it to Shane’s lips. It was an intimate gesture, something they hadn’t done before and usually wouldn’t be too comfortable doing. It came almost naturally tonight. The other man accepted the water willingly, taking a few long sips as Ilya carefully held and tilted the bottle to maintain a constant, but not overwhelming, flow. When he was finished, Shane pulled his head backwards slightly. Ilya nodded, capped the bottle, and placed it within reach on the nightstand. “Thank you,” Shane whispered. Ilya nodded again as if it was nothing and rejoined him under the covers. He cradled the smaller man close, wrapping him back up in his arms. They slotted together comfortably, like it was easy. It was. He felt Shane’s eyes darting everywhere on his face, trying to read him. It was quiet for a few more moments. Ilya moved his hand from Shane’s cheek to smooth down his tousled hair, trailing his palm down to rest on the other man’s nape. “You scared me, Hollander. Tell me, what happened?” And that seemed to be a tougher question than he initially thought. Hollander was always so well-spoken in interviews. It was intriguing to watch him flounder now, so close, Ilya’s warm body pressed tightly to his. A softness overtook Shane’s features as he opened and closed his mouth -- no, a defeatedness? Whatever it was, it did not sit right in Ilya’s gut, heavy and rolling like a bowling ball loose in the alley. “I’m not sure. When I left I felt… cold, and alone. I lost all sense, I couldn’t remember anything,” he tried, “and then I got lost going to the elevators. It’s like my brain and body disconnected.” Ilya made a noise of interest. “Like concussion?” Shane shook his head. “No, like… a panic attack, but sad instead. I felt like I was falling even when I was standing up.” Now that sounded familiar to Ilya. He felt his face heat in shame. “Hollander, ah. I am sorry, this is my fault. I make you feel… sick. Floaty?” “Floaty, yes. That’s it. Felt like I was underwater. It was… I was really scared.” You scared him. You were selfish and you scared him. Ilya felt like he was going to throw up. He grimaced. “Yes, that is called, ah, subdrop. Can happen when we are together and it is… intense. You go from too high emotion to too low, no inbetween. No care,” he bit, anger bleeding into his voice. This should have never happened. Shane had been hurting for hours and it was all his own fault. How could he be so careless with someone who trusts him so blindly and sweetly? A knife to the stomach would hurt less. “No care?” Shane asked innocently. “Yes, as in, I did not care for you properly after. Kick you out, hurt you. Let you drop alone, vulnerable, very scary. I apologize, Hollander, I did not intend to do this to you,” he spoke slowly, deliberately. He tried to squeeze every drop of sincerity into his voice to convey to Shane how sorry he was. “It’s okay, Rozanov. I don’t think it’s the first time it’s happened, just the first time it’s been this bad,” Shane supplied, snuggling down into the blankets. Ilya’s heart dropped. He sat up in bed, his back to the headboard. Shane followed him, jostled by the sudden movement. Their bubble of safety just popped. “What?” Ilya asked, incredulous. Had this happened-- "What?" "You have felt this way before?" Shane nodded slowly, eyes clouded with confusion. Like it was obvious, like this was normal. This was most definitely not normal. Ilya's stomach twisted in painful knots. His fingers twitched where they rested in his lap. He wanted to comfort Hollander, but he hadn't felt he earned the right. "Tell me. Please," Ilya begged, not knowing if he could handle it. He begged anyway. “Sometimes," Shane started, choosing his words carefully, "when we’re done, I feel cold and... shaky. It doesn’t last long. I’m usually fine, I can get myself back to bed no problem. But this time was... really bad." Quietly, so quiet Ilya could barely hear it, Shane whispered, "I didn't know what to do.” The self-hatred Ilya was feeling before increased by tenfold. He felt his skin prickle, hot and painful, knowing that he had not just hurt Shane once, but over and over and over again. And he hadn’t even noticed -- his precious, forgiving, listful Shane Hollander, coming back every time just to leave raw, emotionally splayed open. Just for a few short hours of fun with someone who couldn’t even kiss him goodbye properly or hold him for a few minutes? The Canadian must be more of a masochist than he thought. Desperately he tried to reign in his emotions so that Shane did not think he was angry at him, but it was difficult. Everything felt too tight, too real, too warm. He blinked rapidly, trying to process. His eyes shifted back and forth as if sifting through his memories visually, one by one, looking for the signs he previously missed. “So we fuck,” he began, “you leave, you feel sick, you come back few weeks later for more?” Shane grumbled. “Well, no.” “Ah, no? You are liar now?” “It's not every time. And not as sick as today.” “But sometimes, da?” He swallowed, embarrassed. “Sometimes, yes.” Ilya let out a sharp whine. He hadn’t meant to, but