Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, F/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, Grigori Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Irina Rozanova, Polina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), Rock Climbing, Olympics, sport climbing, Anxious Shane Hollander, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Top Ilya Rozanov, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Forced Proximity, Rivals with Benefits, No Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Porn with Plot, Angst with a Happy Ending, Shane Hollander Has Food Issues, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Idiots in Love, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Miscommunication, Cowboy Shane Hollander, Sub Ilya Rozanov, Recreational Drug Use, Friends With Benefits Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander/Miles - Freeform, Ilya Rozanov Goes to Therapy, fuck AI right up the butt, Passive Suicidality, World Cup, (but not that one), Cheating, Overstimulated Shane Hollander, Under-negotiated Kink, Rope Bondage, Shane Hollander in Subspace, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Safeword Use, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Shane Hollander Has OCD, religion-related role play, Panic Attacks, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Minor Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova, Ilya Rozanov is Good With Children, Shane Hollander is Good With Children, But Ilya is better sorry not sorry, Marijuana | Weed Edibles, Shane Hollander tries weed, Good weed experience don’t worry, Breeding Kink, Wank and Tell | Creator is Open to Comments about Masturbating to This Work

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Climbing Without Protection

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-30 Completed: 2026-08-04 Words: 108,862 Chapters: 23/23

Between a Rock Climber and a Hard Place

Summary

There, in an overhung area that had been initially blocked from view, was what could only be described as a Greek god in Adidas track pants and La Sportiva Solutions. The god was hanging off a purple sloper with his left arm, shaking out and chalking up casually with his right. Shane barely noticed himself taking a few steps forward as he squinted at the grade. V9. Shane watched as the climber matched his hands and then carefully rotated on his toe to dip his left hand back into the chalk bag swinging at his hips. A little puff of chalk exploded out onto the man’s bare lower back, an area Shane had been trying to ignore, as he always tried to ignore the muscled backs of the bros who tore off their shirt as soon as they got in the gym. His eyes drifted upward, taking in the impressive lats, flexing and glistening with a sheen of sweat, and all the way up to the tousled blonde hair...

What the fuck. Was that…? Shane blanched as he realized that he recognized the climber. He wasn’t a Greek god at all. He was Russian. And not a god either, but that was besides the point. It was Ilya Rozanov, the top male youth boulderer in Russia, winner of last year’s IFSC Youth World Championship, where Shane had gotten 4th place.

Notes

This is my first fic so please be gentle.

Chapter 1: Juniors

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Notes

Shane knew he shouldn’t be here, mere hours before the comp would start. But he couldn’t help it – between his anxiety and the time difference between Ottawa and Dallas, Texas, he’d woken up at 5am and tossed and turned for over an hour before deciding sleep was a lost cause. He knew wouldn’t be allowed into the building where the championship was being held until early afternoon, so he had pulled up Google Maps (why was everything separated by miles of highway in this godforsaken country?), texted his mom, called an Uber, and…here he was.

He pulled open the front door and the air that rushed out immediately brought his shoulders down from where they’d been clenched. He took a deep breath in, inhaling the familiar notes…sweaty shoes, chalk, and aerosol cleaning products. The climbing gym.

Climbing gyms all looked about the same, at least in Shane’s experience. And he had a good amount of it, having climbed throughout North America, even traveling as far as Europe and Asia for the past couple IFSC youth comps. This year, technically, he was no longer a youth; at 18 you became a “Junior”. His mind immediately started on a spiral — in another year, he wouldn’t be attending youth competitions at all; he’d be competing against Olympians like Toby Roberts and even greats like Adam Ondra. Mustering all the skills he’d worked on with his therapist, he pushed these thoughts aside as he paid at the front desk and made his way back to the bouldering area.

The gym was quiet, which made sense for 7 in the morning in a city not particularly known for its climbing culture. A woman in a matching athleisure set ran on a treadmill, music blasting loud enough from her Airpods that Shane could pick up the Sabrina Carpenter song as he passed by, and an older man with tanned, wrinkled skin was pulling on his climbing shoes by the cubbies. Shane spotted a collection of hangboards and headed over briskly. He had a usual routine, and while he’d need to take it easy on his fingers (a pulley injury had been flaring on and off for the past 6 months), he knew it would help him get centered to move through his usual warmups. He tossed his gym bag toward a rack of weights, but as he turned to begin his routine, a figure caught his eye.

There, in an overhung area that had been initially blocked from view, was what could only be described as a Greek god in Adidas track pants and La Sportiva Solutions. The god was hanging off a purple sloper with his left arm, shaking out and chalking up casually with his right. Shane barely noticed himself taking a few steps forward as he squinted at the grade. V9. Shane watched as the climber matched his hands and then carefully rotated on his toe to dip his left hand back into the chalk bag swinging at his hips. A little puff of chalk exploded out onto the man’s bare lower back, an area Shane had been trying to ignore, as he always tried to ignore the muscled backs of the bros who tore off their shirt as soon as they got in the gym. His eyes drifted upward, taking in the impressive lats, flexing and glistening with a sheen of sweat, and all the way up to the tousled blonde hair. Instinctively, and perhaps to distract himself from the chiseled torso, Shane began to analyze the remaining moves of the problem. The climber was currently laid back with a toe hold on the left and his right foot flagged; once he’d finished shaking out he would need to do a pretty strengthy move out to a pinch on the right, probably cut feet and heel hook out on the right, and then muscle up to the juggy hold at the top emblazoned with the word FINISH. Shane was just starting to smile to himself, satisfied with his efficient beta, when the climber suddenly pushed off of his left foot and exploded upward, grabbing the finish hold with his left hand and then the top of the climbing wall with his right. The climber let out a jarringly loud “Whoo!” in the silent gym and dropped down to the mat gracefully, rotating in the air so that he landed facing outward.

What the fuck. Was that…? Shane blanched as he realized that he recognized the climber. He wasn’t a Greek god at all. He was Russian. And not a god either, but that was beside the point. It was Ilya Rozanov, the top male youth boulderer from Russia, winner of last year’s IFSC Youth World Championship, where Shane had gotten 4th place, barely missing the podium. Last year Rozanov’s blonde hair had been cropped close to his head, but it was now a mess of waves and curls, falling into his eyes. It looked like he had grown about 6 inches and put on 20 pounds of muscle. He looked…really good. Shane realized that he was staring at Rozanov’s abs, practically salivating, and jolted his eyes upward. Was Shane imagining it, or was Rozanov smirking at him?

