Rating:

Explicit

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, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Mutual Pining, Pining, Angst and Feels, Miscommunication, Heartache, Fluff and Angst, Alternate Universe - College/University, College Hockey, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Friends With Benefits, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Gwen’s heated rivalry fics

Collections:

Anonymous

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-05 Completed: 2026-02-09 Words: 10,139 Chapters: 4/4

̶B̶o̶y̶friends with benefits

Summary

“You are so pretty, Hollander. Your freckles err— take my breath.”

Shane glares. “Rozanov, you can’t say that here,” he says through gritted teeth. “They can hear us.”

“Who gives a fuck?” He declares with a careless shrug. “Whole world knows we are lovers, so what?”

The world most definitely does not need to know that he’s on Ilya’s extensive fuck buddies roster.

Or

According to Ilya, Shane is the best boyfriend anyone could ask for. If you ask Shane, he’ll tell you they are just fuck buddies.

Notes

Chapter 1

It is nice outside when Shane Hollander meets Ilya Rozanov for the second time.

Mount Ridge campus is brightened by students clad in flimsy colorful sweaters, a shoddy effort to combat the chill in the air. Burnt orange maple leaves decorate the pavements, and Shane Hollander— well, he is in his Coach’s stuffy office, standing next to none other than Ilya Rozanov.

Coach Gilbert taps a finger on his old shaky desk, snapping Shane back to the present. “Did you get any of that?” He asks.

“Uh… yeah. Rozanov’s on a hockey scholarship and is my roommate." Shane grumbles.

“Be nice, Hollander. Show him around the rink and then to your apartment and don’t be late for practice tomorrow.”

Why me? Shane wants to know. There are tons of seniors who would do a better job of familiarizing Rozanov with Mount Ridge hockey culture. Shane himself has only been here for a year! Nonetheless, he puts on his good Canadian boy smile. “Yes, Coach.”

They walk in silence for the most part. Shane in front and Ilya trailing behind him. The back of Shane’s neck prickles with an intense gaze but he doesn’t give in to instinct. His head stays stiff on his neck as he ushers Rozanov through the arena and then to the locker room. He stands aside and tries not to glare as the Russian leisurely takes it all in, turning the equipment between his fingers with a hint of disapproval.

It takes a lot of self-discipline to contain Shane’s anger. Of course, Ilya Rozanov thinks he’s above the gear provided here. Why didn’t he stay back in Russia then? 

Shane carries this nasty, foreign but familiar, feeling with him to the apartment. He lives in an on-campus complex reserved for athletes. It consists of three adjoining buildings, each containing over a dozen apartments, and each apartment shared by two sportsmen.

Rozanov’s eagle eyes are more smothering as the lock clicks behind them in their apartment. Shane fingers the collar of his shirt as if that would make him breathe easier. It only invites Rozanov’s gaze to his neck.

“Uhm,” Shane clears his throat and gestures vaguely at their surroundings. Their apartment is a two-bedroom space with en-suite bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room furnished with a large three-seater couch, a bookshelf, and a television. The living room is sparsely decorated, very much to Shane’s taste.

Rozanov’s eyes twitch when Shane faces him again. Deep cerulean eyes roam Shane’s face, like he’s committing every curve and slope to memory. Shane rips his gaze away, heart thumping. One thumb pulls his collar again while the other fits safely into his pants pocket.

“This is everything.” He swallows, eager to escape this hell. “Your room is the other way.” Shane nods to the door across the room from his own. He pauses for the Russian to say something but he remains silent, gaze burning into the side of Shane’s face.

It is obvious what Rozanov is doing. Shane is not new to the whole stare the opponent down to assert dominance gimmick. He has been playing hockey for ten years now and has grown immune to displays like this— or so he thought. Rozanov bothers him more than he should. He is like a tick underneath Shane’s skin, sucking on his composure one stare at a time.

Shane finishes the tour with a set of house rules and anything else he thought Rozanov should know like how the kitchen faucet has to be turned more to the left for better water pressure. “If you have any rules yourself, I'd like to hear them. Or maybe if you think my rules are too strict, we can find a middle ground.”

Rozanov stares for a while saying nothing. Then just when Shane thinks he’s about to get the infamous silent treatment again, Rozanov throws his right hand carelessly toward Shane’s face.

“Your uhm— freckles. I looked up name in English. Very pretty.” Then he turns and disappears into his room, leaving Shane reeling moments after he’s gone.

**

Rozanov quickly becomes a celebrity. Just three weeks in, he found himself a community of other Russian speakers. When he’s not at practice, shooting another outrageously flashy ad, or sleeping in his room, he is with them, being loud and obnoxious.

He is inescapable. Shane battles for center spot with him on the ice and goes home to his face again. He hears about Rozanov in the canteen and at the gym, because all Hayden does is gripe about him. His current topic of complaint is Rozanov’s flashy red Lamborghini. Rose, his best friend, always has new stories to tell about Ilya Rozanov, playboy extraordinaire who drives her roommate, Svetlana around in the aforementioned car.

Shane hates the car. Hates how loud and colorful it is. Hates that Rozanov takes jabs at his jeep.

“Hollander, you leave boring car today. I will drive you to practice.”

“It’s a normal car and I’m not getting in that thing!”

He hates that he can’t have anything for himself without Rozanov’s interference. And he hates that he seems to be the only one unnerved by this. While he tries his hardest to avoid Rozanov, the boy actively seeks him out. Every day after practice, Rozanov approaches him with varying offers, depending on the time of the day.

“Want to eat lunch together?” He would ask after morning practice.

“Yeah no thanks, Rozanov.”

After evening practice, he’d come in with his favorite line. “Hollander, you are hungry? Dinner is on me today. If you want.” This is almost always accompanied by a nonchalant shrug to which Shane replies, “I don’t want.” 

When they don’t have practice, he’d barge into Shane’s room. “You are free today, yes? No class, no boring commercial shoot.” 

“How do you even know my schedule?”

“We order some food. Watch boring TV, maybe play video game?”

“My answer is still no, Rozanov.”

Shane starts locking his bedroom door after that.

One time, it was, “I found a pizza place with Sasha last week. Maybe we go together on weekend?”

Shane’s stomach twisted like it always did when any name from Rozanov’s Russian community came up. “Stop messing with me, Rozanov. It’s not funny anymore!”

Today, Rozanov finds Shane again, long after their teammates have cleared out of the locker room. Rozanov’s hair is still damp from the showers, his back pressed against a row of lockers. His hands are buried in the pockets of his red and blue bomber jacket and his right knee is bouncing. The motion is distracting but Shane ignores it and the entire human, focusing instead on pulling on his sneakers. 

“Go out with me.” Rozanov’s voice comes out whiny which prompts Shane to glare up at him. He does not have time for games today. “Just one time, Hollander.”