Shane’s honestly pierced his armor in ways no one ever had before. Quickly, he closed his eyes to stop the hot tears from falling. Within moments, warm kisses were being pressed to his eyelids, his cheeks, his neck, his shoulder. Anywhere Hollander could reach, trying to comfort him as best as he could. Ilya did not feel he deserved the comfort, but accepted it anyway. He was a greedy man, a weak man. Who could deny a merciful Shane Hollander wrapped in their arms? “Hey, it’s okay. I’m good now. It’s okay." Ilya barked out a wet laugh as Shane's lips passed over his cheekbone. The absurdity of Shane soothing him while Shane was the one dropping and dropping and dropping was too much for him to fathom. "Is not okay, Hollander. Fuck, it is not okay." How could Shane sit here, soft and sweet and not upset with him in the slightest? Where were the cutting words, the anger and roughness he deserved? Ilya had grown up with an angry man in his house, and then, in his head. And it was fine, he felt safest in the explosion. He knew how to prepare for battle and how to pick up the pieces afterwards. He did not know how to handle a thumb brushing across his cheek, soft, so soft. But he wanted to learn. "I know you didn't mean to," Shane murmured. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut tighter. "You do not know that." "I do. It's okay. And I forgive you,” Shane said simply. The finality of his words pulled Rozanov back from the edge, but just barely. You may forgive me, but I certainly do not. Opening his eyes, he was met with the kindest face he had ever had the fortune to see. A slightly jutted out bottom lip, big doe-like eyes, brows creased in understanding. Selfishly, he pulled Shane in for a kiss. The press of his lips against his grounded him a bit, the slide of his tongue into Shane’s mouth. He wanted to eat the other man whole, but this would suffice for now. “Shane,” Ilya started, “this will never happen again. You have my word. It brings me great pain to know I hurt you in this way. I promise I will take better care.” All Shane could do was nod dumbly, too scared to speak. The seriousness in his tone was sobering. “And if I ever do to you again, you have permission to hit me upside head with stick. Hard, Hollander. This, I mean.” Shane nodded again. Satisfied, Ilya laid back into the pillows a little. He wasn’t going to be letting this go anytime soon, but he had Hollander here, now, in his arms. Safe and warm, sleepy. It was nearly 4AM, a quick glance at the clock let him know. Ilya sighed, pulling Shane to his chest again. He went willingly, his head pillowed on Ilya’s pectoral muscle. His hands wove their way around bare torso, the weight grounding. “Hollander, we must sleep now. We will speak more in the morning. You need rest.” “Okay.” “I have set late alarm, you need to sleep in.” “Okay.” “No flights until 7PM tomorrow, we have all day. No rushing.” “Ilya,” Shane interrupted. With a hand on Ilya’s cheek, he tilted his face so their gazes could meet. “It’s okay. I’m okay. We are okay.” He said each sentence with such a finality that there was no room for argument. They would talk more tomorrow, but tonight was done. Ilya let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “We are okay.” “We are okay,” Shane echoed. He pressed a kiss to the left of Ilya’s nipple and closed his eyes. Reaching to the bedside table, Ilya switched the lights off. The room was blanketed in darkness. Ilya’s mind raced as they settled in, running through the events of tonight. Cornering Shane in the bathroom. Winning MVP. Shane performing so beautifully for him. Ravaging him. Being cowardly. Sending him away. And then almost losing him. Having to warm Shane back to life. Having to warm them both back to life. But inside the suite that night, it was only Shane and Ilya tangled together. Shane and Ilya, still something, despite the odds. His throat tightened at the thought, looking down at the sleeping man in his arms. There was no more room in this penthouse for big feelings, they could wait until the morning. There was only room for Shane and Ilya. And that was enough.

Chapter End Notes

hiiiiiiii guys i have been obsessed w heated rivalry (BIG SURPRISE) and felt possessed to write for the first time in forever. classically, had to do the ill-fated vegas scene. im toying with the thought of doing a part 2, would we want it from their flipped perspectives or would we want some talking about what happened and then smut city?? or maybe both?? maybe both. call me back let me know ok love u byeeeee

Chapter 2: into your earthly hands

Chapter Summary Ilya let out a sharp laugh. It was almost as if he could see right through him -- fuck, maybe he could. “Tell truth, Hollander, or else I will not fuck you later.” “You wanna fuck me after this?” Ilya rolled his eyes. “Mm, maybe. Your big sad eyes make my dick hard. Is, ah, difficult to ignore.” Shane scoffed, but his own twitched in interest. “I do not have big sad eyes.” “Ah, yes, you do,” he said matter-of-factly. “Right before I put dick in, big sad eyes appear. Like magic. Is very hot.”

