Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

High Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, shane gets high on accident, ilya has the best night of his life, Fluff, A little angst, But mostly fluff, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Soft Shane Hollander, Mild Sexual Content

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of high on loving you

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-08 Words: 10,673 Chapters: 1/1

as high as i might (i can't get that high)

Summary

Hayden cuts himself off at the sound of something he hears so rarely, he’s almost sure he’s imagining it. He scans the room, looking for the source, and sure enough, his eyes land on his target. 

There, nestled in between two of his teammates on the couch, is Shane Hollander. 

Laughing. Out loud. Audibly. 

Like, he’s actually fucking laughing, not the fake laughs he forces out to make other people more comfortable. In fact, he’s laughing so hard, he looks like he might cry, and Hayden would be delighted by the sight of it if he weren’t so fucking concerned. Shane Hollander doesn’t laugh at parties. Shane Hollander barely laughs when he’s actually happy, and he’s never happy at parties. So what gives? 

Or:

Shane Hollander accidentally gets very high. That's it, that's the fic.

Notes

i have fallen for high shane in a very serious very real way and simply had to write more of him. this fic was SO FUN RAH and there are so many parts i love, so i am excited to share. prepare for FLUFF!! smitten shane!! all the good things!!

dedicating this fic to my bestie gal mil <3 i told u i would write this for ur birthday, so HAPPY BDAY!!! love u queen and love nothing more than talking about hollanov with u every single day. and thank u x10000 to u and ur friend for helping me with the french translations in this bc god knows i do not speak it and everyone can tell. u have done everyone a great service. MWAH!! THIS IS FOR U!!

this fic takes place sometime during the long game in my mind!! ilya and shane have been together for over three years by this point. :)
the title is from the song 'high' by the cure!

update: a very fantastic and awesome reader took the time to translate this fic into russian which is simply bonkers to me and so so cool. you can find that here! << Перевод на русский язык

ANOTHER update: another awesome reader (hyacinthiassms1894) has translated this fic into chinese?!? so fucking cool omg. please check out their translation here! <<翻译

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Shane isn’t really one for after parties— or parties in general, really— but for whatever reason, he’s made an exception tonight. Well, he knows why he made an exception. After the Metros shut out Pittsburgh earlier that evening (an incredible 6-0 victory in which Shane had put up half the points himself), his entire team threatened to bring the party to his house if he didn’t show at JJ’s, and there was truly nothing more horrifying than that concept. Tons of people, walking around his house with their sticky shoes, spilling various liquids on his well-kept floors and counters, maybe even, god forbid, sneaking off to fuck someone in one of his bedrooms…

No. That was simply not going to work for him. So, after showering and stopping by his house quickly to change, he sucked it up and hauled his exhausted, overworked body to JJ’s. 

As he approaches the door, already well within earshot of the music blasting from inside, he tries to arrange his features into a more neutral expression instead of the stiff, awkward one he knows he’s sporting now. Like he’s walking up the steps to a guillotine instead of his best friend’s house. Hayden informed him before at a different, miserable party that Shane sometimes has these please-someone-kill-me-with-a-gun eyes that are sort of a buzzkill for people trying to have a good time. 

He sighs, shaking his head a bit. Everything was fine. He promised to make an appearance, not stay until the sun rose, after all. And there was no chance in hell he would do that on a regular night, but especially not tonight, when he was expecting company later. 

The smile comes easily to his face at the thought of that company— when exactly the company would arrive, what the company would be wearing, if the company would let him try that thing he’d been wanting to try tonight… 

God, it’s been almost three weeks since Shane has seen Ilya, and he honestly doesn’t care if all they do tonight is fall asleep together on the couch. That’s how he knows it’s real between them. When the sex is as mindblowing as it is, the best he’s ever had by far, but something as simple as being in each other’s presence is better still. He’s so fucking lucky. 

“No fucking way, Hollander, you fucking showed!” JJ’s voice brings him back to himself. Back to where he’s standing, in the middle of a crowded living room. The volume of the cheering around him is frankly overstimulating as fuck, but he forces himself to smile. Everyone’s just excited. Last he checked, it wasn’t a crime to be excited at a 6-0 victory. 

“Hey, Comeau,” JJ calls, pointing as he makes his way over to Shane with a blinding grin, “you owe me fifty fucking dollars!” Then to Shane, “We were just kidding about coming to your house, you know. You didn’t have to freak out! Could have stayed at home all alone, just how you like!” 

Shane rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, well. You’re lucky tonight.” 

“Oh, I know how lucky we are to have you, capitaine! Fucking beautiful playing tonight. Legendary. Pulled off a hat trick like it was nothing! Even the other team was drooling watching you skate circles around them.” 

As usual when met with excessive praise, Shane shuts up like a clam. Luckily, JJ is already too drunk to really notice his awkwardness and pulls him to the kitchen, insisting he deserves a drink for his performance on the ice. While he’s trying to work out the least obnoxious way to re-explain that his strict macrofiber diet doesn’t allow for indulgences like alcohol, JJ surprises him. 

“And listen,” JJ slurs a bit, “I know you are a fucking freak about food and drinking and whatever the fuck.” 

Lovely. Shane doesn’t even know where to begin with that introduction. 

“But a couple of the other guys are doing dry January right now, god knows why, and the last thing I will ever be known as is an ungracious host! I got some beer, the boring non-alcoholic kind. It’s in the fridge, nice and cold.” 

Well. That was… nice. 

“I really shouldn’t—” Shane starts, but JJ cuts him off impatiently. 

“Ah ah! Is no worse than a ginger ale, yes? And you drink those sometimes.” 

“Sometimes,” he allows. “On special occasions.” 

JJ throws up his hands, exasperated. “If this doesn’t count as a fucking special occasion, Hollander, I dont’ know what the fuck does! Drink it, don’t drink it, I don’t care. Just get something cold to sip on and join us in the living room. I want you on my team for pool!” 

With that, he exits, leaving Shane to decide for himself what to do. Technically, his diet doesn’t allow for any drinks outside of water and black coffee, but. Well, JJ was maybe right about this being a special occasion. And at the very least, having something to hold while he tries to make conversation won’t go amiss. He isn’t going to die from drinking a non-alcoholic beer or two. 

He sighs, opens the fridge, and grabs a drink. 

*** 

Hayden Pike arrives at the party fashionably late, which, according to the Shane Hollanders of the world, should be punishable by death, but to all of his already-drunk teammates, is exactly on time. 

“Sorry!” he huffs, hurrying inside. “Sorry, bed-time took longer than usual. Jade and Ruby were fighting over a hair tie, can you believe that? A fucking hair tie! Not even a cute one, just a plain, old black one they both have millions of—” 

Hayden cuts himself off at the sound of something he hears so rarely, he’s almost sure he’s imagining it. He scans the room, looking for the source, and sure enough, his eyes land on his target. 

There, nestled in between two of his teammates on the couch, is Shane Hollander. 

Laughing. Out loud. Audibly. 