“I’ve got an assignment due on Monday.”

Roazanov groans. “Ughhh you are so boring. Is Wednesday, you can do stupid assignment later.”

Shane fastens the last knot on his shoelace and pulls himself up from the bench, stopping three inches below Rozanov. “Some of us care about school.”

“Why?” He seems genuinely baffled by Shane’s dedication to school.

Shane frowns. Sputters. “Why!? Are you serious right now?”

“You are second best hockey player, Hollander.” Shane rolls his eyes but lets him continue. “You do not need school.”

“What happens if I get a career-ending injury?”

“No no. I will not allow that. I will protect you.” His voice drops to a whisper, “Hollander.”

Shane suddenly becomes aware of how close they are standing. “Hmm?”

“Come out with me. Just dinner.”

Shane swallows. His pulse spikes. Fuck. “What about your Russian friends?” He shifts from one foot to the other, biting the insides of his upper lip. “What about Sasha or— or Svetlana?” 

“What about them? I want to eat with you.”

Shane scoffs and looks away, only to hide his blush. He takes a step back for good measure. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll eat with you.”

Rozanov’s smile is the widest Shane has ever seen it.

**

Dinner with Rozanov involves 20% eating and 80% shameless staring. Shane ignores it most of the time. He’s used to the staring. Used to hating it. Halfway through eating, Rozanov starts asking personal questions. Shane dodges them the first few times. Rozanov is persistent. He demands in a way that doubles as pleading until Shane breaks.

Shane’s answers are long and detailed. Once he opens his mouth, there’s no stopping. He blabbers about his hometown Ottawa and his dreams of building a cottage there someday. He raves about his love for tea. He drinks chamomile tea every morning for its calming effect. It sets a good precedent for the rest of the day. He talks about hockey books. His macrobiotic diet. Yoga. His parents. Rozanov listens attentively as though Shane were the most interesting person in the world.

“What about you?” Shane asks, sipping on his ginger ale. “How is Russia?” Why are you here? Just to torment me? 

“Russia is Russia.” Rozanov lifts and drops his shoulders. 

“What does that mean?”

“Too many questions, Hollander. Finish your salad.”

Social cues are hard to pick up on sometimes. But Rozanov’s message is too direct to be misinterpreted. He does not want to talk to Shane. Shane feels foolish for opening up the way he did. Rozanov coaxed his entire life history out of him but can’t give a straight answer to one stupid question? He would answer with alacrity if his Russian friends asked. He is more talkative around them. More animated.

All Shane gets is an immovable wall that stares at him all day and messes with his head.

Rozanov drives them back to the apartment in his little death trap. Shane does not speak. He has said enough. Rozanov stays silent too but when is he not? The silence is louder as they take the stairs to the 4th floor, fluorescent tubes buzzing to life with each turn.

By the time they are on their floor, Shane is close to fraying into a billion pieces. A cold unsettling feeling washes over him. He convinces himself that this sense of unease has nothing to do with Rozanov’s dismissal. That it is certainly not because he can’t let go of what happened two years ago at the World Junior Ice Hockey Championships.

Shane had heard so much about Ilya Rozanov, the other young hockey prospect from good old Russia. He’d watched all of Rozanov’s games and was pretty excited to meet someone he believed could be a formidable opponent. 

He’d found Rozanov lighting a cigarette outside after fervently looking for him. He introduced himself, buzzing with nerves only to be met with silence. Shane tried to save the conversation with an awkward ramble about the weather and the rooming conditions before trudging back to his hotel room in shame.

As if that wasn’t enough, Russia went home with the Gold.

Shane recalls the shame he felt that day. How he stayed up staring at the ceiling, groaning and wishing he could go back in time and stop the whole thing from happening. He recalls the resentment that followed. Mighty and searing. The warmth in his belly whenever Rozanov crossed his mind. The vow to beat him one day.

He thinks back to his frustration when he came second in the draft pick after the one person he hated. When he closes his eyes, he can still see Rozanov, curly hair tamed and eyes strikingly blue, looking down at him from the balcony like a king to his subject, like he was better than Shane.

He remembers his relief when he learned that Rozanov, like himself, despite getting drafted, had chosen to play college hockey in Russia before joining the major league after graduation. That would make them equals when they met again. That would make beating Rozanov sweeter. 

What he did not expect was finding Ilya Rozanov, the man who plagued his nightmares and his waking moments, in Coach’s office. He was supposed to defeat Rozanov, not play on the same team with him. And Rozanov most definitely was not supposed to get under his skin like this.

Now in their apartment, Shane nods politely at his roommate after toeing off his outside shoes at the entrance. That was one of his house rules and Rozanov has abided quite faithfully. “Thanks for today. You didn’t have to pay but thanks.”

Rozanov waves him off. “No problem. Is normal to pay.”

“Okay. I’ll just.” He sticks his thumb toward his door.

“Okay, enjoy boring assignment, Hollander.” Rozanov doesn’t move to turn away. He holds Shane’s gaze for a bit and then takes a step back. Shane watches him face his door for less than two seconds before spinning around. “So uh—,”

“What?”

“How did you like the food? Was ginger ale cold enough? Did you like first date?”

Shane feels his frown dissolve and then a laugh leaves his lips unbidden. Ilya Rozanov raises his blood pressure and makes him laugh concurrently. “Sure. The food was good. And the ginger ale was cold.”

“And date?” His smile is disarming.

Shane rolls his eyes. He doesn’t remember why he was so upset before. “Sure man, the date was nice too.”

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Rozanov has always been a little strange but after their evening out, he gets stranger.

He stands too close to Shane. Waits at his door with a cup of chamomile tea every morning. Makes them breakfast when he has time. And barely argues when Coach asks him to wing Shane in a set.

The staring is not new but lately, when Shane turns and catches Rozanov’s eyes, he is wearing a small smile.

He drives Shane to practice and snatches up his backpack when they are done, leading him to another hangout without asking. Shane pretends to hate it but he can’t deny that Rozanov has so many fun ideas. He pushes Shane to try new things but is also careful not to push too much, keeping their activities away from loud and crowded places.

He only selects restaurants that cater to Shane’s diet. They once had to leave a place because they were out of ginger ale even though Shane insisted he could have something else.

Shane likes it. He likes how much Rozanov laughs around him these days. He’s still stingy with his words but he seems freer, almost like how he is with his Russian group. He likes that despite Rozanov’s comments about him being too boring, he still hunts him down to spend time together. But— he doesn’t understand why.

He can’t fathom what Rozanov sees on his face that prompts a big smile whenever their gazes lock across a room. Or why Rozanov seeks his hand when they walk side by side, sometimes locking their fingers and hiding them in his jacket pocket. 

“Is cold.” He would say.