Regardless, Rozanov had definitely seen him, so Shane tossed his phone and headphones over onto his gym bag and approached, putting out a hand for a handshake. Rozanov’s smirk broadened into an amused smile, and he closed the distance and shook Shane’s hand.

“I may not be from here, but I thought American climbers do the fist bump,” he said teasingly, his eyes meeting Shane’s with a sparkling intensity that made Shane’s mind go momentarily blank. Rozanov waited a moment for an answer, then filled in the silence himself. “I would think maybe you are climber from Asian team, Japan or maybe Korea, but you dress just like other boring Americans.”

Shane’s outrage broke through his speechlessness. He looked down at his perfectly normal gym outfit - black shorts, gray Underarmor hoodie, clean Reebok sneakers - and spluttered out “I’m Canadian!”

“Ah, so like America but with more snow and...what are they called…mooses? Da?”

“Moose” said Shane, pedantically.

“Yes, one moose, many mooses. I said this.”

“No,” Shane said, exasperated, “it’s the singular and the plural. Ugh, never mind. What are you even doing here?”

Rozanov shrugged. “Stretching out” he said simply, reaching one lanky arm across his body in a move that put his defined bicep right at the height of Shane’s face. “But yes, I should be going now. Need to save my energy if I am going to get the gold again.” He winked, and Shane felt a strange sensation in his chest that caused him to blush and avert his eyes to the floor. Rozanov strode nonchalantly back onto the mat and retrieved the T-shirt he had shed before Shane arrived, pulling it over his head and unclipping his chalk bag in smooth, practiced motions.

As he walked by Shane again, he looked him right in the eyes again and, with another devilish smirk, said, “Hope to see you on the podium, Hollander.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya sat hunched forward on a plastic chair, headphones in, listening to Russian rap on a beat up iPod. It was fucking annoying you couldn’t have your phone in the isolation zone — or “iso”, as everyone seemed to call it here.

The blasting music served a dual purpose — it blocked out the polite English chit chat his fellow youth climbers were exchanging all around him, and it distracted him from the anxiety-inducing memory of his father’s lecture 24 hours ago, telling him that if he wasn’t on the podium at this competition, it was time to be done with this embarrassing excuse for a sport. His father would have preferred he play hockey, or even football — sports that were masculine and respected in Russia. But Ilya had always loved to climb, ever since he was a child scrambling up trees during walks with his mother on the bulvari in Moscow, watching her from above, waiting for her to put up her arms for him to jump safely into. And then, in his teen years, after… well, he’d needed little doses of recklessness to not go completely insane. He’d found the climbing gym, and soon he was spending every free hour there, lifting weights until his muscles screamed louder than his mind, fighting his way through problems that had actual, physical solutions.

He wasn’t that worried about today. He would take the gold, like he had last year, and his father could go to hell. Ilya ripped the headphones out of his ears and stuffed his phone into the duffel bag at his feet, suddenly sickened by the rapper’s grating voice. Keeping his head hung so that he was looking out through his shaggy blonde bangs, he glanced around at the other kids, sizing them up. He was taller than just about all of them, but that wasn’t always an asset in bouldering. Shane Hollander was there, no longer wearing his giant, ugly American sneakers, talking amiably with a Slovenian guy.

Ilya had watched some competition videos of Hollander from the past year, sizing him up since he was supposedly the top climber from Canada in their age bracket. Hollander was a fantastic static climber, seeming gracefully in control of every minor movement, something Ilya’s coaches always nagged him to improve. Ilya had possibly watched some of those videos of Hollander multiple times — had maybe focused a little too intently on those toned calves and careful fingers. The close up shots showed that the Canadian had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that Ilya found intriguing.

A competition staffer in a polo blustered back through a curtain with a clipboard in hand.

“You’ll have five minutes out there to look over the boulder problems. You can confer with one another, but not your coaches. After that, you’ll come back here and we’ll get started one by one. Follow me.”

Ilya stood and headed for the curtain, rolling his right shoulder which he had tweaked a few weeks ago and still felt stiff and achy from the long, cramped plane ride. He strode out confidently into the lights and noise, briefly scanning the crowd until he locked eyes with his coach in the front row. The stern Russian man gave him a nod, unsmiling, and Ilya turned his attention to the four boulder problems.

Blyat! Two of the problems were immediately clear as balance-y, technical climbs. Ilya knew he shouldn’t write these off; he had been practicing these competition-style boulders plenty at his training gym in Moscow. Still, it was extremely unlikely that he would flash them, and that’s what he wanted to do on a majority of the boulders to secure the gold. He stood behind the other climbers who were miming the sequence of moves they would make, twos and threes from the same country speaking rapidly in their own languages. Ilya had no other Russians to talk to, and he had never been great at reading routes without being able to touch them. He was a tactile person in general, preferring feeling to seeing, doing to thinking, fucking to talking...

He stared at the first technical climb, imagining how he might match his thumbs on a tiny vertical crimp at the center of the problem, then maybe sink into his right hip to shift over… Ugh. He wouldn’t really have a plan until he got on it and felt his body respond. He turned his attention to the other boulders, an overhung problem with lots of dual-tex that should be no issue for him, a coordination problem that would take focus and committing to the moves but should also be well within his skill, and another slabby, technical climb that Ilya thought ruefully would be just Hollander’s type. The five minutes was almost up already, so he rubbed his shoulder and waited.

A few minutes later they were all back behind the curtain and the competition began. They’d each have five minutes to attempt the boulders, going in reverse order of their rankings. This meant Ilya would be the last one to try each boulder, and he would be able to get a sense of their difficulty levels by how fast the other competitors came back. It also meant, in Ilya’s estimation, that the crowd would be expecting him to do better than every other climber there today. A tiny, nervous-seeming Chinese kid was already out there, and Ilya could faintly hear the crowd reacting. He jammed his headphones back in his ears, cranking up the volume even louder.