Like, he’s actually fucking laughing, not the fake laughs he forces out to make other people more comfortable. In fact, he’s laughing so hard, he looks like he might cry, and Hayden would be delighted by the sight of it if he weren’t so fucking concerned. Shane Hollander doesn’t laugh at parties. Shane Hollander barely laughs when he’s actually happy, and he’s never happy at parties. So what gives? 

“Uh, hey. Hey guys,” he says in response to his teammates’ raucous greeting, but his eyes haven’t left Shane. He’s approaching him now, like how one might approach a rare, near-extinct animal seen seldom in the wild. 

Shane looks over, catches sight of him, and lights up. “Hayyyd! You made it!” 

“Uhh yeah! Hey, buddy. You, uh, you doing okay?” 

“Oh he’s doing great,” someone snickers from across the room. “Jesus, never thought I’d live to see the day Hollander let loose.” 

Alarm bells are well and truly ringing inside Hayden’s head now. Tonight of all nights was not one that Shane would indulge in drinking. For one thing, Hayden literally saw his car parked out front, and for another, he knows with certainty that Shane was planning to stay for as little time as possible because in a matter of hours he will have a big, intimidating Russian hockey player knocking at his door who drove all the way from Ottawa after his game. 

Well, Rozanov probably has his own key by now, but still. Semantics. Shane didn’t come here to get fucked up. 

“You are idiots,” JJ shouts, clearly wasted and laughing loudly. “These drinks I gave him are not even alcoholic. Our capitaine is high off of vibes! It's a great fucking night!” 

Shane tilts back his head and gives a happy little whoop. Hayden has seen enough. 

“Come on, bud. Let’s uh. Let’s go to the kitchen, yeah? Really quick.”

Maybe Hayden can figure out what’s actually going on someplace a little quieter, with fewer prying eyes. Shane stands and stumbles a bit, letting out a sound that can only be classified as a giggle.

Jesus Christ. 

Once they make it to the kitchen and the coast proves to be clear, Hayden whirls on Shane. 

“What the fuck, dude? Are you drunk?” That sounded perhaps a bit too judgy. Shane is so uptight all the time, and Hayden doesn’t want to discourage him from seeking a bit of release if he wants it. “Not that that’s a bad thing!” he adds quickly. “Whatever you want to do is great, it’s just… unlike you. Are you good?” 

Shane stands there, blinking a bit and making just insane eye contact with him in such an un-Shane-Hollander-like way, it’s almost distracting. What the actual fuck was going on? 

“‘M fine, Hayd,” Shane says with a grin. “I’m fucking great, actually. I feel… like I don’t know. Good. Great. Like maybe I should go skydiving or something. Am I too old to skydive? Is there, like, an age limit for that?”

Hayden blinks, at a loss. “If there is one, I don’t think it caps at 29, buddy.” 

“Ilya wants to get his pilot license,” Shane says somewhat dreamily, and Hayden almost breaks his neck looking around to make sure they’re alone. To use Rozanov’s first name like that, at a party with their teammates who might overhear— Shane must be fucking possessed. There’s no other explanation. 

Shane, realizing he brought his drink with him, bends to take a sip and Hayden gets a full view of the label for the first time. Several unfortunate things start to click into place. 

Then Shane frowns, deep in thought. “Do you think Ilya would drop me out of a plane? If I asked nicely?” 

No, but he might drop Hayden out of one when he finds out about this. Without a parachute. 

“The fuck is the problem, Pike?” JJ asks a few moments later as he enters the kitchen, annoyed that Hayden had frantically waved him in here and away from his seat at the poker table. 

“The problem is that Shane isn’t drinking non-alcoholic beer, JJ.” Hayden grabs the can and shoves it in front of JJ’s face. “This is a fucking THC drink! And he’s had three of them! What the fuck?” 

JJ squints at the label before realization dawns across his face. “Ooooooh. Oh. Fuck. Yes, okay, those were in my fridge as well. But clearly labeled differently than the beer!” 

“You really think Shane Hollander of all people knows the intricacies of alcoholic beverage cans?” 

“No,” JJ says mournfully. “No, I do not.” 

Hayden runs his hands through his hair. “This is not good, man. I don’t even think Shane has ingested weed before in his life. His body is going to freak out!” He glances at Shane before continuing in a hushed whisper. “Not to mention how he’ll react if he tests positively for marijuana usage and has to answer to the league for this! He’ll lose his shit, Boiziau!” 

JJ holds up his hands, seeming to sober up a bit at the gravity of the situation. “Was an accident, I swear!” 

He turns to look at Shane, who is staring wistfully up at the ceiling. God knows what the poor guy is even seeing right now. 

“Shane? Buddy? You still doing good over there?” 

His friend doesn’t take his eyes off the ceiling, but points to it, waving his finger around. “There’s so much…”

The rest of his thought seems to die off. As does Hayden’s confidence in surviving the night. 

“He’s going to kill me,” he says decidedly. 

“Who?” JJ asks. “Shane?” 

Hayden just sighs. “Worse.” 

***

Ilya is about thirty minutes outside of Montreal when he feels his phone buzz against his thigh, interrupting his thoughts. 

It had been a long fucking day and his team had played terribly and he was so tired he could barely focus on the road in front of him, so he was riding with the windows cracked to stay awake despite the fact that it was -5 degrees and snowing lightly. He was sustaining himself with thoughts of Shane, the silver lining for everything in his life, and imagining how warm his house would be when Ilya stepped inside, how much warmer his arms would be when they wrapped around Ilya’s waist, pulling him close. How his hot, wet breath would feel against Ilya’s—

His phone buzzes inconveniently then, and he quickly digs it out of his pocket, knowing it will be Shane calling to see how far out he is. 

But it’s not Shane’s contact flashing across the screen. It’s an unknown number. He frowns, remembering how Shane had scolded him about answering spam calls all the time, and sends it to his voicemail. 

Not even two seconds later, the same number is calling him back. So he answers. 

“Hello?” he says, his voice still raspy from the game. 

On the other line, he hears a faint, “Rozanov? You there?” 

Ilya pulls his phone away from his ear with a frown, reading the number more closely. It’s a Montreal area code, and there are perhaps two people from Montreal who would be addressing him so familiarly. One of them being Shane. Which means… 

“...Pike?” 

The Metros forward clears his throat. “Yeah. Hi.”

It’s official. His night has taken the absolute worst fucking turn. First his team loses and now Hayden Pike is calling him out of the blue? What next, his car will break down? He’ll be alone in the Montreal wilderness and freeze to death and his body will be eaten by hungry wolves? 

“How did you get my number?” he asks unkindly. 

“Um, Shane gave it to me,” Pike explains. “For emergencies.” 

This causes Ilya to sit up straight. “Is there an emergency?” 

His mind jumps to 80 different conclusions, all worst case scenarios of what could be so wrong with Shane that Pike has to call himself, but the other man brushes off his concern. 

“Not quite. Listen, uh.” There’s a pause that feels like a small eternity has passed before Pike speaks again. “H-how are you?” he asks and Ilya is now sure he’s on that stupid fucking American TV show where people get pranked and there’s hidden cameras everywhere. No way on earth would Hayden Pike call him to ask him how he was. 