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes Shane’s internal clock did not seem to care that he only got a few hours of sleep, he was up and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to crash anytime soon. Before he even opened his eyes, he took stock of his physical state. His face felt puffy and tight -- he distantly recalled his many tears from the night before, so that made sense. Grimacing, he tried to tense and untense the muscles in his limbs without waking the sleeping Russian surrounding him. It brought Shane back a little. His entire body felt taut and achey, like he had gone extra hard at the gym. It was uncomfortable but not unmanageable. Surprisingly, he was stripped down to his boxers and his socks, just the way he liked to sleep. The chill he felt in his bones yesterday was gone, and in its place was a surprisingly deep warmth. During the night, Shane must have tried to literally burrow himself into Ilya’s chest. His head was nestled in the other man’s armpit, his face pressed tightly to Ilya’s ribcage. Ilya’s arm was laid out perpendicular to their bodies to accommodate Shane better. On instinct, Shane kissed the skin directly in front of his face, once, twice. He couldn’t remember the whole night, but he could recall most of it. It came back to him in flashes, the memories misty around the edges. If he hadn’t woken up glued to Rozanov’s side, he would have chalked the entire thing up to a weird fever dream. The lost feeling that had descended over him like a fog yesterday had been… terrifying. It was somehow the most intense but most absent he had ever felt. But Ilya -- Ilya had found him. Tucked him into bed. Kept his socks on. Ilya always knew. Shane felt himself tear up at the notion, the softness of it all. He placed a third, soft kiss to his ribs in thanks. Cracking open the one eye that wasn’t smashed against Rozanov, he could see that the room was still dark. Ilya had the curtains closed, early morning light trying to seep in around them. Ilya was still sound asleep, as far as Shane could tell. He hadn’t stirred at the kisses to his ribs. Peeking up at him, the other man’s eyes were indeed still closed, his golden curls mussed up like a chaotic halo around his head. Shane didn’t allow himself to bask in many moments, but this one. This one was too perfect not to. He was curious what time it was, but he pushed down the worry and focused only on the slow, controlled breaths leaving Ilya’s sleeping form. Rising, falling, rising -- rhythmic, dependable. The sharp, woodsy cologne the Russian loved flooded his senses, paired with his pine scented soap and something spiced and warm. He wouldn’t allow himself to think that it smelled like home. But it did. It could. If Shane was honest with himself, he usually felt out of place. Like he was an alien trying to convince everyone he was a normal human boy. Studying their facial expressions, their interactions -- he tried to fit in as best he could, but he never felt right. It wasn’t him. And he knew people said things about him behind his back, they had his entire life. He was weird, robotic. Just a little too far removed to ever feel welcome anywhere. Lying in bed, Shane realized that Ilya never made him feel that way. Closing his eyes, he recalled the endearing look on Ilya’s face when he watched Shane fold his clothes before they hooked up. The way his eyes softened whenever he slid a can of ginger ale his way. How he indulged in all of Shane’s special interests, his insane macrobiotic diet, his seemingly random waves of panic. He would poke fun at Shane, sure, but he never made him feel bad for being different. Fuck, Rozanov might even like him for it. And well. That scared Shane more than anything. Feeling his heart swell with gratitude and something else he was too afraid to name, he shifted around so he was positioned above the other man, straddling his toned thighs. He ran his hands up the defined planes of Ilya's chest, giving his pecs a rough squeeze. Ilya’s breathing stuttered, still asleep, but reacting to Shane’s touch all the same. He leaned forward and dropped a wet kiss on the chiseled ‘v’ of Ilya’s right hip. Sloppily, Shane trailed his lips across Ilya’s abdomen, mouthing at the contours of his muscles and licking fully into his bellybutton. It would’ve felt weird to him if it was anyone else, but it was Rozanov, so it was insanely hot. He felt Ilya’s dick swell in interest against his chest. Licking a long stripe up the sleeping man’s left side, he stopped right at his nipple. He tongued around it lazily for a few moments before pulling the pink bud into his mouth. Looking up at Ilya, the man still appeared to be out, but his eyebrows were drawn together in want. Greedily, he sealed his lips around Ilya’s nipple and sucked. “Ohhh,” Ilya groaned. He jackknifed awake, hands coming up instinctually to cradle the head on his chest. Shane preened at the long fingers running through his hair. God, it felt so good. They started to scratch lightly at his scalp and he let out a soft moan. In response, he circled Ilya’s nipple with the tip of his tongue before sucking again, reveling in the soft noises he was pulling out of the other man. “Ah, ah, Hollander,” he breathed, throwing his head backwards into the pillows. From this angle, Shane could only see the large swells of his pecs and the sharp angle of his chin jutting upward. The sight made something stir in his lower stomach, deep and hot. Finished with his left nipple, Shane moved on to the right one -- it was only fair. He tweaked