Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Fluff, First Date, Ice Skating, Early Relationship

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-17 Words: 947 Chapters: 1/1

Poise

Summary

Shane and Ilya are getting to know each other, and the boundaries of the relationship are expanding, to a small dark lake in Ottawa.

They go skating.

Notes

these two have got me down bad crying at the gym, so have some sweet, sweet fluff <3

currently taking HR prompts at my tumblr

It's two o'clock in the morning, so the ice is empty. Peaceful.

It's not hockey ice either. It's a real lake, with real trees blowing in the real nose-biting cold.

Shane Hollander's cheeks are red – from the cold, from the exposure. He's got layers of jackets on and looks a little like a slightly awkward, embarrassed penguin. Ilya's heart jumps inside his chest anyway.

They sit beside each other on a damp, icy bench and lace up in silence. Shane doesn't want to question that this might be a stupid idea. Ilya doesn't want to attempt to articulate just why, exactly, he doesn't care.

With the familiar crunch and slide of the ice underfoot, though, both of them breathe a little easier. That ease turns quickly to competition; speed and shoving, wrestling and laughing, until the wind is whipping past them both like a galloping horse.

Then they trip, and thump, and fall into a snowdrift at the side of the ice.

Shane is under Ilya, just where he likes him. Their legs are tangled together, hips pressed, Ilya's lips right by Shane's ear. Shane goes soft again - well, in some places - as his competitive edge crumbles, powerless in the face of Ilya's smouldering eyes, voice, body. If it wasn't so cold his dick would fall off, Ilya might indeed have tried something, but as it is, he simply gets up, and offers Shane his hand.

“This is fun, Hollander,” he promises. The man does like some reassurance. Shane nods, and blinks those soft icy eyelashes.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

And so, they fall back into a rhythm again, but it's more tame this time. Even the birds are asleep, so the only sound for a few seconds is the soft schick, schick of their skates, moving in time. They don't hold hands, they don't press against each other. They just skate. And Shane, like a deer trying to get his footing on it all, starts to talk.

“I haven't been skating for ages,” he says. “Just to skate, I mean. I used to come out here all the time with my mom, but when I started getting picked up by the programs we just... ran out of time, I guess.”

“Your mother skates?”

He laughs. “Oh, no. She's terrible. But she always supported me.”

And something possesses Ilya to say:

“My mother was beautiful skater.”

He looks out at the ice, and the dark, rippling trees, and he can see the ghost of her, moving like a ribbon of silk. Elegant, confident, smooth and stunning. As far as his ten-year-old self was concerned, she could pirouette and spiral and leap with the best of the best in the world. The memory tastes like metal in his mouth, and his heart aches.

Shane swerves to a stop in front of him.

“So are you,” he says, and Ilya snorts.

“I am not beautiful.”

Something happens to Shane's face when he says that. Something that used to make him feel angry and snippy, but he holds it back this time, as Shane chases his lips for a gentle kiss, Chases his hand, just for a moment, like maybe Ilya is the one who needs some reassurance this time.

“You could be,” Shane promises. “Come on. Repeat after me.”

Shane backs up, then, and turns around. He builds up some speed; not as much as he can, just enough to give him the momentum, to leap and turn, switch feet and hit the ice again. His free leg lifts up behind him unaided, strong and flexible in a way he's shown off in the bedroom even more so than he ever has on the ice. His arms stretch out like a swan as he sails across it. Maybe a shy swan, but still.

“It's easy,” he promises. “Even Scott Hunter can do it.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, and Shane grins. Confident, this time. Teasing. So of course, he has to try, and he wobbles a little on his back foot, sways dangerously for a moment before he recovers, and Shane slides in alongside.

“That was good,” he says. “More arms. Like this.”

His hands brush ever so gently against Ilya's as he guides them into position, gesturing a wider reach, and Ilya is not blushing.

“Is silly,” he objects.

“Is good for balance,” Shane insists. “Try.”

His lips try to be commanding, but his eyes say, for me?, and against his better judgement, Ilya is powerless to resist.

He twirls through the air again, and lands, and reaches up and behind like he's seen the figure skaters do. He exaggerates, partly poking fun and partly because it does help. His whole posture is better, his knee holds stronger, the return to the ice is cleaner. Ilya Rozanov is not a swan. He is a bird of prey. But in this moment, he is swooping - elegant, if not delicate. He turns and tries it the other way, and if anything it's even better.

Shane stands and watches like he's been struck in the head, as Ilya spirals back across the ice. A thrill runs through him, like it does any time he discovers a new trick that leaves Shane breathless, and so he dangles it a little longer, dancing around him.

“That – that is poise,” Shane remarks, wide-eyed and bewildered.

“Po-eez?” Ilya tilts his head. “That is new one.”

“You should learn it,” Shane says. “You have it.”

“And it is like beautiful, yes?”

Shane catches Ilya's hand, interrupting his teasing flow so he whips straight into the man and their lips crash together and he doesn't have to say what he's thinking.

It is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.