“What do you mean ‘not quite’?” he demands impatiently. “What the fuck is this, Pike?” 

“Ok, um, well first of all, just wanted to say great game tonight.” 

Ilya genuinely considers hanging up. 

“We lost by four goals,” he says darkly. “So great for Montreal, maybe.”

Pike lets out a deep breath. “Shit. Okay listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t check the score, and I had a 50/50 shot of getting that right. Well maybe 70/30 considering you play for Ottawa now.” 

“You called to rub loss in my face?” Ilya guesses, having come up with literally no other explanation for this call. “Is low, Pike, even for asshole like you.” 

“Okay first of all, fuck you,” Pike shoots back. “And second of all no, I called because… well, because…”

A wild thought occurs to Ilya. 

“Pike, are you…? What is the word? Captured? Like in movies with guns and explosions? Is this hostage situation?”

“No, Rozanov, it’s not a fucking hostage situation,” Pike snaps. “And if it were, you would be the absolute last person I would call for help. I need you to know that.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. “I would say ‘blink twice if you are in danger’, but considering I cannot see your face and also I hate you, I guess it does not matter so much. Would probably be good character build for you anyway.”

“For Shane’s sake, I’m going to ignore everything you just said.” 

“Would also be really good if you could get to the fucking point, Pike,” Ilya says, this time with more edge than before. “I cannot drive through snow and translate your bullshit all at same time. I will crash and Shane will be very upset and will be all your fault.” 

“Alright, listen,” Pike starts hesitantly, “before you freak out, Shane is—”

Anger flares up in Ilya’s gut, and he cuts Pike off impatiently. “If something is wrong with Shane and you have been waiting this fucking long to tell me, I swear I will kill you really—”

“Look, Shane is fine! He’s fine, he’s just…”

“What, Pike?” Ilya presses, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as frantic as he feels right now. Did something happen after their game? Or during it? An injury or concussion that got past the med team? Was he freaking out in a corner somewhere, gasping for breath like he sometimes does when he’s too overwhelmed to push it all down? He presses his foot against the gas unconsciously, pushing the speed limit by 20 now and not giving a single fuck. “He’s what?” 

“High,” Pike says miserably. “He’s so fucking high.” 

For a moment, Ilya can’t comprehend what Pike is telling him. The words literally don’t compute in his brain. 

“Did you say high?” Ilya asks after a long beat of silence. “Am thinking I did not hear you right.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, Shane is super high right now.” 

“Shane Hollander?” he asks stupidly. Because there’s simply no way that golden boy, goody two shoes, Shane Hollander, the man who practically makes the sign of the cross at every cigarette he’s ever seen, has abandoned his principles on a random fucking night and decided to get high for what is no doubt the first time ever in his life. If Ilya Rozanov knows anything about his boyfriend, he knows this. 

“Shane does not smoke anything,” Ilya says, as if this fact will explain the situation away. “Ever.” 

“I know that. He didn’t take hits off a joint or anything. It was all just one big fucking misunderstanding. Look, JJ told him about these non-alcoholic beers in the fridge, right? But what he didn’t say was that next to the beers were a few cans of this THC drink. Weed-infused or whatever. And I guess Shane didn’t bother to read the labels or didn’t know what it meant, because he downed three of them in the span of like an hour.” 

“Fucking hell,” Ilya mutters. This was not good. Shane loves control almost as much as he loves Ilya. Maybe more. “He eats like fucking bird, too. It will go right through him. Christ, he will be soaring sky fucking high.” 

“Can confirm, he’s already up there. Like wayyy up there.” 

A thought occurs to Ilya. “And where the fuck were you when this happened? Why did you not stop this?” 

“Putting my kids to sleep, thank you very much! I intervened as soon as I got there, but by that point…” 

“You are useless, Pike,” Ilya sighs. “Useless player. Useless friend.” 

“Jesus, Rozanov, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Except for JJ’s maybe.” 

“Not maybe! Definitely! Was definitely his fault. Shane would never do this on purpose and now it has happened accidentally. He will be very upset when he realizes.” 

“Well, he’s not upset right now, alright? In fact, this may be the happiest I’ve ever seen the guy. And he won’t shut the fuck up about you, which is why we had to leave the party. Well, one of the reasons anyway.” 

Both alarm and satisfaction spread through Ilya’s core— alarm at the fact that Shane, who is so tight lipped and anxious about their relationship in public, could have betrayed himself by accident, and satisfaction that while high and apparently very happy, all Shane seems to be able to do is talk about him. 

“Where are you now?” Ilya asks. 

“At Shane’s place. I didn’t want to leave him alone, and I wanted to see how close you were to the city. And maybe give you some fair warning of the situation you’re about to walk into.” 

“Very thoughtful, Pike,” he says, voice flat, while he checks his maps to see how much longer he has. The screen is telling him twenty three minutes. 

“I will be there in fifteen.” 

***

Ilya tenses as he unlocks the door to Shane’s house, bracing for the worst. After all, this was truly a blind experiment, Shane getting high for the first time ever outside of the hospital drugs that had a similar effect all those years ago. But this was different, less controlled. Some people have terrible reactions to weed, especially people predisposed to anxiety. He could be freaking the fuck out somewhere in here having a panic attack. Or he could be sick to his stomach like Ilya has seen happen to people who ingest too much of the stuff— nauseous and vomiting their guts up. Hayden had said he was fine on the phone, even happy, but the tide could have turned in the time it took Ilya to get here. 

“Shane?” he calls, tentative. “Pike?” 

He hears hurried footsteps and then Shane appears.

“Baby!” Shane cries, his whole face alight, and Ilya, who has seen Shane’s real, genuine smile so many times now it’s imprinted on his eyelids every time he closes his eyes, has never once seen his boyfriend smile this brightly. With absolutely zero inhibition, open and free and so fucking beautiful. 

And then Ilya fully registers the word Shane called him and he’s sure his eyes have grown to be the size of dinner plates because Shane Hollander does not do pet names. Ever. Even blissed out and fucked senseless, talking nonsense and gibberish, nothing like that has ever slipped out. He always figured Shane just wasn’t a pet name kind of guy, which was obviously fine, but now—

“You’re hereee.” 

Shane’s arms wrap around him tightly, squeezing almost to the point of pain, and Ilya clings to him for one selfish moment, shutting his eyes and breathing in the scent of his hair, clean and familiar. Then he pulls back, all business. 

“Yes. Am here. How are you? Feeling okay?”  

Ilya holds Shane at arms length, drinking in the state of him as fast as possible. His hands slide up Shane’s neck and cup his cheeks, thumbs swiping across the freckles he loves so dearly. Shane’s dark eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, but Ilya supposes that’s to be expected. He doesn’t get much farther in his assessment because Shane launches himself at Ilya again, this time with the single-minded goal of capturing his lips for himself. 