it between his fingers a bit, teasing. He watched with hooded eyes as the skin turned deep pink and puffy. Ilya shuddered beneath him, his torso rolling. He ground up against the smaller man, chasing any amount of friction he could find. Unfortunately for him, Shane was still sitting on his thighs and avoided the other man’s cock easily. Ilya grumbled, obviously annoyed. Loving having the control for once, Shane finally licked at the nipple he just abused, coating the area in a thick layer of spit. “Holy-” the Russian groaned, but he only took that as encouragement. Shane blew cold air quickly on the skin and grinned at the string of Russian curses gracing his ears. “Hollander, come here,” Ilya growled, but Shane wasn’t ready to, not just yet. He worked his way up the other man’s neck, dropping hot, open-mouthed kisses along the way until he reached the shell of Ilya’s ear. Once satisfied, he leaned in. His lips brushed the sensitive skin there. “Hey,” Shane whispered. The larger man huffed out a laugh. Rozanov slid his hands from his hairline down to cup Shane’s face. He ran his thumbs over his cheekbones, slowly, as if admiring them. Shane would’ve blushed if he wasn’t so focused on Ilya’s eyes -- so soft, so unbearably soft. As unguarded as he’s ever seen them. “We need to talk, Hollander,” he said, his voice still heavy with sleep. Shane immediately looked down, staring at the hollow of Ilya’s throat instead. Panic began to build in his chest. “Ah, ah, look at me,” the other man tutted, petting over his cheekbones again. Patient. His eyes flitted from Ilya’s throat, to the bedside table, back down to his throat. He closed them, took a deep breath. Shaking his head, he opened them again and forced himself to meet Ilya’s gaze. Ilya nodded, satisfied. “Sorry about last night,” Shane mumbled. Sorry I screwed things up between us. Sorry I made this more complicated than it should have been. Sorry I made you clean up my mess because I couldn’t handle things on my own. Sorry this is turning into something more, at least for me. Ilya shushed him. With his thumbs, he wiped at the tears Shane hadn’t realized were falling. He was crying an awful lot lately, wasn’t he? “No need for your sorries, da? I am one who is sorry, dorogoy. Very sorry.” Shane blinked, his eyelashes sticking together. “Yeah, but--” “No,” Ilya chided. “Tell me, how many times you feel this way?” “Just a few times. It’s no big deal, Rozanov.” “How many times?” “Five. Maybe six?” Ilya hummed, trying to choose his words carefully. “Those nights, there is something the same about them?” That made Shane pause. How was he supposed to tell Rozanov that if he doesn’t get a kiss from him, he basically goes into shock? There was no way he’d live that down. Instead, Shane shrugged and went, “I don’t know.” Ilya let out a sharp laugh. It was almost as if he could see right through him -- fuck, maybe he could. “Tell truth, Hollander, or else I will not fuck you later.” “You wanna fuck me after this?” Ilya rolled his eyes. “Mm, maybe. Your big sad eyes make my dick hard. Is, ah, difficult to ignore.” Shane scoffed, but his own twitched in interest. “I do not have big sad eyes.” “Ah, yes, you do,” he said matter-of-factly. “Right before I put dick in, big sad eyes appear. Like magic. Is very hot.” “Oh, fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane groaned, but there was no heat in his words. He pushed at Ilya’s chest playfully, making the other man laugh. Feeling a bit braver, he straightened up his posture and continued. “The nights I feel bad, they’re nights we don’t... kiss. Or we don’t have enough time to say goodbye.” Ilya nodded. “And last night was… worse? Because both?” “Yeah,” Shane admitted. “I thought you were mad at me for so long, since Sochi. I didn’t know what I did wrong to make you ignore me for six months. And then I finally get to see you again…” Embarrassed, he felt his face heat. Fingers pet lightly over his cheeks again, encouraging. “I finally get to see you again, and it’s like I’m fucking nothing to you. I didn’t even get to look you in your face when you fucked me,” he spit. Ilya flinched. Good. “And then I try to talk to you but you won’t open up, you get angry. I’ve done something wrong again and you won’t tell me what. Then I’m out the door wondering what the fuck happened and when I’m gonna see you next because for some goddamn reason I still--” Shane stopped. A wave of emotion constricted his throat, barring him from playing the one card he was still holding close to his chest. He felt himself start to shake. “You still what, hm? What is it, Shane?” Ilya asked gently, and fuck if he hadn’t used his first name, Shane would still have some resolve left. Some shred of self-preservation to not tell Ilya-- fuck it. Fuck it. Everything was screwed already, he might as well seal the deal. “For some goddamn reason I still like you. I still miss you, fuck, I think about you all of the time, Rozanov. It drives me crazy. I still want you even when you’re bad for me. Even when you hurt me, you’re all I want.” The admission hung in the air between them, like a hornet’s nest hanging from a precariously weak branch. The sting was inevitable. “You are not ‘fucking nothing’ to me, Hollander,” Ilya bit, like even saying those words was painful. Shane’s eyes flashed, questions brewing but allowing the Russian to continue. “I am… sorry, for Sochi. I was scared.” “Because of your father?” Ilya grimaced. “Yes, but also because Russia. Of that place hurting… you. Us. Whatever this,” he gestured wildly between