His turn came, and Ilya surprised himself by only needing three attempts to top the first boulder, the crimpy balance problem. Ilya really hit his stride on second and third problems, which he flashed easily. He showboated for the cheering crowd at the top of the third problem, hanging from the wall with one arm and pumping his fist in the air with a yell of success. He didn’t know his competitors’ scores, but most of them had been using their full five minutes, meaning they had likely only gotten the zone or no points at all.

Pushing back through the curtain, adrenaline making him impulsive, he crashed down in the folding chair next to Hollander. Hollander seemed to have been deep in thought, staring at nothing while massaging his fingers, and jerked his eyes up to meet Ilya’s with a start. He had big, brown eyes, and looked a bit like a startled deer. Ilya sat back and smiled at him confidently, spreading his knees so that one almost touched Hollander’s thigh. “How’s it going out there, Mr. Canada? You like that coordination move?”

“It was okay.” Hollander replied, seeming a bit wary of Ilya’s sudden friendliness. “They’ve been setting that type of problem a lot, so I guess I felt pretty prepared?” He ended his sentence with an upward inflection, like he wasn’t quite sure he was answering correctly.

“Yes.” Said Ilya, holding his gaze. Those freckles were even more mesmerizing up close. With all the endorphins shooting through his body, it was hard to hold himself back from reaching out and touching one. “Well, maybe prepared enough to get on the podium this time. We will see. Good luck, Hollander.”

Soon after, Hollander’s name was called, and he headed out to the final boulder. Ilya checked the digital clock on the wall. 3:05pm. At 3:08, Hollander burst back through the curtain, a roar from the crowd following him. He looked exhilarated and immediately exchanged a high five and hug with the Slovenian he’d been talking to earlier. “You flashed it?” the Slovenian asked incredulously, holding him by the shoulders. Hollander nodded bashfully, and Ilya noticed him push his hair back from his sweaty forehead with his wrist, careful not to get chalk on his face. Ilya didn’t have more time to ogle his competitor. If Hollander flashed the last problem, Ilya would just have to do the same. He refastened his climbing shoes and shook out his forearms as he headed for the mat.

It was a terrible problem. From the first move, you had to keep your entire body in tension to not pop off the wall, and the holds were incredibly slick, worse than they had been for the first climber because now they were coated with chalk and smeared with shoe rubber. Ilya stuck the first move, then lost his hand hold as soon as he attempted to move a foot. He cursed under his breath. He was being sloppy, overconfident from his previous successes. He tried again, with greater focus, pulling on, keeping the tension, and got his left foot to just barely touch the next hold. As he applied pressure to the toe, his right foot slipped off abruptly, sending him straight down, almost grating his face on the rough wall. He signaled angrily for the staff to brush the holds, wiping the toes of his shoes on a towel and re-chalking his hands. He glanced back at his coach, whose face was pinched in displeasure. Ilya’s mind was starting to race a bit. He hadn’t been paying much attention to how Hollander had done on the previous climbs, or any of the other climbers for that matter. The Slovenian who had gotten silver last year — had he flashed anything today?

The staff had already stepped back from the wall; Ilya needed to get back on. He stepped back up, pulled himself up into tension, and his right foot slipped off again almost immediately. “Yebat!” He yelled, loud now, feeling the back of his neck prickle at the crowd’s quiet embarrassment. He took a deep breath and released it, then felt for the cross necklace tucked under his T-shirt. Closing his eyes momentarily, he imagined his mother laughing as he scrambled up a tree. Giving his arms a final, aggressive shake out, he got back on the wall. Pulling on for a fourth time, he felt the ache in his fingers, a good feeling, a sense of being in his body. He moved his toe out, confidently, and stuck it in place, moved his left arm with purpose, then switched his right hand into a push and slid upward, hips tucked in, shirt scraping against the wall’s mottled surface. He took control of the zone hold, which earned a cheer from the audience, and reached back into his chalk bag, glancing at the time clock. Less than a minute left.

He sized up the rest of the problem — a series of slick pinches with a large sloper to end the problem. It would certainly take him over a minute to do statically, and his grip strength was depleting fast. He imagined how it would feel to get some momentum and dyno past the pinches, straight to the final hold. It was a crazy plan, but if he stuck it, the crowd would fucking eat it up. It would probably be clipped into a hundred YouTube compilations by the end of the week. There was no more time to think. He tensed his calves, pulled back on his fingers, and sprang like a wild animal.

His aim was dead on, but the velocity was too great. His right hand slapped against the final hold, but his body kept moving. His palm scraped off and he was plummeting downward, landing sloppily and rolling to his back instinctively so that his ankle didn’t snap beneath him. The time clock read 20 seconds. Not even enough time to get back to the zone. Ilya scrambled to his feet and unclipped his chalk bag, whipping it away from him toward the wall like a hockey player breaking a stick over their knee, trying to cover his shaking with bravado. Then, because there was no place for tantrums in climbing, he stomped over, scooped his chalk bag back up, and retreated back toward the curtain, the crowd’s pitying applause making his eyes sting.

He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes behind the curtain, tearing off his shoes and stuffing all of his gear aggressively into his bag. He was already imagining the names his father and older brother would call him — dolboyob, pidor. He felt claustrophobic all of a sudden, tasting in the chalk particles floating in the humid air, and he wished he could run out of the building and hide in the hotel until his flight back the next morning. He forced himself to sit down, the plastic chair cold against the backs of his overheated thighs. He would wait for the results, smile for photos, and when he was back in his coach’s rented car he would let himself have one of the airplane-size vodka shooters he had packed.

They were led out by the same clip-board toting staff member, and the results were announced. Taking the bronze was the Slovenian, Hotimir Pike, beaming and waving energetically at the crowd as he stepped forward and received his medal. Embarrassing, thought Ilya, being that proud of third place. Then, Ilya’s name was called. Silver. He stepped forward robotically, eyes unfocused, mouth set in a grimace, as he leaned his head forward for the medal to be looped around his neck. As he straightened, he felt the medal clink against the gold cross under his shirt. He stepped back, and they were already calling out the gold medalist.

“Shane Hollander!”