Historically, Ilya’s never been very good at telling Shane no, and he figures now isn’t the time to start. Besides, he’s kidding himself if he thinks he has the willpower to pull away from a kiss like this. Shane’s tongue slips into his mouth as it deepens, and he’s completely lost in it, the unhurried, languid, confident way Shane is using his mouth to take him apart. 

“Eh hem,” an irritating voice coughs from somewhere to Ilya’s right. Ilya tries his best to explode the owner of that voice with his mind, but it must not work because he hears, “Sorry to uh, interrupt.” 

Ilya pulls back from the kiss, glaring at Hayden Pike with the fury of a thousand suns. 

“As you can see,” Pike gestures to Shane, who has reattached himself to Ilya by wrapping his arms around his neck and burying his face against his shoulder, “he’s totally fine.” 

“Oh, this is fine?” Ilya challenges, raising a brow. “Yes, Shane Hollander, famously king of PDA.”

Shane laughs against his neck and the heat from his breath makes Ilya shiver. 

Pike scoffs. “Kissing his boyfriend in the comfort of his house hardly qualifies as PDA. Listen, he’s had plenty of water. Odds are he’ll get really sleepy in, like, thirty minutes and crash and then this whole situation will be over.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes, then drops his gaze to look at Shane, who has started working his way up Ilya’s neck with his lips. 

Pike clears his throat. “Aaaand that’s my cue. See ya.” 

“Bye, Hayd,” Shane slurs a bit without diverting his attention from his current activity. 

“Yes, bye, Hayd,” Ilya repeats with a bit more heat. He knows, logically, that the fault for this whole mess doesn’t really fall on Pike, but it’s just too easy to fuck with him. Plus Pike already believes Ilya’s an asshole— he might as well sell it. 

Once Shane’s best friend has vacated the house, Ilya lets out a little breath. Pike obviously knows about them, has known about them for years, but having an audience right now makes him uncomfortable. Especially because it usually makes Shane uncomfortable, and Shane isn’t really in a state to be mindful about it like he normally would be. Ilya knows Shane wouldn’t want anyone else witnessing this, even his best friend, and feels a bit easier now that it’s just the two of them. 

“Shane. Hey,” he murmurs, trying to focus. “Look at me.” 

Shane obeys instantly, pulling back to gaze at him. His eyes are unfocused, hazy in a way they’re normally sharp, but undeniably adoring. Jesus, just seeing him so relaxed and at ease with himself makes Ilya’s throat feel tight. 

“You are good?” he asks. “Tell me how you feel.” 

“I feel perfect now,” Shane says with a smile. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. And I have so much to tell you. Like, ten things to tell you. Maybe twelve. I keep forgetting though. Sorry.” 

Oh fuck. He’d forgotten how adorable High Shane is.  

“Is okay,” Ilya smiles. “Tell me one you can remember.” 

Shane hums a bit, deciding where to start. “Oh, okay. Well you already know this one. I love you,” he says, then grins crookedly. “Obviously.” 

It never gets old, hearing that. Ilya grins back. “Obviously.” 

“Like so fucking much. Like… an ocean full.” He pauses, considering. “Two oceans.”

“Wow,” Ilya says. “Is a lot, Hollander. You are sure?” 

“Somewhere between two and three oceans, I think.” 

“What else?” Ilya asks. This game is fun. 

“I’m glad you’re here. That was one of them. But I had to wait until you got here to be glad about it. But now you are here, so I can be. So, there’s one.” 

Ilys pulls his lips into his mouth, biting back a smile. “That’s a good one.” 

Shane frowns. “And I don’t like the texture of my silverware. At all. It’s so horrible, Ilya, every time I touch it, it makes me wanna die.” 

Ilya does laugh at that. “Good news. I think you can afford new silverware, Mr. Sponsorships.”  

“Yesss,” Shane whispers excitedly, as if Ilya signing off on his new silverware is all the permission he needed. 

“Anything else?” Ilya asks, delighted at this side of Shane being revealed to him. 

“I’m hungry,” Shane groans dramatically, dropping his head against Ilya’s chest. “Really fucking hungry. And there’s no food here. And Hayden wouldn’t take me to Taco Bell.”   

Probably because he was horrified Shane had even asked in the first place. Ilya doesn’t want to point out that Shane himself is the only person at fault for not having good food here. It seems unnecessarily mean. Instead, he offers a solution. 

“What are you craving? I will order food right now.” 

They settle on the couch and Ilya digs his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a food delivery app. Shane politely asks Ilya for a cheeseburger and fries, two shrimp tacos, corn on the cob, chicken fried rice, a plate of spaghetti with meatballs, a cookies and cream milkshake, and a slice of chocolate cake. 

“No problem” Ilya says seriously, knowing that of the few places still open at this hour, absolutely none of them will have everything Shane wants. Instead he orders four Quarter Pounders with Cheese, a shit ton of fries, and two chocolate shakes from McDonald’s, hoping High Shane won’t remember what he asked for. Ilya actually can’t recall the last time Shane ate like a normal fucking person and not a robot, and he isn’t about to squander the chance to get some delicious junk food into Shane’s stomach for once, even if Shane will likely kill him for it tomorrow. 

After the food has been ordered, Shane snuggles into his side with a sigh, seemingly unable to exist comfortably without some part of himself touching Ilya. And Ilya certainly isn’t complaining about that. 

“What do you need right now, moy lyubimy?” Ilya presses a kiss to the top of Shane’s head. “A shower, maybe? Warm water might feel nice on your skin,” he drags a finger down Shane’s forearm, watching the hairs raise in its wake. 

It’s been a few months since Ilya has been high himself, but whenever he is, he always makes sure to take a long, hot shower. That started after one particular occasion as a teenager back in Russia when he had mindlessly stood underneath his showerhead until the bathroom completely steamed up and his father was banging angrily on the door, yelling at him about using up all their hot water. He wasn’t aware at the time, but he thinks in his blitzed state, he stood there happily for almost two hours. Until the hot water actually did run out, and he landed himself in a lot of fucking trouble. It had just felt so good though, the sensation of wet heat enveloping him, hot enough to sting, striking his skin and sliding down to pool at his feet in a constant cycle. Shane should know how it feels at least once, since he’ll never be high again to experience it. 

“Mm, yeah,” Shane says, never one to pass up on getting clean it seems, even while high. “Okay.” 

Ilya gets to his feet, then turns and offers his hand to Shane. When Shane doesn’t move, Ilya waves it a bit in front of him. 

“Shane? Hello?” 

“Yeah, sorry,” Shane says slowly, glancing down at himself and then back up at Ilya. “I’m stuck.” 

“Stuck?” Ilya asks. “Stuck how?” 

“The couch is sucking me in, I think.” Then he honest to god giggles. “My arms are like, really heavy. Won’t move. I think I gotta stay here forever.” Then he looks up at Ilya with his big, sparkling eyes and asks, “Will you still love me if I’m half couch?” 

Ilya is torn between laughing and sighing as he crouches in front of Shane’s knees, brows raised. “You are really going to make me carry you up the stairs, Hollander? I am getting too old for this.” 