their chests, “is.” “So we are something,” Shane said under his breath. He hadn’t just imagined it. “You are something, Hollander. I am just… lucky bastard.” Shane didn’t know how to respond to that. He wasn’t sure there were words. “After Sochi, I let that fear take me over. I knew it was not fair to you, I was being asshole. It was painful. But I thought it was best. For you and for me.” “It hurt you too?” Shane asked earnestly. Eyes wet, Ilya nodded. Shane let out a small breath; not quite a sigh of relief, but close. “And tonight. I tried to… stay away. Give you what I think you want, but not too much. It was not kind of me. I took things too far, Hollander, I know this now,” he admitted. It was like all of the fight had been drained of Shane. All of the anger, all of the resentment, gone with the slight hunch of Rozanov’s shoulders and a sinking admission of guilt. Ilya was just a man, after all. A scared, closeted man with people depending on him back at home, threatening to lock him up. Their love was conditional. And Shane could guess what that was like, how it felt to carry all of that, but he’d never fully know. He wouldn’t want to see the person that kind of pressure would shape him into. Suddenly, this didn’t seem like an argument worth having anymore. “Did you ever fucking think to ask me what I actually want?” Shane leaned in again, his forehead pressed to Ilya’s. His eyes slid closed instinctually, whole body relaxing into the other man. “What is it you want, Hollander?” Ilya whispered. Shane let the moment settle between them. As the seconds passed by, he realized he liked the weight. “You. I just want you, Ilya.” At the admission, Ilya made a weak, choking noise. Shane felt the other man tremble, just slightly. And then Ilya was surging up and throwing Shane down on his back on the bed. He caged the smaller man in, propped up on his elbows on either side of Shane’s head. Their legs were slotted together, one of Ilya’s between Shane’s. With Ilya leaning his entire body weight onto Shane, he noted that the pressure felt nice, comforting. Ilya pressed his nose into Shane’s cheek. He drew in a shallow, hitching breath. “Can you forgive?” Shane smiled sadly. He would’ve forgiven Ilya anyway even without the explanation, that’s how far gone he was for him. But this -- the honesty, the communication. How Ilya was trying for him. He would be a fool to pull the plug now when they both had given so much to keep it afloat. “Yes,” Shane whispered, “Fuck, yes, I can forgive.” Ilya laughed wetly, his smile wide but something sad pulled at the edges. It made Shane ache. That’s when he noticed Ilya was crying, quietly, but still crying. “Spasibo, Shane Hollander, spasibo. ” And then Ilya was kissing him, attacking Shane’s mouth with his own. It was desperate, hungry, mixed with salty tears and pure need. Shane couldn’t say too much, he had needed it too. Had nearly collapsed in the hallway yesterday because he needed this so badly. He opened his mouth more, letting Ilya lick into him. He’d let Ilya do anything he wanted, really. Ilya pulled back, drawing a moan from Shane at the loss of contact. “Shh, shh,” he mumbled. He stared at Shane for a moment who squirmed under the scrutiny. The heat in Ilya’s gaze was something he was more than used to seeing -- it was just that a knowing admiration was there now, too. Longing. The realization made Shane’s stomach flip. “What?” he huffed. A blush spread down his face all the way to his chest and Ilya watched it, mesmerized. “Deal'no podkhodit dlya menya,” Ilya remarked, planting a wet kiss to Shane’s bottom lip and diving back in. He pressed Shane backward into the overstuffed pillows as he devoured him, flattening the other man out with his entire body weight. “Ty ideal'no podkhodish' mne,” he whispered against Shane’s lips, “Dazhe yesli by ya prozhil tysyachu zhizney, ya vso ravno ne byl by dostoin tebya.” “What are you saying?” Shane murmured. He looked up at the Russian man, still teary-eyed and soft. Ilya sniffed. “I wish I had these lips on my cock right now, you always look so beautiful with a full mouth.” “Oh, fuck you!” Shane exclaimed, bucking up into Ilya. He tried to throw him off but was largely unsuccessful, the other man barely moving at the motion. Ilya let out a wild laugh and tossed his head backward, clearly entertained. Shane was in awe at the sight. Ilya looked… light. Lighter than he had in a long time. “Mm, no. More like fuck you, Hollander,” he growled, eyes sparkling. * * * He had Shane Hollander in his bed for the second time in twelve hours. He might as well be the luckiest man in Las Vegas, which was a pretty big fucking deal. It had hurt, hearing what Shane had been managing on his own for so long. They had never talked like this before; it felt new, scary. Like his heart was on full display inside his chest, bloody and beating and belonging entirely to the man in his bed. If Shane looked close enough, Ilya was sure he would see the name ‘Hollander’ carved into his right atrium. And even though they were on the same page now, Ilya still felt a pang of guilt deep in his gut when he noticed the tear tracks on Shane’s cheeks. Knowing he had put them there, time and time again. Images flashed in his mind of moments he wasn’t there to witness. Shane, always Shane. Vacant and weightless in dark hotel rooms, or maybe his apartment back in Montreal. Curled up tight, hugging himself tight, his head between his knees. Fingers fumbling with the phone to call Lily-- No. He couldn’t dwell, not now. Not with Hollander warm and