Ilya’s eyes focused now, seeing the crowd on its feet cheering, as Hollander stepped forward beside him, a Red Bull baseball cap pushing his dark hair down into his eyes, face flushed pink as he smiled out at the crowd, putting one hand up in a shy wave. He accepted his medal, and the clicks and flashes from the event photographers became deafening. As soon as they were released, Hollander hurried right to the front row and was swept up in the arms of a woman and man. The woman, striking with her Japanese features and dark, straight hair, put her hand tenderly on Hollander’s cheek and then used her other to straighten his branded cap. They must be his parents. Ilya watched as Hollander looked back and scanned the milling groups of climbers, coaches, and families. Ilya’s breath caught. Was he going to come congratulate him? Would it be said with pity, or would he think a silver medal in an international competition was good enough? Hollander’s eyes passed over Ilya as if he wasn’t even there, and he broke into a wider smile as he spotted the Slovenian, shouting his name and waving him and his coach over to meet his picture-perfect family.

Ilya hoisted his bag up on his shoulder and trudged over to his coach, barely listening to his lecture on sportsmanship as they headed out of the building.

Back at the hotel, Ilya turned on the TV and ignored his phone buzzing with texts and calls from his father and brother. He downed one vodka shooter, then a second. He had brought six, planning to invite some other climbers to his hotel room to celebrate. He wasn’t feeling very social now, so maybe he would drink them all himself. While he had better alcohol tolerance than many 18 year olds, the vodka on top of his body’s fatigue gave him a pleasant, loose feeling. He let his mind drift, and a figure took shape in his mind. Hollander, looking over his shoulder, searching the crowded room for someone. In Ilya’s mind, Hollander’s eyes found his, and he walked over slowly. Ilya reached down his shorts, lightly gripping his dick. Imaginary Hollander pulled his shirt off, revealing a tanned and muscled torso, and then got on his knees as the crowd looked on. Ilya started to stroke himself, imagining the noises Hollander might make taking his cock deep to the back of his throat, the way the photographers’ flashes would pop as they fought to capture the best image of the gold medal winner submitting to Ilya’s sexual desires. Ilya’s breath sped, thinking of gazing down at those freckles, mussing that tidy hair, making those big, brown eyes shine. He came hard, not even having bothered to take his shorts off. The TV was still on, a commercial for a local restaurant blaring, the Southern-twanged English incomprehensible as Ilya’s ears rang.

What the fuck was that… He pulled his hand out of his waistband and wiped it on the leg of his shorts. He needed a shower anyway, still sweaty and covered in a fine layer of chalk from the day. Some celebration, he thought ruefully, as he headed to the bathroom to clean up.

Chapter End Notes

Edit 8/7/26: I’m on threads now! Same name as here. Please come say hi!!

Also I am a slut for praise so please consider leaving me a kudos :}

Chapter 2: Olympians

Chapter Summary

Hollander and Rozanov compete at the 2024 Olympics and test the structural integrity of the Olympic Village's infamous cardboard beds.

Chapter Notes

Thanks to mitsk_i -- the Shane to my Ilya -- for the smut support.

Shane stared out the plane window as it descended through the clouds, thinking for probably the 80th time that day that this couldn’t be his real life. He was so lucky. He was so terrified.

The audio from the action movie he was barely watching on the seat-back screen cut out as an announcement came over the speakers: “Nous allons atterrir dans 30 minutes. Donc remettre vos sièges en position verticale, s'il vous plaît. Bienvenue à l'aéroport Charles-de-Gaulle.”

He was really here, in Paris, for the Olympics. Ever since sport climbing was introduced as an Olympic event in 2020, Shane had dreamed of coming to the Olympics himself, but he had figured it would take him at least 4 more years of training to even have a chance of qualifying. In a fortuitous twist of fate, many of the pro climbers Shane looked up to had qualified either through the World Championships or the Olympic Qualifier Series, which meant that the Continental Qualifiers weren’t quite as competitive. Shane had taken the gold at the Americas Continental Qualifier, securing himself an Olympic spot, and for the past 9 months Shane had been training harder than ever before. He was on a strict diet, worked out 7 days a week, and he had even gotten his body onto Central European Standard Time for the past week so that jet lag wouldn’t impact his performance.

His only worry was how his anxiety might impact him. Sure, he was used to the pressures and publicity of climbing competitions, but those were watched by a pretty niche audience and he was usually one of multiple Canadians at any competition. At the Olympics, he would be the only Canadian climber, and his performance would be televised to the whole world. He was still seeing his therapist, Susan — his mom had convinced him that seeing a therapist was just another part of keeping your body healthy, like seeing his nutritionist and physical therapist. Susan had recommended that he try out anxiety medication, but he had turned her down, not wanting anything to dull his mind. Every little thing he put in his body was so carefully calibrated already, and deep down he was embarrassed that he hadn’t outgrown his anxiety flares by now. He was pondering whether he regretted that now, as he felt his pulse racing just thinking about his next few days.

It was a pretty smooth process getting from the airport to the Olympic village. A huge number of athletes were coming in at the same time, so there were signs and busses. Plus, Shane had the benefit of understanding French, though his Québécois accent was so strong that when he asked a question at the Village information desk, the woman answered in broken English instead. Shane knew that housing at the Olympics had a reputation of being less than ideal, particularly for athletes of newly introduced sports, so he wasn’t surprised when the woman informed him that he’d be sharing a room with two other climbers, but when she passed him a printout along with a room key his heart stuttered in his chest. Room 1410 - Shane Hollander CAN, Bassa Mawem FRA, Ilya Rozanov RUS.

Shane muddled his way through the labyrinth of halls teeming with loud, excited athletes greeting each other, nearly every one of them tall, tan, and toned. Shane felt like a middle schooler trying to find his classroom, gripping his backpack and duffel bag, trying to move as quickly as possible to escape the cacophony of dozens of languages overlapping. Finally he reached his room and unlocked the door, finding it empty and blissfully quiet. Three twin beds were crammed against the far wall, barely two feet of room between each. The left and middle looked untouched, while the bed on the right was a tangle of sheets, clothing, and climbing equipment. Shane set his duffel bag down on the bed on the left and started to methodically pull out clothes and place them, neatly folded, into a dresser drawer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya’s favorite policy in the Olympic Village was the free condoms. He’d arrived at the Village as early as was allowed, eager for the break from his father’s oppressive home, and had already gone through the handful he grabbed on the first day with an assortment of synchronized swimmers, gymnasts, and even one rower who had weighed nearly as much as him. All women, of course, because…Russia. Even when he wasn’t there physically, he could feel himself being monitored through the eyes of other Russian athletes. Even more dangerous, any photo of him posted to social media by fans or fellow athletes was probably scanned by some government stooge and carried the risk of getting him “disappeared” if he brought shame or scandal to his country. Still, he couldn’t deny that while he’d had some of the fittest girls on the planet moaning in a variety of languages in his twin bed, he’d fallen asleep each night wondering when Shane Hollander would arrive.