Shane throws back his head with a dramatic scoff. “You’re in your fucking prime, and you know it. But good luck unsticking me from the oof—”

Shane’s thought is cut off as Ilya scoops him up, somewhat awkwardly from the angle he was given, but still, deadlifting Shane Hollander isn’t exactly easy and he does it with considerable grace. Shane whoops, delighted, and cackles as Ilya makes his way to the staircase and painstakingly up it with a very uncooperative passenger in tow. The whole way up, he prays he doesn’t pull something in his back. 

When he makes it to their room, he drops Shane on the bed, breathing hard. “Change,” he orders, pointing at him. “I will get the shower running.” 

“Aye aye, captain,” Shane salutes, then cracks up. 

“Jesus Christ,” Ilya mutters under his breath. Then he smiles in spite of himself. 

When the bathroom is nice and steamy from Shane’s massive rain showerhead, Ilya makes his way back into the bedroom to find one still completely clothed Shane Hollander standing in front of his laundry hamper looking contemplative. 

Ilya sidles up beside Shane who, upon spotting him, smiles widely. The sweetness is a sucker punch every time. 

“Hey, you,” he beams, and Ilya’s heart stutters a bit in his chest. Capturing Shane’s full attention like this feels a little like stepping into sunlight. 

“Hey yourself.” Not touching Shane while he’s looking at Ilya like that is physically impossible and he threads his fingers through Shane’s hair. Savors the feeling of the silky strands against his fingers. “What are you doing? Your shower is ready.” 

“Well, I got up to change,” Shane begins, solemn, “but then I couldn’t decide if I should take off my pants or my shirt first.” He looks at Ilya imploringly. “What do you think?” 

“I think,” Ilya says, stepping closer and reaching for Shane’s shirt, “I will decide for you.” 

Five minutes later, Ilya discovers that High Shane is just as stubborn as Regular Shane, if not more so. He’ll shower, he insists, but not alone. Ilya begrudgingly joins him and realizes standing under the stream and smiling at Ilya is about as much work as Shane’s willing to put into this shower. Typical Hollander, upending his plans. He knows Shane showered after his game, so it’s not like he needs to wash his hair again, but Shane seems to be enjoying Ilya’s touch almost as much as the hot water falling on his head, so Ilya acquiesces. He shuts his eyes while Ilya works on his hair, washing and rinsing the strands with much more care than he uses on his own. Throughout it all, Shane follows Ilya around with his lips which is very distracting and very arousing, but mostly very sweet. They’re as soft and pliant as Shane is right now. Tender in a way Ilya normally has to coax him into. He presses his mouth against Ilya’s cheeks and neck, his nose and eyelids and earlobes, and Ilya isn’t sure which of them is enjoying this more. 

Ilya has spent a lifetime chasing pleasure and has found it more often than not, in expected and unexpected corners, down well-trod and freshly paved roads, but Shane Hollander’s quiet adoration is a drug unlike any he’s ever known. Can a man be satiated by touch alone? Sometimes Shane makes him believe so. 

He can hear Shane’s breath growing more ragged as Ilya works his way across and down his toned body with the soap. Ilya could easily see himself following Shane off of the cliff edge he’s already hurtling towards, but he reigns himself in, focusing on the task at hand and not the steadily growing cock in his very near vicinity. He can’t be blamed really, for the rushed, sloppy way he finishes the job, ushering Shane out, toweling him off and ducking into the room change and to find some sweats Shane normally sleeps in. 

It isn’t until he makes his way back into the bathroom that he realizes he can’t exactly run away from the problem he knew would be chasing him all night, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike and make him hate his stupid life. Because before him now is Shane, standing there in all his wet and steaming and stark naked glory, looking like a fucking swimsuit model because he is a fucking swimsuit model and gazing at Ilya like he’s ready to devour him. Ilya wants to tear out his hair and scream his frustration. 

Of course he can’t have Shane the night he’s never looked fucking hotter. If Ilya ever wanted proof he had the worst luck in the world, here it was. 

“Shane,” Ilya starts. He hopes his voice comes across as even. Measured. To his ears, it sounds almost desperate. 

Shane tilts his head a bit. “Ilya.” 

And oh, that cocky fucking tone, the smug look of a predator knowing their prey is well within reach, makes Ilya want to pounce on him and wipe it away with his tongue. It’s sick and twisted that he can’t. Fuck JJ Boiziau. 

A pair of navy sweatpants soar through the air and hit Shane smack in the chest before falling to the floor. The cocky bastard doesn’t even attempt to catch them. 

“Put your pants on, Hollander.” Ilya adopts the strict voice he uses when he’s trying to be commanding with his team. He points at them for emphasis. Shane’s eyes never leave him. 

“Make me,” he retorts and crosses his arms. The glazed look in his eyes from earlier is still present, just sex drenched and hungry now in a way that makes Ilya feel like dropping to his knees and worshipping Shane’s dick. He feels hypnotized and does his best not to look down. 

“You are a child,” Ilya manages, swallowing. “Get dressed.” 

“Don’t wanna get dressed.” 

And now he was stepping closer to Ilya. Even with the open doorway behind him, he feels cornered. 

“Should I tell you what I want?” Shane asks in a heady whisper, close enough now that Ilya has no trouble hearing him. “Or would it be easier to show you—”

“No—NO!” Ilya practically leaps away from him. “Shane. No. We cannot. Not tonight.” 

Regular Shane might have been offended at this seemingly aggressive rejection, but High Shane is wildly undeterred. It’s so hot. Ilya wants to die.  

“Why the fuck not?” Shane demands. He sounds mad at Ilya’s audacity to reject him. Which in turn makes Ilya feel a bit weak in the knees. “I’ve been waiting for this.” 

And now it’s Ilya’s turn to sound mad. “Oh, and you think I have not?” he demands. “You think this was not all I could think about the whole fucking drive here? Or every waking moment for the past two weeks?” 

“So what’s the problem, Rozanov?” 

“The problem,” Ilya huffs as he ducks around Shane to swipe the discarded sweatpants off the floor, “is that you are high. Would be different, maybe, if we both were or if this was something you did often and had a tolerance for it. But you got high on accident, not on purpose. And even though your mouth and your dick are telling me the same thing, there is a chance you wake up tomorrow with regrets. So we cannot.” 

This very level-headed reasoning, reasoning Ilya pulled from the depths of his wavering self-control, is met with absolute, unbridled fury. 

“That’s such bullshit,” Shane seethes. “I’ve never regretted having sex with you. Not once.” 

Ilya’s breath catches a bit. Because ‘not once’ includes the very first time, when Ilya could have humiliated him or exposed him or endangered him. None of that happened of course, but the trust required for that first experiment was truly staggering. Again, he’s reminded how Shane has always been so steadfast about this, about them, even when Ilya’s doubts ran him ragged. It’s nice to hear, important to hear, but unfortunately does nothing to help Ilya in this current situation. The one where he’s failing to cockblock Shane Hollander from himself. 