Shane doesn’t understand why Rozanov is watching him right now. Blue eyes stark against the coral interior of the cafe they’ve found themselves in today.

“You are quiet,” Rozanov says with a worried curve of his brows. “What is problem? You are bored?”

“No uh— I was just thinking.”

“You hate yoghurt?”

“No.”

“We can go somewhere else.”

Shane smiles. Covers Rozanov’s hand with his on the table. “I’m fine. I like the cafe. I like the yoghurt. I’m not bored. I just— I can be quiet too, you know?”

That gets a laugh from Rozanov. “Ah no.”

“What? I can be.”

“You talk. So much like bird.”

“I only talk with you because you ask questions. Fine, I won’t bother you with my talking anymore.”

“Nooo, Hollander. I like it. You are like cute bird.”

“Shut up. That makes no sense.”

“Your cheeks turn blood. Uhh… krasnyy when you talk. Big brown eyes like mouse. Very pretty. Too pretty.”

“Am I a bird or a mouse? Make up your mind, Rozanov.”

“Both.”

“You know,” Shane’s cheeks are flaming even before he can finish. “It’s your eyes that are pretty.”

“Da, Hollander.” Rozanov is cocky and unfairly beautiful. “My eyes are pretty.” He upends Shane’s hand and interlocks their fingers. “We are pretty together.”

Together. Shane thinks about the word for the rest of lunch.

**

They walk the short distance from the cafe to their apartment. Shane, for some reason, is more attuned to Rozanov’s presence today than on any other day. The footfalls of his shoes on the pavement. The crunch of leaves underneath their feet, speaking in the quiet accompanying them. The shuffle of their footsteps on the stairs. Fluorescent tubes that burn brighter, highlighting the gold in Rozanov’s hair.

The apartment door shuts and cages them in. Oxygen is stripped from the room. Shane takes a deep breath to remind his lungs that it’s supposed to be breathing.

Rozanov’s throat works like he wants to say something but he abandons it to Shane’s chagrin. He hovers by the couch while Shane rearranges the books on the shelf. Hangs by his bedroom door while Shane folds himself into the couch to finish a book he started last night. Rozanov almost seems nervous. Which further confuses Shane because Ilya Rozanov does not do nervous. He’s audacious and unapologetically so.

Even on days when he’s not around, Shane feels him like a phantom. His playful touches to the back of Shane’s head. The ghost of his fingers on the inside of Shane’s palm after handing him his daily cup of chamomile tea.

Rozanov’s absence creates a void that only fills up when he comes through the door, eyes softening when they land on Shane.

Rozanov should be getting ready for another party with his Russian friends as per routine. Today, he shows no indication of changing into his party clothes. Clothes that leave nothing to the imagination. Tight, see-through, or buttons opened to the navel, displaying the crucifix that never leaves his neck.

Shane is in the kitchen when Rozanov comes out of his bedroom, shirtless. He almost chokes on the water he’s drinking. Heat rises up his neck, forcing him to rip his gaze from Rozanov's chest to glare at the glass in his hand. Not even two seconds later, Shane’s eyes drift to Rozanov again. His back moves as he reaches up to open a drawer, moled skin stretching across bulging muscles. 

He’s sexy.

The thought sends Shane reeling. He knows Rozanov is beautiful. One of the reasons he has hated the boy in the past was because he weaponized his attractiveness. But today, the hatred that usually accompanies the thought is absent. Instead, arousal, hot white, and primal comes with it. Shane’s stomach dips with the sudden need to touch him. His fingers tighten around the glass in his hand as his brain scrambles to find something else, less terrifyingly sensual, to latch onto.

“Hollander.”

Shane jumps, knocking the half-full glass onto the counter. Water spills out and the empty glass rolls to the edge, pausing for a second before falling over. Shane waits for the biting sound of glass splintering but it doesn’t come. Rozanov scoops it up right before it hits the ground.

Fuck fuck. He snatches a handful of paper towels to soak up the mess. What is wrong with him?

“Hollander.”

“What!?” He snaps, spinning around to face Rozanov. God, he wants to touch him. His hands are trembling with it. “What do you want?”

“You are okay?”

No. I want to kiss you. “Fine.” Rozanov steps closer and Shane pushes his back into the counter to create some distance but there’s not much that he can do. Rozanov’s warmth draws nearer. And yet still too far away. The deranged voices in Shane’s head dare him to touch. To reach out and take what he wants. Probably what he has wanted for a while. “No!”

“Hollander?” Rozanov reaches for Shane’s face, grabbing his chin. When Shane’s breath stutters on contact, Rozanov freezes for a beat. His eyes quickly dispel concern for recognition.

He knows, Shane thinks, panicked. He knows I want him. He attempts to free himself from Rozanov’s touch but is promptly pushed back against the counter. Hooded eyes flicker across Shane’s face and then Rozanov is drawing him into a kiss.

At first, there’s nothing. Only the cacophony of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Then it all comes rushing in. The searing heat at every point of contact. This irrational need to be consumed. He kisses Ilya back, lips parting to let out the moan trapped in his throat.

“Fuck Hollander.”

Shane whimpers as he’s easily lifted onto the counter, legs going around Ilya’s waist. Ilya’s lips are the sun and he is Icarus. He takes, despite knowing he shouldn’t. He wants, despite knowing it is wrong. That this will lead nowhere. Ilya is for everyone and he wants Ilya to be for him alone.

“Hollander,” Ilya’s breath is warm against his lips. His eyes shine with something akin to adoration. Shane leans in and kisses Ilya’s lips again before angling their foreheads together.

“Fuck.” Shane’s pulse isn’t slowing. If anything, it spikes higher.

“Yes, fuck.” Unlike Shane, Ilya is smiling. “I have wanted to do this for a long time.”

“Yes?” Shane asks, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden.

“Da.” He chuckles as he takes Shane’s lips. They kiss without urgency. Shane touches him everywhere his hands can reach. He wants to consume as he has been.

“I don’t think I can study anymore.”

“School is boring. Make out with me instead. Then I suck your cock with your glasses on.”

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

“You know how to shut me up.”

Shane kisses him again. He notes belatedly that his mind stopped referring to Ilya by his last name somewhere along the way. 

**

Shane had gone to bed convinced that what happened in the kitchen was a one-time affair. So he’s rightfully surprised when Ilya comes up to him the next morning, hugs him from behind, and leaves kisses on his nape. Shane twists his neck and catches Ilya’s lips, smiling as their lips touch. 

They kiss until the toaster pops. And then he’s pushing Ilya away from him.

“No Hollander, I want to kiss more.”

So Shane gives in.

It becomes their thing. After practice comes lunch or dinner and then kissing and touching. Shane and Ilya get each other off after which Ilya dresses up to go fuck around with others. It is a simple arrangement.