Tonight, Ilya was out with a group of European cyclers he’d met a few days before. They’d gone together to watch a few hours of fencing and then had ended up at a hole in the wall bar in Saint-Ouen-sur-Seine. Ilya didn’t know exactly how much wine he’d had, since his glass kept being refilled with a wink from the busty waitress. He was crossing the line from tipsy to drunk, which always made him want to fuck, but the Olympic Village was quite strict with its no visitors policy. He would just have to find an athlete then, and while the cyclers were a fine enough bunch to pass the day with, he didn’t find any of them particularly enticing. He stood and made his way to the waitress, leaning down to purr his thanks into her ear as he pressed a few too many Euros into her palm.

Ilya sauntered back into the Village just as the sun was setting. His head still felt light and fuzzy from the wine, and he thought he might find a Russian girl to take to bed so that he wouldn’t have to bother with English for the rest of the night. Stopping by one of the recreation areas, it was easy enough to find a group of equestrians conversing in Russian. Ilya perched lazily on the arm rest of a couch that held three teammates, all with long, straight pony tails like show horses themselves. One in particular had thick, toned thighs that Ilya imagined could easily crush his hips or head in the throes of passion. The girl — Stasia, or was it Sasha? — seemed as eager as Ilya and feigned great interest in trying the Stolichnaya that Ilya had smuggled in his duffel. She had one hand in Ilya’s hair and one up his shirt before they even reached his hallway, and he backed her against a wall to grind his dick against her warm, muscled stomach. Their mouths worked against one another, and Ilya grabbed her ass, his strong fingers gripping hard to pull her tighter against him, which the girl responded to by pushing her tongue aggressively into Ilya’s mouth. He grinned against her lips, murmuring “Ah, tebye eto nravitsya." I may not be able to sleep with a man here, but this one seems like she might like it from behind, Ilya thought absently, tracing his calloused finger pads down the line between her full cheeks and feeling her shiver against him. He pulled away from her mouth and twined his fingers with hers to lead her to the room.

Ilya kissed her hard again against the room’s door frame as he searched his pockets for the key. Finding it at last, he fumbled it into the lock left handed, palming her small breast with his right and running his teeth along her jaw. He pushed the door open and still had his face buried in her neck when her body jolted in surprise. She pushed back against his chest with both hands, hissing in rapid Russian “You didn’t tell me your roommate was in here!”

Ilya whipped his head around, and there, on the left bed, looking freshly showered and dressed for bed, was Shane Hollander. Hollander’s eyes were almost comically huge in his surprise, and Ilya saw him flick them between his and the girl’s faces and then down to the Ilya’s crotch, which was tented quite obviously and pressed against the girl’s hip. Shane scrambled up, averting his eyes to the ground and jamming his feet into slides, “Sorry—I… I got here this afternoon. I can — I’ll go to the dining area…” His ears and neck had gone bright pink.

The girl pushed Ilya fully off of her now. “No, I go,” she said in thickly accented English. And then, in Russian to Ilya, “Treating me like some cheap whore to show off to your friend. Svolich!” Ilya was still formulating a defense as she stalked off down the hall, her long hair swishing behind her.

“Sorry about that,” Ilya said casually, flopping onto his twin bed and adjusting himself casually in his jeans. Shane still had his eyes cast down to the floor and was searching through his backpack for something. He pulled out a book, and Ilya clocked the author photo on the back as Tommy Caldwell. Ilya couldn’t help but smile. This guy really never took a day off.

As Shane made for the door, Ilya tucked one arm behind his head and called out “Hey, Hollander, there is no point leaving now, girl is gone. I was going to give her some of my good vodka, but now I share with you instead.”

Shane hesitated at the open door, casting his eyes back to meet Ilya’s with a faint blush still visible on his cheeks.

“You brought alcohol? Is that even allowed?”

Ilya shrugged, delighting in Shane’s expression, which looked like a cross between a stern librarian and an angry kitten.

“Is France. I think it would be against their culture not to drink. Come, sit here.”

Ilya righted himself on his bed and patted the bed in the center. Shane looked over his shoulder into the hallway and then cautiously pushed the door until it was just cracked. He walked warily toward Ilya, who was now on his knees rummaging through a disorganized suitcase at the foot of the bed. Shane hovered there, a couple feet away, until Ilya found the bottle and turned around with a look of triumph.

“You don’t want to sit down? Is very nice cardboard bed. Mine has not broken in past week, so is actually very strong.” He patted the center bed again, winking dramatically at Shane.

“That’s Mawem’s bed,” Shane sputtered. “I don’t want to get it dirty.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Mawem is from France, Hollander. He does not want to sleep here on tiny cardboard bed. He is staying at home or in hotel, I don’t know, but he has not come here any day. So, sit.”

Something about Ilya’s tone worked on Shane, and he took the final few steps and sat down. He folded his hands between his knees politely, posture as straight as if he were giving an interview. Ilya let out a wry little laugh and mirrored him, sitting on the edge of his bed so that their knees were centimeters from touching.

Ilya uncorked the bottle of vodka and took a sip, letting it burn against his lips and all the way down his throat. It was good stuff, the brand that his father kept at home and that Ilya had started to steal sips of around age 13, filling the bottle back up with water until his father had realized and slapped Ilya hard enough that he’d skipped school so no one would see the black eye. Ilya took a second sip, holding the vodka on his tongue and letting it burn away the memory, then held the bottle out to Shane.

Shane took the bottle, but stared at the mouth like it was an alien object. “You don’t have a cup or something…?”