He attempts a gentler tone. “Is different this time, Shane. Trust me. Even if you regret it only one percent tomorrow, that is too much for me.”

Shane glowers petulantly at him. “Try zero zero zero zero zero zero zero point one fucking percent.” 

Ilya fights a grin. “Still no, I think.” 

“Fine,” Shane sniffs, snatching the sweatpants from Ilya and stalking back into his room. “You don’t want me then, that’s fine.” 

He was going to try every single trick in the fucking book, wasn’t he? 

“Oh, no, no, no!” Ilya’s thundering steps follow behind him. “No, you do not get to be angry at me about this. There is no tripping for guilt allowed or however the fuck you say it. I am fucking angry about this. I had plans, Hollander—”

“And I’m giving you permission to do those plans!”  

Just then, the faint sound of the doorbell ringing sounds, and Ilya, relieved for any excuse to flee from Shane’s angry, sexy face, hurries to the door. 

“Coward!” Shane calls behind him. 

Ilya knows he is. 

***

Luckily, High Shane seems to have a very short memory. And being reminded how hungry he is by the arrival of food is just the distraction Ilya needs to turn Shane’s mind away from the sex he wanted so badly only moments before. 

It’s almost perverted, the way Ilya feels his dick twitch watching Shane bite into his cheese burger like a starving man, moaning obscenely and rolling his eyes into the back of his head… ok maybe Ilya isn’t as perverted as he fears. Shane is really going for it with the burger. 

“Mm,” Shane moans. “Mmm.” 

Is it sick that Ilya is kind of jealous of a burger right now? 

“C’est la meilleure chose que j’ai jamais gouté."

Wait. Ilya frowns a bit. Shane never really speaks French around him, unless it’s during sex and he’s so far gone he doesn’t realize he’s made the switch. The most obvious reason for this being that Ilya doesn’t fucking understand it. He’d switched into it so easily though, like perhaps he’d done it by accident this time as well. 

“Pourquoi est ce que j’ai pas mangé ça depuis tout ce temps? J’suis trop con.“ 

“Shane,” Ilya says. “You’re speaking French.” 

“Hein?” 

“Speak English,” Ilya tells him, then frowns, resenting the taste of those words in his mouth, words he’s been told on countless occasions as an immigrant in America. In this scenario, however, he feels it’s very valid. 

Shane looks at him and blinks slowly. “C’est ce que je fais.”  

“What?”

“Qu’est ce qui va pas? Tu te sens pas bien? " 

“Hollander, I don’t speak fucking French!” 

“Je sais, merci.” Ilya can hear the sarcasm in that one if nothing else. 

Jesus Christ. How the fuck was he's supposed to find Shane’s off-switch for French and put him back in his standard mode? How did this even happen in the first place? 

Shane continues to look at him like he’s sprouted wings or something while he takes a big gulp of his milkshake and Ilya grabs his phone off the coffee table with a sharp glare, pulling up the most useless app in existence but perhaps his only hope right now. 

He starts typing angrily, then squints to read the translated words on his screen in very broken, very ugly French. 

“Je ne… comprend pa-pas? Pas. Je ne parle pas de français.” 

Shane chokes on his burger. Ilya slaps his back while he coughs, then turns to look at Ilya in total shock. 

“You speak fucking French?” he demands, this time in English. “Why have you never told me that?” 

Ilya throws his head back with a groan. “I hate you.” 

“Nuh uh,” Shane insists childishly. He’s right of course. 

Then he leans down to take another bite of his burger. “Putain, c’est de mieux en mieux!”  

“Hollander, I am going to kill you.” 

***

When Ilya finally gets Shane back to his English setting (the cheeseburger ecstasy really seemed to be the root of the problem) he settles them both on the couch and turns on a random movie to play in the background, hoping that High Shane might be tired and ready to call it a night. He sits with his feet stretched out on the ottoman before him while Shane lays across the length of the couch with his head plopped in Ilya’s lap. 

Ilya strokes his hair, partly because he loves the feeling and partly because he’s hoping Shane might sleep with some petting as encouragement. 

Instead of watching the tv, however, Shane is gazing up at him, apparently back to being pleased by Ilya’s mere presence. He looks down and smiles helplessly. This fucking man. The hold he has on Ilya should be studied by scientists in lab coats. 

“What are you looking at, Hollander?” 

“Your hair is nice like that,” Shane tells him. “So curly.” 

Ilya’s hair is half-wet and frizzy, as he knows full well without looking, because he’d gotten it soaked in the shower and put zero products in after the fact, leaving it to curl wildly on its own. 

“You lie,” he teases. “You are liar who lies.” 

“No, it’s nice!” Shane insists. “It looks exactly like— hang on.” 

He sits up and reaches for his phone. Ilya frowns, craning his neck to see over Shane’s shoulder while he unlocks it. There’s a very determined look on Shane’s face as he navigates to the app he’s looking for and then— Ilya’s brows furrow— a locked folder within it. 

Shane unlocks it. 

Within this secret, locked photo album is around 3,000 photos. And every single one of them is of Ilya. 

His jaw drops as Shane scrolls up, clearly looking for something specific, but Ilya can’t think beyond the rows and rows and rows of his face staring back at him from the screen. Some are pictures from his instagram or someone else’s, some are from photoshoots he’s done for sponsorships, some are screenshots from youtube videos of fucking press videos, some are from news sites. All him, in all his various forms, from every possible angle. Happy, frustrated, angry, cocky, gloating. 

“How- what— how old is this fucking album, Hollander?!” he asks, positively flabbergasted. He’s seeing pictures of himself from almost ten years ago, for god’s sake!

“Oh, I don’t know. Had it for a while, I guess. A few phones old, maybe.” 

“A few—?!” 

Ilya can’t believe him. Shane Hollander, having the equivalent of a shrine to him on a random fucking locked photo album for literal years, hiding it from Ilya even after they’re practically married— Ilya literally can’t fucking believe him. 

“You are obsessed with me, Hollander! If I didn’t know you loved me, I’d think you were planning my murder! All you need is little board with red string and exes drawn over my eyes!” 

“Are you mad?” Shane’s eyes are glossy and wounded looking and Ilya doesn’t hesitate before leaning forward to kiss the frown off his lips. 

“Idiot,” he says pulling back, voice with burning affection, so much he feels it bubbling over in his chest, spilling down his ribs. “You have a soft spot you hide from me all this time. Here I was thinking I am the sappy one while you keep all your dignity, but no. Was always you, moy lyubimy. You are the simp.” 

Regular Shane would deny this vehemently, face red with embarrassment that only further proves Ilya’s point. But High Shane just smiles, holding up his phone and pointing to the picture he’d been searching for.

“This one. This is what your hair looks like right now.” 

“Fuck’s sake, Hollander. Is from 2013.”

“So?” 

“Like I said,” he boops Shane on the nose, “simp.” 