But after the fourth week, he starts feeling possessive of Ilya’s time.

He never really liked it but now a brutal ache grips his stomach whenever Ilya steps out of the door. His chest feels tight, his throat clogs, and his eyes burn when yet another picture of Ilya sandwiched between Sasha and Svetlana in the club gets passed around the grapevine.

He feels pain, so physical, until Ilya corners him after practice and kisses him in an empty locker room. Then he can breathe again. He forgets every ache when he’s on his knees with Ilya’s cock pushed against his throat, his taste heady and addictive on his tongue. He is filled with joy when Ilya touches his wrist and joins their fingers together. 

Then Ilya leaves again, looking like sin and heartache. And Shane falls apart.

What he fears most is the evanescence of relationships like theirs. Shane may be inexperienced but he is far from naive. He knows that a day will come when Ilya will get bored of him.

He wonders how soon that day is.

**

Rose isn’t surprised when Shane breaks the news to him.

“I know. I mean, it was kind of obvious. I was waiting for you to tell me about your boyfriend when you were ready."

“He’s not—,” Shane stops himself. He likes the sound of that. It makes him feel less dirty for wanting Ilya. It somehow conveys longevity in their relationship. Something to withstand the test of time. Permanence.

Rose smiles sweetly. “You look happy, Shane. Happiness suits you.”

Shane smiles back, drawing his smoothie through the soggy paper straw. He is happy. Most of the time. Sometimes sad but that never lasts because Ilya eventually comes home and everything is okay again. 

“So— uh— Svetlana is your roommate, right?” Shane nibbles on his lips and plays with his straw. “She seems fun.”

“Absolutely.” Rose laughs and goes on a tangent about how great Svetlana is. Shane tunes it out. His bitterness expands and spills over. He loathes his boringness. He wishes Svetlana would just disappear forever which is instantly superseded by guilt for wishing harm on another person.

He feels even worse when he gets home to an empty apartment. Ilya just goes and comes as he pleases. Sleep eludes Shane. He lies awake in the dark until the front door’s beep shatters the silence. He listens, chest tightening to the sound of Ilya. His shoes coming off at the entrance. The shuffling of his footsteps when he goes to the kitchen. The sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. Shane waits to hear Ilya’s bedroom door open but instead, footsteps get louder until they pause at his door.

He listens as Ilya says something in Russian, and then the obvious sound of his body slumping against the door. The footsteps retreat and return mere seconds later. The knob on Shane’s door turns. Ilya makes a surprised noise when it cracks open.

Shane lies still in the dark as Ilya closes the door after himself and climbs into Shane’s bed.

“You did not lock door,” Ilya says after a long silence. 

“Mhmm,” Shane hums. “You smell like cigarettes and booze.” He whispers. What he doesn't say is that Ilya smells of other people too.

“Sorry.”

“Smoking is bad for you.” This is a standing argument.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Shane says, ignoring the sarcasm. “You should shower first.”

“Okay.”

Ilya vacates the bed and disappears into Shane’s ensuite. He hears the shower come on. Closes his eyes to drive away the unhelpful images flooding his mind. He’s still fighting himself when Ilya walks in naked. It is dark but Shane makes out the outline of his body. All beauty and splendor. Shane would incinerate anyone else who ever got to touch him.

Ilya goes through his wardrobe and pulls on a shirt and sweats. They look a bit snug on him. He climbs back into Shane’s bed smelling of his body wash. He pulls Shane against his chest, pressing cold lips to his forehead. Shane relaxes into the touch. At least he gets this. What’s not to be grateful for?

“Your hair is damp,” Shane grumbles as Ilya pulls him closer, slotting a knee between his legs.

“Dryer was wasting time. You smell good, Hollander.” He says this with his nose buried in Shane’s neck. It tickles and Shane giggles which only urges Ilya to trail the tip of his nose along the length of Shane’s neck. Then to his chin. He ends up hovering above Shane, their lips barely an inch apart.

“Did you— did you have fun today?” Shane asks.

“You miss me?”

His first instinct is to deny it. But it’s dark and Ilya who has been away all night is pressed against him, more gorgeous than ever. “Yes. Yes, I missed you.”

Ilya mutters something in Russian and crushes their lips together. 

**

Shane wakes up to his shirt hiked up to his chest and wet kisses sucked onto his belly.

“Rozanov, no marks.” He says drowsily, fingers sliding into Ilya’s hair. 

Ilya tortures him with more kisses before pulling his pants down. He grins at the sight of Shane’s hard cock slapping against his belly. “Always ready, Hollander,” he teases and swallows him down. Shane’s back comes off the bed. His fingers tighten in Ilya's hair as his head bops up and down. 

He can do nothing but watch Ilya, his golden curls in the morning light, his greedy mouth full of Shane. His hand, grabbing, squeezing. Ilya sucks him deeper, nose buried in the neat patch of hair on Shane’s lower belly. 

He looks up, cerulean eyes piercing. Shane realizes they are his weakness. He hopes that his eyes have the same effect on Ilya. 

He’s crying Ilya’s name and spilling into his mouth shortly after. Then Shane pushes Ilya down and returns the favor with the same hunger and desire. 

Ilya yanks him up by his hair right before he comes and kisses him. He tastes himself on Ilya’s tongue. Feels blood rushing weakly southward again.

“We should spend the night together more often," Shane suggests. In the absence of a response, he starts to panic. “I mean, if you want.”

Ilya rests on an elbow, catching Shane’s eyes. “If I want every day?”

“Do you?”

“I want. Do you want?”

“Obviously.” Shane smiles and is promptly attacked with kisses. 

Chapter End Notes

Final two chapters will follow shortly (as soon as I get some free time between work)
Comments are fuel

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

The first time they fuck, Shane thinks he must have died and gone to heaven. His version of heaven.

Shane was never one to prioritize sex. When boys at his high school went girl-crazy, Shane did not feel the same enthusiasm. He thought he was different, that there was something wrong with him. Then Ilya came along and Shane affirmed that he was indeed different but there was nothing wrong with him.

Ilya is a thoughtful lover. He feels Shane up with gentle caresses. He breathes sweetness against his skin. Opens him up with two three fingers. He takes it slow, too slow until Shane is arching off the bed and begging to be filled. He must have cried when Ilya sank into him, nails biting into pale skin, toes curling. 

“Hollander, Hollander,” Ilya mutters his name like an orison. He presses kisses with every stroke. Shane’s eyelids. The inside of his knees. On his shoulder. His clavicle. Shane loves it when he finds his lips again.

“Mine.” Ilya breathes, holding his gaze. “Mine,” he repeats as he draws away and slams back into Shane.

“Mine, Hollander,” Ilya whispers again.