Ilya snorted. “Hollander, is alcohol. It kills germs. Is like hand sanitizer.”

Shane still didn’t look convinced, but Ilya had made a mental note that telling him what to do in clear terms worked before. The vodka was already bringing him back to the festive, raunchy mood he had been in before the Russian girl rejected him, so he decided to push a little further.

“Come on, Hollander. Take a sip.” He purposefully looked at his competitor’s plush lips, then dragged his gaze back up to meet Shane’s eyes.

Shane kept his eyes on Ilya’s as he brought the bottle to his mouth. He took a sip, then pulled his lips off with a startled and disgusted noise.

“Oh my god, what is this stuff? It really is like hand sanitizer.” He touched his lips with one hand like he wanted to wipe away all trace, proffering the bottle back to Ilya with the other.

Ilya rolled his eyes and accepted the bottle, taking another pull from it. He really shouldn’t drink much more, what with their event starting in only two days, but he was feeling like making bad decisions. Plus, he could feel the warmth radiating from Hollander’s body where their legs almost touched, and if they couldn’t fuck, the least he could do is find out what Hollander looked like when he loosened up a bit.

Ilya decided to try a different tack. Smiling wickedly, he said “Okay, I will make you a deal. If you take one real shot of this very nice vodka, and you don’t throw up, I will climb outside of Olympic housing building tomorrow, all the way to roof. Or, if you don’t want to drink more very expensive and delicious vodka…you can do.” He raised an eyebrow and sat back, leaning on his elbows. As he shifted, he let one of his knees press against Shane’s. It was so far from a sexual area to touch, and yet Ilya felt a zip of electricity from his knee cap to his cock.

Shane’s eyes narrowed. “I won’t throw up.”

“Oke” said Ilya, still leaning back languidly. He did not make a move to hand Shane the bottle.

Shane was the one to roll his eyes this time, and he leaned forward so he loomed over Ilya’s body just a moment, before he snatched the bottle. He breathed out, looking adorably focused like he was preparing for a flash attempt, then put the bottle to his lips and took a long drag. He swallowed it, wincing but meeting Ilya’s eyes with a bit of fire. Then, to Ilya’s surprise, he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue as if to prove he had actually done it. Then…Ilya saw a panicked look cross his face as he gagged involuntarily. “Fuck,” he choked out as he went running, slamming the room door open. A moment later, Ilya could hear him retching in the hallway. It sounded like he had found a trash can, but he couldn’t be sure.

Ilya capped the bottle and put it under the bed, then got under the covers and turned to the wall so when Hollander returned, he wouldn’t see how worked up Ilya was from just replaying the moment Shane had opened his mouth to show him his inviting, wet tongue, with no bashfulness and even a glint of mischief in his eye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, the bouldering qualifier event was over, and Shane was already out of contention for a medal. Inexplicably, he felt much lighter now that he was not in competition for the top spots. He had climbed well for a first-time Olympian, and he’d been receiving positive messages from family, friends, and even a post on Justin Trudeau’s official Twitter account. Today was the lead climbing qualifier, which Shane would compete in, but he’d always been more of a boulderer so he knew he would be middle of the pack at best. He silently thanked the climbing gods that speed climbing was no longer grouped together with bouldering and lead. He had watched the speed climbing qualifier the day before, spotting his absent roommate Bassa Mawem who had achieved an almost record time, and was awed by the insane strength and reaction time needed to fly up a 15 meter wall in less than 5 seconds.

He’d been avoiding Rozanov as much as possible. He got embarrassed all over again every time it crossed his mind that he’d had a chance to show Rozanov he wasn’t just some lame Canadian, and instead he’d thrown up after one shot of vodka like a high schooler. That night, by the time he’d cleaned himself up and gone back to the room, Rozanov had been asleep. Shane had paused, struck that he seemed so much younger when he wasn’t moving and performing. His dark blonde curls were a total mess, his mouth was open just a little, and he had one hand tucked under his pillow and the other holding the gold cross that hung from a chain around his neck. Shane thought it might be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Shane had jolted out of his stupor after who knows how many minutes, blaming that insane thought on the amount of alcohol that had gotten into his bloodstream before he threw the rest up. He’d gotten up the next morning at 6am as usual and crept out quietly, with Rozanov still dead asleep, limbs now splayed off the twin bed. He had barely gone back to the room since then, only to grab gear or sleep, paranoid every time he approached the door that he would find Rozanov in there fucking some girl. Or perhaps worse yet, Rozanov would be there alone and Shane would have to pretend he hadn’t been replaying another moment from the other night in his mind… the moment when Rozanov had looked at his lips with those tipsy, half lidded eyes, then brought his gaze back to Shane’s with a playfulness tinged with hungry desire, and Shane had shivered with the realization that he would do just about anything to keep those eyes on him.

Shane knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid Rozanov at the lead qualifier event. Sure enough, Shane clocked him as soon as he walked into the holding area beside the enormous lead wall — the curly hair pulled back in a sweat band the colors of Russia’s flag, headphones in his ears, gaze fixed on the ground. They made eye contact after Shane had finished his climb, but Rozanov still had his headphones in and would be climbing any minute, so Shane gave him a polite little smile as he accepted a slap on the back from a British climber he’d met the day before. When Rozanov finished his climb, they briefly caught each other’s eyes again, but there was something closed off there now. He looked angry or…that wasn’t it exactly. He looked more like a threatened animal, pained and wary.

Shane checked their scores as soon as he was allowed and saw the reason for Rozanov’s grim look. He had placed second to last on the lead climb. Shane’s heart panged. Even if they were technically rivals, he knew how hard Rozanov must have worked to get into the Olympics, and this score was not representative of his climbing ability. The rules of lead climbing were brutal for someone used to bouldering — one toe slip or miscalculated dyno and you’re done. He wanted to talk to Rozanov, console him maybe, but what would he say? He cast his gaze around and saw Rozanov was on the phone, facing a wall with his shoulders hunched forward. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed, and his mouth was flat as he appeared to respond to whoever was on the other side of the call with clipped Russian words.