***

He pulls Shane up the stairs and into their bed after that, content with kissing him asleep if he has to. He can tell Shane’s mind is finally slowing down by the frequency and duration of his blinks. With those long, dark lashes fluttering open and shut, Ilya thinks he sort of looks like a babydoll. Once he’s practically nodding off, Ilya holds off on the gentle kisses he’d been pressing into Shane’s face and instead watches him fade into what Ilya hopes is the most relaxing fucking sleep of his life. It’s what Shane deserves after all, having had no say in the current state he’s in. 

“Ilya?” Shane mumbles, slurring a bit as he fights off sleep. “Baby?” 

“I am here, Shane. Right here. Go to sleep, my love.” 

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers, whines almost. “Ever.” 

There’s a million ways Ilya could respond to that. A million different ways to tell Shane the only way he’ll ever leave him is when he’s no longer a living, breathing person on this planet. And maybe not even then, not when he still feels his mother with him even all these years since her passing. A part of you always stays behind. Whatever is left of him, he knows, will be safe with Shane. 

“Never,” Ilya whispers back. Simple, too understated, maybe. But his throat feels too tight to say all the things he wants to and his English isn’t anywhere near expansive enough and Shane is too far gone to decipher it anyway. 

Shane’s hand finds his. Squeezes tight. 

It doesn’t matter. He already knows. 

***

Shane can tell he’s been asleep for too long by the way his body is starting to ache in places, tight and sore from disuse. He squeezes his eyes shut, groans and stretches obscenely before opening them to a sunlit room. 

Fuck, he really did sleep too long. It looks like late morning or even early afternoon from the height of the sun. But then again, today is a practice and game-free Saturday and he gets to spend it however he wishes, though preferably he’ll spend it with the tall, cocky Russian hockey player he has the privilege of calling his boyfriend these days—

Shit. He sits up. Ilya was supposed to get in last night, but the spot next to him in bed is empty. Did Shane miss it? The more he thinks about last night the harder it is to actually recall it… did he fall asleep early? Did Ilya let himself in? 

“Ilya?” he calls hesitantly, half-scared he’ll be met with silence. But he hears quick footsteps make their way up the stairs and then all six feet and three inches of his boyfriend is standing in the doorway. The sight of Ilya, shirtless and barefoot, completely at home in Shane’s home, is at once comforting and arousing. And then suddenly Shane feels a key turning in a lock somewhere deep in his brain. As it cracks open, several disjointed memories come back to Shane, kaleidoscope-like in their colorful imprecision. 

“Ilya,” he repeats, this time wary. “Ilya. What the fuck happened last night?” 

The most un-Ilya-like expression crosses his face. It’s also wary, if Shane is reading it right. 

“You had quite the night, sweetheart,” Ilya says. He makes it to the bed in three large steps before climbing into it and crawling up to sit beside Shane, taking his hand as if to brace him for the bad news he’s about to deliver. “What is the last thing you remember clearly?” 

It’s an odd, ominous fucking question, but Shane wracks his brain. 

“Um. I don’t know. After the game I came home. And then I went to JJ’s stupid party.” 

“And then what?” Ilya pushes. 

“And then…” 

And then he remembers floating. Or feeling like floating. Or wanting to float? He doesn’t know, but he’s sure floating was somehow involved in some capacity. 

Shane is suddenly aware he must be making a very concerning facial expression because Ilya squeezes his hand and jumps in. 

“Perhaps telling you will just be easiest. Last night you accidentally got very, very high.” 

He blinks. “Sorry, did you say high?” 

“Yes. Was not your fault. But it will teach you to read drink labels a little closer, I think?” 

And then Ilya explains the story Hayden apparently explained to him about the misunderstanding and the THC drinks and oh my god, he was fucking high last night. Like honest to god, blitzed out of this world and in the company of his team who no doubt thought he was acting like a fucking freak because he’s never, ever been high before so how would he even know how to act? Who knows what he must have said or done, how idiotically he must have behaved? God, this was so bad. This was so, so fucking bad. 

He drops his head into his hands and moans as Ilya catches him up to speed about the party. 

“Shane. I can tell you are doing that thing we said was not good, remember? That word for making everything much worse.” 

“Catastrophizing,” Shane groans. “Yeah, you fucking bet I’m catastrophizing right now, Ilya. What the fuck?” 

And then Ilya’s lips press gently against his temple, a clear attempt to get Shane’s attention, and Shane looks up helplessly into his steady eyes. 

“Is no big deal, Shane. It kills me to give him any credit at all, but Hayden was a very quick thinker and took you straight home. And then I was here and it was all good, like always.” He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “No harm done.” 

Another person may feel bolstered by Ilya’s soothing words. They might smile and laugh it off and act like it was all just a silly mistake, fun even, nothing to worry about, and go on with their day without a second thought. 

Shane, however, needs more than one quick, vague conversation to get over something like this. In ten years or so, he probably might start thinking about maybe getting over it. 

He glares at Ilya. “What kind of stuff was I saying?”

A glint of humor seems to sparkle in Ilya’s eyes, but he keeps his face neutral. “It was a long night, Shane. You said many things.” 

“What did I say or do that I would never normally say or do?” he presses, watching Ilya’s face closely. 

“You were…” Ilya pauses and considers his words, “very sweet. Very loving. Wanted all of my attention, but that is not so different from how you are always. Unable to resist me.” 

He winks. Shane isn’t in the mood. 

“Ilya. Be specific. My memory is fucking shit, and what I can remember I have no context for.” 

Ilya sighs a bit, resigned but definitely not surprised that Shane is pressing him for details. He knows him well, after all, and likely knew this reaction was coming. 

“Come downstairs and eat breakfast first. And while you eat, you can tell me what you remember. I will fill in gaps.” 

So Shane lets Ilya lead him to the kitchen and set him down in a barstool, kissing the top of his head before walking over to the fridge and pulling out the ingredients for the protein smoothie Shane drinks every morning. 

After a moment, Shane asks, “We… did we shower at some point?” 

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “It was supposed to be just for you, but you wanted me to join.” 

Of course he did. Shane had been so fucking horny for Ilya last night even before this whole mess, even while he was stone cold sober and surrounded by his teammates, he was doing his best not to imagine him and Ilya and all the things they’d get to do with a few hours to themselves. An inkling of a memory brushes against his brain and he latches onto it, feeling his cheeks grow hot as he recalls exactly what he was feeling upon seeing a naked Ilya Rozanov for the first time in two weeks while also being high. Horny on fucking crack is probably the most tame description he can come up with. Jesus. He must have been so fucking embarassing. 

“And we didn’t…” Shane lets the sentence hang in the air and this time Ilya’s smile slips out before he’s able to bite down on it. 

“Ah, no. No, but was not for lack of trying on your part.” 

Shane wants to sink into the floor. “Oh my god.” 

“You were so cruel to me, Shane, looking so handsome and wet and sexy when I could not have you!” Ilya cries playfully. “Such a fucking tease, Hollander.” 

So Ilya had turned him down. Yes, he does vaguely recall that now along with the rage that followed the rejection which is humiliating to say the very least. At the same time though, he melts a bit at how thoughtful Ilya had been to consider what this Shane would be feeling rather than what the other Shane wanted in that moment. 