Shane hides his face in Ilya’s shoulders and cries his name in place of a response. He sees Ilya in everything that is Shane Hollander. His pain. His anger. His joy. His sadness. He is Ilya’s, body and soul but Ilya is not his.

This is confirmed a few hours later when Shane steps out of his 8 am class and catches sight of Ilya leading Sasha by the waist into his bright red Lamborghini.

**

Ilya is seated on the couch with one of Shane’s favorite books, The Trail of the Stanley Cup. A thin piece of cellophane tape holds together its torn spine and the back cover has a discolored patch where Shane once spilled a cup of green tea. Ilya’s eyes are moving too quickly across the page to actually read anything.

Every two seconds, he’d lower the book and stare at Shane, quickly lifting it again when Shane turned toward him.

When it happens again, Shane places his own book aside and folds his glasses on it, settling his socked feet in Ilya’s lap. Ilya looks up with a grin.

“Hollander.” His fingers circle Shane’s ankle.

“Rozanov.”

“You said no touching.”

“I know what I said.”

“You could not resist me.”

“Who taught you that word?” Shane smiles. “Maybe it’s you who can’t resist me.”

“Da.” He drags Shane forward by his ankles, settling him over his lap with practiced ease. “I cannot. You are sexy, Hollander.”

“How sexy?”

He presses his lips to the underside of Shane’s jaw. “Too sexy.” This is muttered against his skin. “Much sexy.” Shane throws his head back and grabs fistfuls of Ilya’s curls for purchase as Ilya nibbles on his skin. “I want to be inside you.”

“Fuck yes.”

“Now, Hollander.” He pulls Shane into a proper kiss, hands crawling up his shirt. Goosebumps break across Shane’s skin. He could never get enough of this feeling. He presses their crotches together, seeking friction. His breath hitches as he moves his hips experimentally in Ilya’s lap.

“Greedy.” Ilya hums.

“Shut— fuck!” He falters at the feel of large hands breaching the waistband of his sweats to palm his ass. 

“Cat eat your tongue?”

Shane doesn’t bother correcting him. “Rozanov, please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, I need you. Please.” 

Ilya holds on tightly to Shane and rises from the couch. Shane lets out a gasp into his mouth, their lips never parting as Ilya stumbles blindly through the entrance of his bedroom. Ilya drops him into the bed and tumbles down with him.  

Hefty breaths fill the room. It gets even hotter when their clothes are peeled off, leaving nothing but the silkiness of Shane’s flushed skin between them. Ilya’s touch is livewire. Naked flame. Shane gasps when his fingers go in. Whimpers as he’s carefully opened up.

All the stars in the galaxy twinkle through Ilya’s eyes as Shane lowers himself onto his cock.

“Fuck, Hollander.” His hips buck up impatiently. “So beautiful.” Shane’s eyes roll back into their sockets. His cock twitches against Ilya’s belly. “You like that, Hollander?”

“Fuck off,” Shane gasps through his bitten lips.

Ilya smirks, grabbing a handful of Shane's pecs. Squeezes as Shane starts moving on his lap. His movements are clumsy and urgent, too out of his mind for any kind of coordination. His mouth falls slack with pleasure, hips jerking helplessly. They find a dizzying rhythm as Ilya grabs Shane's hips with both hands and guides him through a mind-numbing orgasm. 

I love you 

I love you

I love you so much 

He doesn’t say it. Shane doesn’t say much for the rest of the night.

**

Rose sings Ilya’s praises. Hayden condemns him.

“When will you stop messing around with that asshole?” He asks whenever Ilya successfully pisses him off. “You could do so much better.”

Rose on the other hand gets giddy at the mention of Ilya. She wiggles her brows and tells Shane he has the perfect boyfriend. He lets her believe the lie.

“Hayden hates you,” Shane reports to Ilya one day.

Ilya looks up like he’s expecting Shane to say more. “Is that all?” He asks after a moment.

“Yes?”

“Worst player on the team hates me. So what?”

“Come on, Rozanov. He’s not the worst.”

Ilya clicks his tongue. “Terrible terrible player.” He turns back to the television. A couple of seconds go by before he faces Shane again. “Is pike—,” he breathes harshly through his nose. “Do not listen to Pike. He is stupid.”

“Okay.”

Shane thinks the topic is over but several hours later when they are showered and wrapped around each other in bed, Ilya says quietly, “Do you feel the same as Pike?”

Shane detaches his face from Ilya’s chest to catch his eyes. “What?”

“He hates me.”

“Rozanov, look at us. My feet are warming against your calves. Does it feel like hate?”

“No, but I wanted to be sure. Pike is stupid.”

“Hush.” Shane kisses him gently. “Stop thinking about Hayden when you’re in bed with me.”

“Okay. Fuck him.”

“Mmmh,” Shane mutters against his lips. “I’d rather you fucked me instead.”

Ilya happily obliges.

The next day at practice, Ilya checks Hayden roughly into a board. Hayden is fine except for his chipped front tooth.

**

“You are so pretty, Hollander. Your freckles err— take my breath.”

They are on the bench, a few minutes away from winning a game, when Ilya makes this statement, uncaring that their teammates are within earshot.

Shane glares. “Rozanov, you can’t say that here,” he says through gritted teeth. “They can hear us.”

“Who gives a fuck?” He declares with a careless shrug. “Whole world knows we are lovers, so what?”

The world most definitely does not need to know that he’s on Ilya’s extensive fuck buddies roster. “Shut up, that’s gross,” Shane mumbles, turning away. He knows he’s all shades of red because Ilya plasters on the smile reserved for when he successfully flusters Shane. It throws him off balance but he recovers quickly. “Fuck off!”

**

Shane gnaws on his top lip as Ilya pulls on a black satin shirt over dark jeans. He crosses his legs to curb his body’s need to anxiously bounce them. It is Friday night and as routine dictates, Ilya is getting ready for another party. Shane will stay awake all night, chewing on the drawstrings of his hoodie, wondering what he’s up to.

“I will see you soon.”

Shane nods silently, afraid that the tears he’s fighting to contain will unleash if he makes a sound.

Ilya presses a kiss against Shane’s temple before leaving, lips stretched wide and eyes warm like he isn't ripping a heart out.

After he leaves, Shane busies himself to distract his mind from the torturous images it is conjuring. He opens a book and stares at the words until they blur. He tries watching television but can’t concentrate on the moving images. Even his trusted chamomile tea does nothing to calm him.

The pain in his chest heightens with every passing second. This was not supposed to happen. Nobody is to blame but himself. He should've kept it casual like Ilya. Should’ve led with his head and not his heart.

Maybe, he thinks dejectedly, he should’ve requested a new roommate. Should’ve turned down Ilya’s offer to eat together. Should’ve never walked up to Ilya two years ago in Saskatchewan. That might have been the beginning of his end.