Shane knew his parents would be waiting by the phone for a call from him — knew his dad was probably already crying in that embarrassing, sniffly way he did when he was proud. He knew his mom would have catalogued exactly how Shane could prepare better for lead climbing in the future, but also that she wouldn’t bring these findings up to him for at least a week. With a last glance at Rozanov, who was still on the phone but now gesticulating angrily, Shane headed out of the athlete area into the bustling, jubilant crowd.

Shane got back to the room later than usual that night, feeling warm and buzzy after celebratory drinks with a few other climbers who also hadn’t made the finals. Rozanov hadn’t made an appearance, which Shane assumed was because he was out clubbing or banging a model or whatever it was that Rozanov had been getting up to the past few nights. He hadn’t been back to the room until Shane was already asleep any of the nights since they had shared the vodka, and Shane thought it was probably cramping Rozanov’s style quite a bit to be sharing a room with someone who went to bed at 10pm and kept his official Olympic jacket on a hanger.

He pushed the door open, in the middle of texting his mom about how he had met Tomoa Narasaki, one of his favorite climbing YouTubers, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Rozanov lounging in bed, wearing a tight black tank top and joggers, reading Shane’s copy of The Push.

“What are you doing here?” Shane spluttered.

Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “This is my room too, Hollander,” he said slowly, like Shane was an idiot. Then Rozanov smirked, as if he had just noticed something. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not!” Shane said indignantly, stalking over to Rozanov and pulling the book out of his hands. “And I think this is mine.”

Rozanov actually looked a bit apologetic, and he pulled himself up to a seated position. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have — I…” He rubbed his neck, then pulled a hand through his hair absently. “I was just looking for a distraction.”

Shane immediately felt guilty, thinking of Rozanov’s face when he’d been on the phone earlier.

“You should’ve come out with us,” Shane said.

“I wasn’t invited,” Rozanov replied stiffly.

Shane blanched, genuinely baffled. Nobody had invited Rozanov? He pulled out his phone. “I didn’t have your number, or I totally would have. Do you have WhatsApp?”

Rozanov’s posture softened fractionally. He held out his hand for Shane’s phone, put his number in, and sent a message to himself. Handing the phone back, Rozanov smirked again. “Is good thing you did not drink vodka while you were out partying. Don’t want another —” he mimed vomiting.

“Fuck you!” said Shane, but he was laughing, tossing his phone on the bed and turning away toward his side of the room to get dressed for bed. It felt a bit weird, getting undressed with Rozanov there — he’d been alone or Rozanov had been asleep all the other times he had changed.

Shane pulled his shirt over his head and folded it before putting it in the section of his luggage that he reserved for dirty clothes. Keeping himself faced to the wall, he undid his pants and stepped out of them, folding them and placing them in the luggage as well. It had been a hot day, and with no air conditioning in the Olympic Village he would have loved to sleep in just his boxer briefs, but instead he pulled on his lightest clean pair of athletic shorts. Not that Rozanov would care, probably. He was into women, that was evident from the other night. But still, it was polite.

When he turned around, Rozanov was leaned back on his elbows, looking at Shane with dark, appraising eyes that shamelessly raked over his abs, his chest, and finally up to meet his gaze.

“Is very inconvenient,” Rozanov murmured, his eyes staying locked on Shane’s.

Shane waited for him to go on, the silence stretching for a long beat. “What is?” Shane asked quietly. The air felt thick around him, and he was almost afraid to move and break the moment.

“Russia,” Rozanov replied.

Shane had no idea how to respond to that. He opened his mouth to ask something, then closed it again.

Rozanov changed topics abruptly. “It’s a bit noisy in the hall,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “Could you close the door?”

Shane gave him a questioning look, but paced the few feet to the door and closed it.

When he turned around, Rozanov on was his feet and striding toward him, crowding him back against the wall. When he was close enough that their feet were nearly touching, he put one hand gently against the door, right next to Shane’s head.

“Did you bring anyone here to watch you, Hollander?” He asked, his voice low. “Girlfriend, maybe?”

Shane felt like his brain was short-circuiting, and he couldn’t help but flick his eyes to Rozanov’s mouth, his sharp cupid’s bow and soft, full bottom lip. He took a breath and it heard it come out ragged.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he managed to say.

“Mm,” Rozanov hummed. “Maybe boyfriend, then?” His face looked neutral, relaxed even, but Shane could feel Rosanov’s body inches from him, radiating heat and tensed like a spring.

Shane licked his lip nervously. I mean it was 2024 for god’s sake, and climbing wasn’t the most homophobic sport out there. But he wasn’t sure what Rozanov was getting at, and he wasn’t really out to the world as anything. He’d kissed some girls in elementary school, fooled around fumblingly with some guys in high school. Mostly, he’d just kept to his homework, his climbing, his diet. Things he could plan, manage, and achieve. He didn’t have time for the way his breath caught in his throat when he saw other men climbing hard at the gym, muscles rippling under tank tops and T-shirts, letting out grunts of exertion.

“No,” he stuttered, unable to tear his gaze away from Rozanov’s mouth. “I don’t – not –”

Rozanov leaned forward and kissed him.

Shane felt his stomach electricity zing through his body as Rozanov’s lips met his. He kissed him hungrily, almost angrily, one hand coming up to Shane’s jaw as almost two hundred pounds of thick, coiled Russian muscle pressed against his naked chest. Shane made an involuntary sound in his throat, a strangled sort of moan, and reached for Rozanov’s waist, feeling the edge of his tanktop, wanting so badly to feel his skin underneath –

Rozanov pulled back, suddenly, his own breath coming heavily. He cupped Shane’s face in both hands and stared at him, his eyes slightly narrowed and thoughtful. “Is okay?” he asked. His accent sounded thick.

For a moment, Shane was completely unable to speak. “Y-yes,” he said dumbly. Then, his head swimming, he added, “What if someone comes in?”

Rozanov grinned, a sudden flash of something like fondness. “Hollander, you are having panic attack,” he said. “Mawem is at home, he will not come here. It is just you and me.”

He leaned closer to Shane, his eyes sparkling with danger. “I have had bad day,” he said. “You will cheer me up. You want?”

For a split-second, all the reasons why this was a bad idea surged through Shane’s mind. His reputation. His carefully cultivated routine. The fact that he didn’t know Ilya Rozanov, didn’t know if this was all just some sort of insane prank the Russian had crafted with that girl he had planned to hook up with the other night, didn’t know he would be greeted at finals by laughter and gossip.