“We could have, you know,” Shane offers quietly. “I don’t really have regrets when it comes to you. About anything. But thank you for… being cautious.” 

“Of course.” 

The look in Ilya’s hazel eyes is impossibly soft. Reserved for him only. Seeing it makes Shane feel just a little bit better. 

He sighs. “I probably would have done something really embarrassing like cry when I came, though, so. Maybe for the best.” 

Ilya barks a laugh at this. “Embarassing? No. It would be very flattering. And hot.” 

“I think you just get turned on when I humiliate myself.” 

He laughs again and then tosses the fruit he’s chopped up into the blender, letting it churn loudly for a few moments before switching it off, pouring the drink into a glass and sliding it over the counter to Shane. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip. “So I was… fun? Last night?” 

“Very fun,” Ilya assures him. “And happy. Made me very happy to see you like that. I know you did not choose it, so it is different. But still.” 

“Hm.” 

Ilya’s broad, muscled back is to him while he fries eggs for his own breakfast in a pan, so he can’t see the dread gathering on Shane’s face like a stormcloud brewing overhead. 

He clears his throat and attempts a nonchalant tone he doesn’t feel. 

“Did you like me better? Like that?” 

Shane can hear how fucking pathetic that sounds. How needy and desperate he must seem. He hates himself for asking and hates himself for needing to know Ilya’s answer even more. 

His question clearly takes Ilya by surprise, who whirls around with the most profound look of confusion on his face that under different circumstances, Shane would have laughed at him. Then, after taking in Shane’s features, reading him so easily, cutting through all the noise in seconds, he adopts a serious expression. 

“Shane.” 

And now Shane is looking everywhere but Ilya, feeling that horrible pressure growing behind his eyes that always gives him away too soon. 

“I just think sometimes,” he says as steadily as he can manage, “it might be… easier. To not be with someone so—” Uptight? Awkward? Intense? Fucking boring? “ — someone like me, I guess.” 

Someone who is widely known among friends, teammates and the world at large as ‘no fun at all’. Someone who cares so much about his sport he shapes every aspect of his personal life around it until there’s only the tiniest space carved out for pleasure and enjoyment. Someone who’s rigid on his best day and fucking neurotic on his worst. 

And Ilya is just so… not like that. He wouldn’t react this way if he had been the one to get high on accident. In fact, Ilya would have gotten high on purpose and proceeded to have a great fucking night. Any next day recaps would be light and funny, self deprecating, maybe, but unconcerned with others opinions or perceptions of him. 

Sometimes the stark differences between them are too blatant for Shane to ignore. Everyone knows Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are opposites, but that fact stopped dividing them a long time ago. Their rivalry was the exact thing that forced them together in the first place. It brought them to each other. 

So why now, when they’ve come so very far, does Shane feel like being Ilya’s opposite just means that the man he loves isn’t getting everything he deserves? 

Calmly, Ilya removes the pan from the burner and switches it off. Then he rounds the counter and stands before Shane, huge and impossible to ignore. 

“Hollander,” he says gently. When Shane doesn’t respond, he takes a slow breath. “Let me try to explain how I see it. I am thinking of you last night as… well sort of like a stranger. Very familiar looking, very sweet, very high stranger, someone I liked very much, but still a stranger.” 

He takes Shane’s chin in his large hand, turning it to face him. 

“Only an idiot mistakes a stranger for his soulmate,” he says. “And I am not an idiot.” 

And honestly, fuck Ilya Rozanov for being the most romantic person on the planet while Shane is trying his best to be fucking miserable. 

Ilya interprets Shane dropping his head into his forearms as a negative reaction to the beautiful thing he’s just said and quickly tries to clarify. 

“Fuck, no, I did not mean— you could never be a stranger to me, Shane. Never. Is not what I meant. I mean to say that I would not change a single thing about you, moy lyubimy. And you were very cute and innocent and said lots of silly things last night, but those things are not what makes me love you. I like you just the way you are.” 

“Shut up,” Shane groans. “Just shut up. You’re so fucking—” 

He lifts his head and launches himself at Ilya, arms wrapped tightly around the other man’s neck as he clings to him. 

“You are upset?” Ilya asks. “Shane?” 

“No, no I’m not upset. You’re just,” he pulls pack and smiles helplessly, “you’re just fucking perfect.” 

Ilya smiles back, pleased. “Oh, good. Yes, everyone else already knows this, of course, but glad you are finally catching up.” 

“Asshole,” he says through a laugh. 

Ilya hums and slides his fingers through Shane’s hair. “From what you can recall of the whole experience… what did you think? One and done? Or something you want to try again on your own terms?” 

“Oh god. I mean, no, right?” Shane scoffs. Then he ponders the question for a second, a little surprised by the answer forming in his brain. “I didn’t…hate it. Completely. I think it was kind of nice, probably. But that’s like, asking for trouble. No filter, around a ton of people—”

“Doesn’t have to be a social activity. Could just be us.” 

Shane bites his lip and considers this. 

He could sort of see it, sitting out on the deck at the cottage on a beautiful, sunny day, relaxed and the most at ease he feels all year while listening to the water lap gently against the shore. Ilya next to him, in the chair by his side. Both of them high on summer and freedom and perhaps a little something extra. It doesn’t seem as scary, thinking about losing control that way. Then again, very few things feel scary to Shane when Ilya is taking up the space beside him. 

“Maybe. I’m not saying yes or anything right now, but…” 

Ilya leans forward and places a quick kiss on his nose before letting go. “No need to decide today. In the meantime, no more parties at JJ’s. I think he is a bad influence on you.” 

“God, I should probably call him and let him know I didn’t die or anything.” 

“You do that.” 

 He picks up his phone from where Ilya must have placed it on the counter, and promptly drops it in shock. 

“What the—” 

Ilya is doubled over with laughter across from him, the sound loud and booming and Shane grabs for his phone again, aghast at what he sees. 

His previously black screensavor has now been changed to a picture of Ilya’s face. A very old, very sexy picture of Ilya from back in 2013 before the Olympics and his first cup win. Shane knows exactly which interview this came from because he’s the one who took the damn screenshot of it and then saved it to a private album on his phone like a fucking creep. 

Judging by the sound of Ilya’s delight, he has now been made privy to said folder. Shane takes it all back. He’s never getting high again. Ever. 

He rises from his seat, eyes narrowed and trained on Ilya who tosses up his hands in the air. “I tried to stop you! ‘Is a bad idea,’ I said! ‘What if someone sees?’ But your mind was made up, Hollander. You would have your screensaver be a picture of my face from eight years ago and that was final!” 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Shane tells him, but his voice is drenched with affection. 

“Mm, you will have to catch me first, and we both know you are much slower than me. On the ice and on foot.” 

With that, he begins to back away, a huge grin splitting his face. 

Shane passes the trash on his way to murder Ilya and opens it briefly to toss his napkin inside. 

“Rozanov, why the fuck are there McDonald’s wrappers in my trashcan?!”