An involuntary sob escapes Shane’s lips. Warm tears roll down his temples. He is mortified and yet he cannot bring himself to stop crying.

He will make everything right tomorrow but for now, he curls into a ball and weeps himself to sleep.

**

Shane finds Ilya pacing frantically at his door the next morning. He freezes and stares at Shane wide-eyed and hair disheveled as though his fingers have gone through the strands too many times.

“Hollander.” A cup of chamomile tea balances precariously on a tray in his hand.

Bitterness overrides the minty taste of toothpaste in Shane’s mouth. He steps around Ilya without saying a word. Ilya follows like a shadow. He’s so close Shane can feel his breath on his nape.

“Your door was locked.” There’s a slight tremor in his voice.

Shane doesn’t look at him. He might abandon his reservations for temporary affection. “I know, I locked it.”

“But why?”

“No reason.”

“Hollander, pozhaluysta look at me. What is problem?”

“Nothing.” Shane concentrates on filling the kettle with water.

“It does not look like nothing. You lock door—,”

“And so what?!” Shane loses it. He faces Ilya, his anger displacing his sadness. There’s a consistent pounding against his scalp, a voice egging him on to hurt Ilya just like he has been hurt. “Maybe I didn’t want my bed smelling of cigarettes and booze!”

Ilya’s face twists with each word. “I shower. You make me.”

“That’s not—,” he huffs, blinking away his cloudy vision. “Maybe I didn’t want to see you. Maybe I didn't want you in my room… in my bed. Maybe—,” his voice cracks but he soldiers on. “Maybe I’m just tired of this.”

“This? Hollander.” That's all Ilya says. His mouth is thinner and the muscles in his jaw are held tight. Shane waits for him to say more but nothing follows. Even in the final moments of this dysfunctional relationship, Ilya keeps his words to his chest.

It is Saskatchewan again. Shane’s hand, and his heart also, is held out for Ilya to take. Like two years ago, he is left to carry his feelings alone.

“I—,” I hate you. He cannot bring himself to utter the words though they are true in this moment. “Fuck.” He turns and escapes from the kitchen before Ilya can see his tears. He breaks into a power walk and doesn’t stop until he’s pounding on Hayden’s door.

Hayden’s roommate, JJ gets it. He starts cursing the intruder before the door fully opens. When he sees the look on Shane’s face, he shuts his mouth and steps aside. Shane leaves his shoes at the entrance. He may be a heartbroken fool in love but he’s not a Neanderthal.

Hayden takes one look at him and purses his lips, nostrils flaring. “Rozanov?” Shane nods. “I told you he’s an asshole. What do you even see in him?”

“He’s not that bad,” Shane says even as he fights to keep his tears from falling.

“Tell me one good thing he has done!”

“He makes me tea every morning, takes me out to dinner—,”

“You and a thousand other people.”

Shane’s heart dips at the painful reminder. He stares at his hands in his lap. “I know. I just— I hoped maybe he would eventually like me back.”

Hayden is merciless. “Guys like Rozanov are not made for love. You need to get over him.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Haydes, I really like you but—,”

“Come on!” Hayden throws his hands up. “I’m straight. You’ve met my girlfriend like a gazillion times.”

“That’s surely inaccurate.”

“Not literally, you dork.” Hayden smiles displaying his half tooth. He watches Shane with pitiful eyes. “You know what they say, right? The easiest way to get over someone is to get under another person.”

“No one says that.”

“Everyone says it! Come on, Shane. Jackie has a bisexual friend. Name is Louis or something. You’ll like him.”

“You’re not doing this just to get rid of Louis, are you?”

He laughs. “Maybe.” He shifts closer. Squeezes Shane’s knee. “Jackie and I have this movie slash hot chocolate date today. If you want, we can make it a double.”

Shane shakes his head. “I— I don’t think I can. It’s too soon.”

“Work with me Shane, do you want to get over Rozanov or not?”

“I do.”

“Then let’s do it! Let’s go on a double date.”

Shane bites his lips as he mulls over it. He doesn’t want to rush into something he isn’t ready for. But he also refuses to feel as shitty and expendable as he did last night. He lifts his eyes to Hayden’s expectant gaze.

“Okay.”

**

Shane stays with Hayden all day to avoid Ilya. He’s not ready to face him yet. However, when he finally returns to their apartment, Ilya is the first person he sees.

He scrambles to his feet as Shane shuffles into the living room. “Hollander.” Ilya rubs his palms on the fabric of his dark sweat pants. “You are okay now?”

“Fine.”

Ilya’s shoulders droop in relief. He smiles a little. Guarded and hopeful. “I think today we stay here. Order dinner. Watch tv. Read boring hockey book.”

Shane shakes his head. “I uh—,” the words are hard to get out. He bites the inside of his cheek, tasting the burst of copper on his tongue. “Sorry, I have a date.” It takes a lot to keep upright. Shane wants to puke. He feels wrong. This feels wrong. More so because Ilya’s face falls.

“Date?”

Shane nods, holding his trembling hands in a fist by his side. “A real date this time around.”

“Why?” Ilya’s bright blue eyes look dull gray. “We are lovers.” He takes a step forward and Shane quickly steps away. Ilya gapes at the space between them. A muscle in his temple jumps as a devastated look overcomes him. “Shane.” Softly. Barely a whisper.

Shane clenches his jaw to keep the tears in. “I got to go, Rozanov.” Just like this morning, he runs away. Getting ready with shaky hands takes a lot of effort. But after a while, he makes himself look presentable. Thumbs away the tears teetering on the edge of his eyes and steps out.

Ilya is still in the living room. Shane doesn’t look at him when he leaves. Not even when his name is whispered brokenly.

“Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

I need to hear your thoughts or I’ll shrivel and perish.

While you await the final chapter, you can read my other work, ‘We’re not in LA anymore’. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ I hope this works

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

The date goes horribly and it’s nobody else’s fault but Shane’s. He thinks about Ilya the entire time. He’s repulsed when Louis’ jacket does as much as graze his own. He gives clipped answers and cannot stop wishing it were Ilya asking questions in his choppy, broken English.

By the end of the movie, he is mentally and physically drained. He apologizes to Louis and forgoes the hot chocolate date. He doesn’t want anyone else, but the one he wants doesn't feel the same.

Tears prickle the corners of his eyes on the drive back to campus. He hugs his jacket tight around his body as he climbs up to their apartment.

The stair lights don’t come on. It feels a little colder today. Nothing feels right.

Ilya is in the living room. He’s sitting in the dark, just staring at the wall and doesn’t move even when Shane flips the lights switch. 

Shane stares at the back of his head. His heart which had lain dormant all night starts to stir at the sight of Ilya. Yeah, he’s fucked. He shifts from foot to foot, wondering if he should say something or go to his room and drown himself in self-flagellatory thoughts. He decides on the latter. He’s one step away from his door when he hears his name.