pliant underneath him, wanting. Ilya had a plan to make it up to him. He could beat himself up later. Shooting Shane a devious grin, he kissed down the other man’s chest. Shane was always so responsive and tonight was no exception; a trail of goosebumps was left in his wake. The smaller man rolled his hips upward, a breathy whine escaping his lips. Ilya had already had him a few hours ago, he knew he was being greedy. But it had been rough, cold before. Shane deserved something sweeter; he had been so good for him. Perfect, every fucking time, he was always so perfect. Did he tell Hollander that earlier? He could not remember. But he could tell him now. Resting his chin on Shane’s torso, he peered up at him. He fluttered his eyelashes for good measure, knowing it made Shane weak. He slid his hands slowly up the bed, over the silk sheets until he met Shane’s own. Over his wrists, up his forearms, coming to wrap tentatively around two strong biceps. Ilya squeezed at the muscles there. Shane propped himself up on his elbows, meeting Ilya’s gaze with confusion. “Why’d you stop?” “Because you. You are so good, Hollander,” Ilya whispered. And then Shane melted. Ilya watched as the other man relaxed. He sunk further into his shoulders, his chest caving slightly. It was like Ilya could see the stress leaving his body, wisping away like smoke between them. Ilya felt lucky to be the one holding the match. “I‘m good?” Shane asked, and fuck. The disbelief in his tone made Ilya’s jaw clench. He reigned in his emotions -- this was about Shane. “So good, always, Hollander. Do not even have to try, you just are.” Shane whimpered in response. Ilya grinned against his navel. “No one sees this but me, I am so lucky. So lucky to have such beautiful man in my bed,” Ilya went on, pressing his lips to Shane’s torso, his forgiving hips. Shane stuttered. His hands released Shane’s biceps to play at the waistband of his briefs instead. Shane twisted in the sheets, egging him on. He did not speak, but he didn’t have to. Ilya knew what he wanted. Slowly, the Russian rolled the briefs over Shane’s ass and down his legs. Shane kicked at the fabric weakly, freeing himself. The room felt electric, every touch charged with something more than just pure want this time. Ilya sat back on his knees between Shane’s thighs. With his large hands, he pushed Shane’s legs apart so they fell wide to either side. Ilya rested his hands there, on the delicate skin of his inner thighs, warm and familiar. It was such a vulnerable position for Hollander, so open. Ilya knew this had to be hard for him. The other man was twitching with anticipation, clearly wanting more but unwilling to rush this. His cock was red and weeping, precome leaking steadily from the tip. He collapsed back against the pillows when Ilya removed his underwear, head thrown to the side as if meeting Ilya’s gaze was too much for him. Ilya was not a religious man, but he knew when someone was worthy of worship. “Blyat, you are perfect. Always, you are perfect for me. Spasibo, lyubimyy.” “Not perfect, Ilya,” he whined, “I‘m not.” Ilya narrowed his eyes. “I do not think it is you who gets to decide, yes? All I see is perfect from up here.” He gripped Shane’s thighs, hard enough to leave red marks behind in the shape of his fingers. “Ilya.” “Hm?” “Please fuck me. Please,” he begged. Ilya pretended to think about it. “Only good boys get fucked, da? So, are you, Hollander?” He relished in the pleading whine that fell from Shane’s lips in response. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to Shane’s tip. The man bucked his hips at the contact and threw an arm over his face, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “I need answer,” Ilya taunted. His breath was hot on Shane’s dick, mere inches away. “...No.” No? Shane was being so honest with him, and it hurt. Ilya didn’t realize until then how deep this went for Shane. How he didn’t allow himself to revel in his own accomplishments and beauty; he pushed himself harder and harder without care or concern. Despite everything he’s done, everything he’s trained for, Shane Hollander did not think of himself as good. The reality of it hit him square in the chest, how little Shane thought of himself -- if he thought about himself at all. “Hollander,” Ilya threatened, his tone low. “I’m not, ’m sorry. I can’t say-” “Hollander, is okay,” Ilya tried. “Let me show you how good you are, okay?” From underneath his arm, Shane nodded. His movements were jerky, and Ilya could tell he was crying. Fuck. “Is okay to touch?” he asked, and Shane nodded again. “Need more than that, Hollander.” “Yeah, it’s okay. Sorry,” came his weak reply. Ilya tutted. “Stop with sorries, perfect boy.” And then Ilya was swallowing him whole, taking Shane into his mouth like he was born to do it. The weight of Shane’s cock on his tongue was familiar, it felt nice. He started to bob his head down his length, letting his instincts take over. Shane was a mess within seconds, whining as he wound his hands into Ilya’s messy curls. His nervous demeanor was gone, replaced by a longing so strong Ilya could taste it. Giving Shane this, making him feel this way, was addictive for Ilya. Every whimper and whine he pulled from those pouty, pink lips made something in his stomach burn white hot. He’d do anything to stay here, buried between Shane’s thighs. Ilya pulled off to swirl his tongue around Shane’s slit for a moment, teasing. He grinned when Shane let out an involuntary yelp. “So sensitive. Beautiful.” Satisfied, he continued his onslaught, taking