Ilya is facing him now. Finally. Shane is relieved to see his face again but his joy is transient because Ilya’s beautiful eyes are red-rimmed and tired. “Rozanov?”

“Shane.”

Shane looks away, hoping it will relieve the tightening in his chest. He shoves his thumbs into his pockets. “I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s 11 pm on a Saturday. Shouldn’t you be at a party?”

“How was your date?” Ilya says in lieu of an answer.

Horrible. I missed you so much. I know we are nothing but it felt like cheating. He shrugs. Lies. “Great. He was— nice.”

“He will be your lover now?”

No, absolutely not. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

The long silence that follows forces Shane to look back at Ilya. He watches Shane with those eyes. There’s so much in there that Shane wishes he understood. Before he can begin deciphering them one after the other, Ilya nods. He sniffs, swiping the back of his hand under his nose.

“Good. I will leave you now.” He marches toward the door.

“W-where are you going?”

Ilya doesn’t turn around. He slides his feet into his boots and snatches a coat off the rack without looking. It’s Shane’s. “It is 11pm on Saturday, Hollander.” The door opens and shuts behind him.

Shane flinches at the loud exit. He stares at the door long after the sound dies. Something in him wants to chase Ilya and beg him not to leave. To choose him for once. But his feet stay rooted to the floor.

He dispels all thoughts of Ilya with other people. Sleep could end his suffering. And yet sleep eludes him. He reorganizes his clothes by color and almost falls to pieces again when he realizes that half his wardrobe space has been hijacked by Ilya. All his favorite shirts are right in there with Shane’s clothes. His underwear occupies the drawer beside Shane’s. The one suit he wears to all formal events is hanging beside all of Shane’s four suits.

Shane is not really a social media person but he visits Instagram from time to time to get an idea of what Ilya is up to. Usually, he’s posting stories of himself taking shots, overpriced drinks, or of his shit-faced friends. Today, his Instagram is a barren land. Shane refreshes the page several times, biting his nails. Nothing comes up.

He throws on Ilya’s hoodie. Hugs Ilya’s pillow to his chest. Rolls into Ilya’s spot on the bed. It’s all cold now. He feels so cold. Nothing replaces the emptiness.

When he finally passes out, it’s 4 in the morning. He dreams about bright blue eyes. Golden hair. And kisses shared in empty locker rooms.

Then he wakes up trembling like an addict going through withdrawals.

**

Shane’s doorway is empty. There’s no 6’3 Russian waiting with a steaming cup of tea. No smell of coffee and strong designer perfume lingering in the air. There’s an empty spot where Ilya’s boots usually rest. Shane’s jacket is still missing from the rack.

For all four and a half months of knowing Ilya, he has never slept away from home. Today marks his first.

Shane’s airways are suddenly clogged. His restless feet take him to Ilya’s room. It’s unlocked. It has always been. Shane sits in the neatly made bed, holding his face between his knees. He feels himself slipping away. Forces himself to breathe. 1 2 3 4 hold. 1 2 3 4 release.

Minutes pass before his breathing evens out. The ground underneath him still wobbles but his knees hold him up. They drag him toward the incessant ringing of his phone.

Hope surges and dies quickly when he sees the caller.

“Hello, Rose.”

“Shane Hollander!” She sounds pissed. “Meet me at the food court right now.”

“Rose, I’m really not in—,”

“I don’t want to hear any excuses. Now!”

Shane sighs. “Okay. I have to brush my teeth and take a shower.”

“Be here in thirty minutes.” She leaves no room for argument.

**

Rose is hard to miss. She’s in a bright red sweater but what directs Shane to her table is the negative energy rolling off her. She slides a macha latte across the laminated table to Shane as soon as he sits.

“Is it colder today? I feel cold.” Shane says, wrapping his fingers around the cup. “I thought wearing two jackets might help but it’s still so cold.” He takes a sip of his drink, relishing the warm slide of liquid down his throat. “How are you? You look like hell.”

Rose glares through her lashes. “You’re one to talk. You look like shit.”

“Oh.” Shane touches his face as if he didn’t see the dark circles around his eyes this morning. “A lot has been going on.”

“Oh yeah? Pray tell, Shane Hollander, what could it possibly be? A lot, like breaking up with your boyfriend!?” Shane’s mouth falls open but she just rambles on, turning almost as red as her sweater. “When were you going to tell me about that?” 

“Wha— how?” Shane splutters. “How did you know?”

“The question should be who doesn’t know because I’m quite sure everyone on our block heard.”

“Wha—? I-I don’t understand.”

“Shane, Ilya came crying to Svet last night. He said you broke up with him and didn’t love him anymore. That you are dating a real Canadian man who is better than him.”

“I never said—,”

“He said he was going back to Russia because there was no point in staying here if you were going to be with someone else!”

It’s a lot to take in. Shane’s mind goes around in a whirlwind trying to make sense of what the fuck is going on. In the end, all he manages is, “What?”

“He said a lot but it was all in Russian. Svet only translated a few things while attempting to console Ilya.”

“Rose,” Shane calls calmly though his heart is anything but calm. “Rozanov is not my boyfriend. We’ve only been sleeping together.”

It’s Rose’s turn to look disbelieving. “Does Ilya know this?”

“Yes?” He fights the urge to bite his nails. “He— uh, he has other people he sleeps with.” He must not look as nonchalant as he thought because Rose’s face softens. She reaches out for Shane’s hand. He welcomes the comfort. “I mean, it’s normal right? People do this sort of thing.”

“Oh Shane,” She squeezes his hand. “I think you’re mistaken. Do you know how I knew about you and Ilya before you told me?” Shane shakes her head and she continues with a small smile. “Ilya came to our dorm one morning, excited because you went on a date with him. He was so convinced that you were boyfriends. He comes in randomly to share stories about you. I don’t speak Russian but there was always Hollander or Shane in there.”

“Rozanov is easily excited. He gets like that with Sasha and Svetlana and his other Russian—,” he hates the word. “Lovers.”

Rose lets go of his hand. Makes her patented ‘I’m friends with a moron’ face. “Shane, for the love of God, tell me you don’t think Ilya sleeps with Svet and all these people.” At Shane’s silence, she facepalms. “Jesus, Shane!”

“What? They are always together.”

“He, what, spends nineteen hours of the day with you and five with his friends and you think that’s not enough?”

Even 24 hours with Ilya would be insufficient but he doesn't say that. Shane is starting to see that he has judged Ilya a bit too harshly. “But—,” he’s scrambling for something. An excuse to justify the heartache he must have caused. “But the parties.”

“I followed Sveta to a party two or three times and you know what they do there? They shout lyrics incorrectly and dance. That’s it. Of course, people hit on Ilya but he turned them away no matter how drunk he was. ‘No no I have lover’.” Rose makes a terrible Ilya impression.