all of Shane into his mouth again. He managed to press his nose to the other man’s pubic bone and took a deep breath in, immersing himself in Shane. At the same time, he reached up a hand to press between Shane’s cheeks. Probing, gently, until his two fingers found Shane’s entrance and pressed. “Ah, oh fuck. Ilya, fuck,” Shane whimpered, fingers tightening in Ilya’s hair. He did not enter Hollander, not yet. He simply pressed his fingers to his hole in time with his head bobbing down Shane’s cock. The rhythm was difficult to keep up, but it drove Shane wild. He was arching off of the bed into Ilya’s mouth. The muscles in his thighs and abdomen shook with exertion. When he heard the familiar hitching of Shane’s breathing, he knew he was close. He pulled off then; a long string of saliva connected Shane’s dick to Ilya’s mouth. It was obscene and so insanely hot -- his own cock throbbed in neglect. With an animal-like need, Ilya climbed up to meet Shane face-to-face. He planted a sloppy, sticky kiss on Shane’s lips, noting that they were bitten red. He collapsed onto Shane’s chest, letting his head rest on the other man’s collarbone. “You like, Hollander?” “Ilya, please.” Ilya smiled. “Begging for me so pretty, how can I say no?” Getting his hands underneath him again, Ilya lifted himself off of Shane to grab for the bottle of lube still sitting on the nightstand. Shane was probably still loose from earlier, but Ilya wanted to make sure. When he returned his focus to the bed, he caught Shane shuffling around in the sheets, trying to turn over onto his stomach. Ilya placed a large hand on Shane’s chest, stopping him. Shane looked up at him in confusion, his eyebrows knitted together. “What? I thought--” “Lay back down. I want to see you, Hollander.” “Oh. Okay.” There was silence for a moment; Ilya knew it, paired with Shane’s tone, meant he was uncomfortable. They hadn’t faced each other during sex since Shane’s first time, and that was years ago at this point. He tried to ease the tension, to uncoil the ball of anxiety Shane was forming into. “And those big sad eyes, God, they make me so hard, Hollander,” Ilya whined, his voice light. Shane huffed but there was no anger behind it, so Ilya continued. “Show them to me, please. I want to see.” Slowly, Shane raised his eyes to meet Ilya’s. Because he always did as Ilya asked, even when he was scared to, even when he was unsure. They were huge, shining in the dim light of the room. Framed by thick lashes, Ilya could see the depth of emotion Shane was holding back. And while neither of them were ready to address it, it crushed Ilya every time. He knew it must crush Shane, too. Two stars imploding in space. Quiet and all-consuming; devastating, all the same. “There they are, so pretty. Everything about you is pretty, yes? So soft, delicate.” “Delicate. You have been reading The New Yorker.” “Mm, no. I learn words only to call you. I learned new one, just for your freckles.” Shane tilted his head to the side in interest. “For my freckles?” “Da, it is stunning. They are stunning. Just like rest of you, Hollander.” He watched as Shane’s eyes grew impossibly darker, taking on a glassy sheen. Then they closed, and Ilya leaned down to nose at Shane’s cheek. “I will fuck you now,” Ilya stated. Shane could only nod in response, seemingly at a loss for words. A few soft fingers at Shane’s entrance confirmed that yes he was still loose and open, his body still ready for Rozanov. Ilya pulled a condom from the nightstand. Sitting back on his heels, he rolled it on and drizzled some lube on his fingers. Once it warmed, he slicked himself up, rubbing the remainder between Shane’s cheeks. As Ilya situated himself above Shane, he felt the other man’s legs come up to wrap around his waist. He kissed Shane’s face, his cheek, his jaw, before lining himself up and pushing in. The reaction was immediate -- both men groaned, low and throaty, and Ilya eased into him at a snail’s pace. Nothing in this world would ever feel as good as being enveloped by Shane Hollander’s tight heat, he was sure of it. With every inch, Shane grew more and more restless. He kept trying to take more of Ilya, pushing his hips upward to quicken his pace. “Shh, dorogoy. We go slow, yes? I want to feel you.” His words had the desired effect on the other man, who stilled beneath him save for his heaving chest. Then, a quiet, “Okay.” And then Ilya was sliding in entirely, his mouth dropping open as he bottomed out. Shane sighed airily, sounding far away but pleased. Desperate kisses were pressed to his skin, anywhere Ilya could reach. Open-mouthed, sticky, loving. He nipped at Shane’s shoulder, then pulled out before pushing back in in one fluid motion. “Oh!” Shane yelled, baring his throat. Ilya started another attack there, mouthing at his adam’s apple. It was slow, calculated, as he lavished over Shane’s soft edges and strong jawline. It should have scared him, how naturally Shane’s body came to him, but he was too lost in the feeling of the man below him. They continued like that -- slow, languid thrusts, legs tied tightly around a slim waist, touching in every place they could be. Ilya’s hands roamed Shane’s body, tweaking and caressing. He cradled Shane’s face in his hand, letting the man suckle on the tip of his thumb. The sight sent a shiver through Ilya. He delivered a few painfully deep strokes that had Shane’s eyes fluttering closed, floating away. It was no matter, Ilya would take care of him. He wouldn’t mess this up, not again. Not with Shane. And maybe Ilya had lied; this