Shane hangs his head. “Rozanov.” He chokes. “What have I done? I thought— I didn’t know. Nobody said anything to me.”

Rose covers his hand with her smaller one again. Her chipped maroon nail polish stands out against her pale skin. “Shane.” Her tone is kinder. “I call him your boyfriend all the time and you have never corrected me once.”

“I thought you were teasing.”

“Oh, Shane.” This one sounds almost like an insult.

“What do I do now? He probably hates me.” His chest rises with panic. “Rose, I went on a date with someone else!”

“As much as I’d like to witness this impending crash out, I’m gonna ask you to keep it together. I’m running on two hours of sleep because your boyfriend spent all night crying in my room. So I say this in the nicest way possible. Shane, go find Ilya and stop him from going back to Russia or killing himself, which is basically the same fate for a bisexual man.”

Shane’s mind replays the look on Ilya’s face yesterday. The voices that accompany them tell him Ilya will never forgive him. That he hates him. However, Shane cannot help but ask. “Is he still with Svetlana?”

Rose takes out her phone and types something. It pings after thirty seconds. She reads whatever is on her screen and laughs.

“What is that?”

“Sveta said he went back to your apartment. Apparently, he’s going to pack his bags and sell his car.”

“He loves that car. He won’t sell it.”

“I wouldn’t test that theory, Shane.”

**

Shane wastes two minutes staring at the door before gathering enough courage to open it. He half expects to be met with an empty home. Instead, everything is exactly where he last saw it. This time, his jacket is back on the rack and Ilya’s boots are arranged neatly on a rag.

Shane goes to Ilya’s room. It is empty and the bed is still neatly made except for the little spot he occupied this morning. He moves, now more confident, to his own bedroom. The door gives way and there sits Ilya in Shane’s bed. He’s staring at the door with an uncharacteristic fright in his eyes and Shane hates himself for putting it there. For making Ilya feel it was wrong to seek nearness when he himself has done the same.

The room smells of Shane’s shower gel and Ilya’s curls are darker with moisture because he never has the patience to fully dry his hair. 

Shane’s heart swells with so much affection that it almost invokes another panic attack. “Rozanov. Ilya—,” he tests the name out. It feels perfect on his lips. Why has he never used it? “Ilya,” he repeats.

“Sorry. You did not lock your door.”

Shane breathes in shakily. Now that he knows, it’s all he can see. The love that Ilya has for him. Shane finally moves from the door. Ilya’s eyes follow him, still uncertain, and soften only when Shane crawls into his arms. His reaction is immediate. He hugs Shane tightly to his chest. 

“Dorogoy,” Ilya whispers against his neck. “Oh, Shane.” Shane feels wetness against his skin. Feels the drum of Ilya’s heartbeat in his own chest.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t cry lyubimyy,” Ilya pulls back to wipe Shane’s tears, revealing the tears in his own eyes. It’s too much. Shane sobs harder.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Is okay.” Ilya kisses his lips once and twice on his temple.

They stay in the same spot, rocking back and forth until their tears subside.

In the wake of their emotional wreck, they lie face to face. Ilya is grinning from cheek to cheek but Shane cannot forgive himself just yet no matter how many times Ilya says it’s okay.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes for the nth time. “I didn’t know we were boyfriends.”

Ilya finds this funny. “But how? I called us lovers many times.”

“Lovers means we fuck. It doesn’t mean boyfriends.”

“This is stupid, no? Boring Canadians with boring rules. We love each other so we are lovers, yes?”

Now Shane cannot argue with that logic. A smile wiggles its way through the sadness. “I guess I was too blinded by jealousy to acknowledge what this is.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Tell me,” He nudges Shane’s chin with his knuckles. “I will not know if you do not say.”

“Your Russian friends. I was jealous of the parties and how talkative you were around them. You never talk to me.” It still hurts to recount the feeling. “It made me feel like you didn’t enjoy my company.”

“No no, Hollander. Yes, you are boring.”

“Fuck off!”

He grins. “But is good boring. I do not always have words. English is hard. I am afraid I make mistake and say something wrong. I know only bad words for hockey and I do not ever want to say bad words to you, ever.” Shane doesn’t realize he’s crying again until Ilya starts wiping away his tears.

“I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. I made you cry.”

“Eh, my eyes needed a bath.”

Shakes chuckles between tears. He cups Ilya’s face, caressing his cheek. “I’ve been a terrible lover.”

“No, you are perfect.”

“I didn’t even know we were together.”

“But you were so perfect for me. You took me so well.”

“Shut up.”

“You force me to eat disgusting food.”

“I didn’t force you and it’s not disgusting. It’s good—,”

“Good for performance, you said this. Only good lover can do this. You let me sleep in your bed and use your shower. I wake up every day holding you. I— erh,” he waves his hand, summoning the words. “Lucky. I feel lucky. One day, I will tell you everything when my English is good. I will tell you how perfect you are. I will tell you how I could not stop thinking about you after boring Canada town two years ago.”

“Saskatchewan?” His voice rises in disbelief.

“Da. You were cute. Very pretty.” He brushes his fingers across Shane’s nose. “Freckles.”

“B-but you ignored me.”

“English is hard now. English was harder before. I did not want to make a fool of myself in front of beautiful boy.”

Shane would start crying again if he wasn’t tired. He spent years plotting Ilya’s downfall over that single encounter just to find out he just couldn’t speak English. “Ilya,” he whispers.

“Shane.”

“I should learn Russian.”

“You would be fluent in a week. You are smart.”

“Not smart enough to know I have a boyfriend.”

“True, Hollander. That is not very smart.”

“Shut up.”

“Did you kiss perfect Canadian date?”

Shane laughs at the randomness and absurdity of the question. “How long have you been holding that in?”

“Too long. I cried all night.”

Shane brushes under his pretty eyes tenderly. He might never forgive himself for making them shed tears. “I didn’t kiss him. I missed you the whole time.”

Ilya starts smiling again. “So you love me?”

Shane nods. “More than anything. I don’t know why but—,”

“I am awesome, Hollander.”

“Yes, you are.” He smiles. Tucks his feet against Ilya’s calves. “I was so cold. It’s so cold without you, Ilya. I don’t want to feel that again.”

“I will not leave you again. No more party.”

“No, it’s not that. I won’t ask you to stop having fun because of me. I just— promise me you’ll come home. I don’t want to sleep alone.”

“Promise.” Ilya pulls him in for a kiss that lasts for a while. Shane whines when their lips disconnect with a thin line of saliva. “You will keep your door open, Hollander?”

“Yes, always.”

Chapter End Notes

Hiii i’m here. Had quite a busy weekend. Let me know what you think ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

 

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