wasn’t just fucking and they both knew it. This was so much more than that. And maybe it always had been, swimming just under the surface, waiting for the right time. “You are beautiful, Hollander, beautiful like this. So open, so sweet,” Ilya panted into Shane’s ear. The other man moaned, loud, so Ilya continued his praise, punctuating them with deep, angled thrusts. “No one else can take me like you. No one else is as pretty, as strong.” “I could touch every inch of you and still want more.” “You are so good. Try so much, work so hard. Deserve to be held, like this.” “Such perfect body, beautiful face. Perfect at everything you do, Hollander.” With each sentence Ilya could see Shane get more and more worked up. He was heavily panting now, barely able to kiss Ilya back when the man went in to devour his mouth. All he could do was lay there, slack-jawed, and let Ilya lick into his mouth and take. His cock laid untouched between their stomachs, almost purple and leaking profusely. It looked painful, but Ilya wanted to make this last, so he left it alone. Shane could get by on the slight friction from their skin rubbing together for now. Ilya felt the familiar heat building in his lower stomach, subconsciously speeding up his relentless drive into Shane. His entire being became tense, hot and uncomfortable; he knew he was close. “Tell me,” Ilya demanded, almost hammering into Shane now. The whole bed was shaking, headboard rocking against the wall. Ilya reached a hand up to anchor himself so he didn’t end up putting them both through it. “What?” Shane asked, dazed. Short little ah, ah, ah’s were leaving his lips with every thrust. He was completely mindless. “Tell me how good you are.” “Fuck,” Shane whined, and then he was crying, but these looked like happy tears. Okay, maybe overwhelming tears, but they weren’t sad ones, so Ilya would take it. “Tell me, Hollander.” “I’m,” Shane tried, pushing through. Ilya’s hips snapped sharply into his own. “Yes, Shane, say it. You can say it.” “I’m good, I’m so good, I’m good and I’m yours- oh fuck, Ilya!” And then Shane was coming untouched between them. It was the hottest thing Ilya had ever seen, and he had seen a lot of hot things. And yes, most of those things involved Shane Hollander, but this one made it to the top of the list. Long, hot ropes of cum shot upward, coating their stomachs and most of Shane’s chest. Ilya thought he heard Shane yelling, screaming maybe, but he was too taken by the sudden, unforgiving squeeze of Shane around his own cock to perceive much else. Shane’s hole locked up like a vice around Ilya and then the Russian was coming, too. Low guttural noises escaped him, sounds he had never made before finally freed from the depths of his core. “Ohh, oh, Shane. Fuck, oh, my God,” Ilya yelled, pumping into Shane a few more times until he was spent. He dropped down onto Shane immediately, covering every inch of his body with his own. Shane’s own legs fell limp to his slides, splayed out for Rozanov. With what little strength Ilya had, he mouthed along Shane’s jaw, which was still hanging open from his orgasm. Ilya laughed under his breath. He loved doing this to Hollander. He loved being the one to make that loud mind finally go quiet. Ilya shifted to lay his head on Shane’s tacky chest and brought his arms up to hold his shoulders in his palms. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but Ilya didn’t want to pull out just yet and Shane seemed perfectly content with laying here for a little while longer. A few minutes later, he felt Shane rouse underneath him. He lolled his head lazily to look down at Ilya who was still laying on his pec. “Was that good for you?” he slurred. Ilya laughed. “Yes, very good for me. Easily top ten.” Shane snorted. “Only top ten? I just came my brains out untouched and it only made your top ten?” “Eh, maybe top eight.” “Oh, fuck off, Rozanov.” Ilya petted Shane’s shoulders with his thumbs, the repetitive motion lulling them both into something not quite sleep, but not quite awake. It felt nice, peaceful. Right. “You feel okay?” Ilya asked. Shane seemed fine, but he also seemed fine every other time. He didn’t want to miss something again. Shane took a beat, then nodded. “Yes, I feel fine. No fog, no cold. I’m good.” “Good. …was worried.” Ilya admitted. His stomach churned at the vulnerability in his words, but he ignored it. For Shane. “I’m okay, Ilya, really. I’ll let you know if I start to feel not okay, but I think we’re good.” “Let me hold you, just for little longer. Then, we shower.” He reached up to kiss Shane, soft and slow this time. No need in his movements, no expectation. They were simply kissing to kiss. Shane took to it easily, his lips warm as he pressed back into Ilya. “Together?” Shane asked as they broke apart, hopeful. And who was Ilya to deny him? Ilya grinned, all sharp teeth and crinkley eyes. “Da, Hollander. Together.”

Chapter End Notes

hello hi!!!!!!!! so sorry about the delayed post, it took me a while to get this one done bc i forgot how writing smut works. totally my bad, wont happen again. hopefully this is up to your standards (lots of angst, lots of longing, lots of fucking) !!!!!! i hope you all enjoy, please let me know what you think and ALSO i loved all of your comments!! i love all of you so much!!! you are all too too kind and thoughtful - safe to say if i whip up another short fanfic yall would be interested? any ideas on what to do next? im up for a challenge - talk soon!! xxoxoxoooxoxoxoxoxo Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!