Then he surged forward, smashing into Rozanov’s mouth so hard he let out a grunt of surprise. He yanked Rozanov’s tank top up so that he could place his hands on those smooth, hard abs.

Rozanov made a sound that could only be described as a growl and pushed Shane back, forcing him against the wall and pressing his leg between Shane’s, his muscular thigh pushing against the erection straining the thin fabric of Shane’s shorts. There was something athletic about the way they grappled each other, something competitive, as though Rozanov was trying to take control and Shane wasn’t quite ready to give it up.

Rozanov chuckled. “Hollander, you are desperate for it,” he murmured.

Shane felt like he was losing his mind, hearing that low, appreciative voice. He ground his cock against Rozanov's leg shamelessly, reaching for friction, for anything that would provide some pleasure. Then, without thinking, Shane pushed Rozanov away from him and dropped to his knees. There was a kind of distant buzzing in his head, and he felt for a moment as though he were a marionette, his body taking actions that were beyond his mind. Rozanov’s cock was visibly hard, his long shaft pushed against the front of his black joggers. Shane pressed his mouth against the head of his cock through the soft fabric, and heard Rozanov give a small gasp of surprise and pleasure.

He looked up. Rozanov was looking down at him, his eyes wide, a hungry look on his face. “Hollander,” he said in a soft rumble.

Shane pulled the waistband of Rozanov’s pants down past his cock and his breath caught. It was big and thick, and when Shane wrapped his hand around the base he could feel it pulsing gently, heat radiating into his hand.

Shane had given a tentative, awkward handjob before, in a guest bedroom at a house party in high school. It had terrified him – he had spent the entire time convinced that someone would walk in at any moment. But he had spent enough days watching Rozanov stalk around the boulders at the Olympics, seen his broad, rippling shoulders and the muscles of his lower stomach which seemed to almost guide the eye down to his crotch. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wanted to suck Ilya Rozanov’s cock.

He reached out his tongue and gently licked the head, and above him Rozanov gave a soft groan but held still. One hand was in Shane’s hair, but Rozanov wasn’t pushing him, wasn’t forcing him. He was just watching, eyes dark with desire.

Shane lightly swirled his tongue around the head and then sank his head down onto Rozanov’s cock, taking as much of it as he could into his mouth, fighting his gag reflex. Shane could feel his own dick straining, begging to be touched, but it was a distant thought compared to the firm, musky cock in his mouth.

After a few awkward moments where Shane struggled to figure out how to get his teeth out of the way and his tongue onto Rozanov’s shaft, he felt himself start to find a rhythm. He slid his hand up and down the base as he bobbed his head on Rozanov’s shaft, trying to emulate what he knew felt good for him. When he looked up, his mouth full and mind a bit fuzzy, Rozanov was staring down at him, mouth slightly slack with pleasure. 

“Da, vot tak,” Rozanov murmured. He arched his back, his jaw tense, seemingly holding himself back from thrusting deeper. His hand carded through Shane’s hair, pushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead.

Shane didn’t understand the language, but he was sure he was being complimented, which only made him want to work harder. He sucked and swirled his tongue, lowering his head again and again onto the other man’s cock. He could feel Rozanov getting close, the cock seeming to grow and garden even more. 

“Ya ne — blyat — ty takoy — mmh”

He braced himself, expecting Rozanov to come in his mouth – but at the last moment Rozanov pushed his head away, grabbing his cock in his own fist for a few quick strokes and then spurting cum onto Shane’s naked chest.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov moaned, leaning a hand out to catch himself against the wall. For a second Shane felt silly, exposed – on his knees, his cock still throbbing between his legs, his chest painted in cum. Was this stupid? Had he not done a good enough job for Rozanov to come without using his own hand? 

Then Rozanov was swooping him up in his arms, smiling. “First time?” he said.

Shane spluttered. “Well – it’s not my first time doing anything,” he started, but then he was being pushed down onto Rozanov’s bed, the cardboard frame making a small groaning sound. Rozanov produced a tissue from somewhere and wiped his chest carefully, as though it were the most important job in the world, hovering between Shane’s spread thighs. 

“Not bad for first time,” Rozanov said, as he tossed the tissue away carelessly and began kissing his way down Shane’s chest.

He looked up at Shane, his mouth hovering just a few inches above his clothed dick. “But I will do better.”

Shane’s retort was lost in a shocked moan as Rozanov yanked down his shorts and got his mouth around Shane’s cock.

Shane’s brain was immediately overwhelmed with pleasure. Rozanov’s mouth was wet and warm, his tongue slicking the underside of Shane’s shaft, taking him so deep that Shane couldn’t understand how it was possible – and then fuck. The head of his cock nudged the back of Rozanov’s throat and he swallowed. Shane moaned, bucking his hips upward involuntarily, and he would have thrown the other man off him if Rozanov didn’t have his hands gripped tightly around Shane’s thighs.

“Easy Hollander,” Rozanov said, slipping off Shane’s cock and giving him a messy, dripping grin. “We have time.”

Then he lowered himself on Shane’s cock again and Shane couldn’t see anything except blonde curls moving as Rozanov bobbed up and down on his shaft, his muscles standing out with effort of holding Shane still, his lips – god his gorgeous lips – sliding all the way to the base of Shane’s cock and then to the tip.

Shane couldn’t move. He couldn’t thrust into Rozanov’s mouth now even if he wanted to – he just had to lie on his back and take it.

“Rozanov,” Shane panted. He could feel his orgasm building, the growing tension in his balls, and with each swirl of Rozanov's tongue he was losing a little more control. “You have to stop, I’m not going to be able to –”

Rozanov just moaned, and the vibrations sent shivers of pleasure up Shane’s spine. He struggled to lift himself, to pull the Russian off him, but Rozanov’s fingers on his thighs were like steel. Rozanov was sucking him faster now, his cheeks hollowing as he pulled over Shane’s cock again and again. Shane felt his thighs shaking with pleasure, he was so close, he was so close –

Shane came with a shouted moan, arching his back almost painfully as his dick pulsed and throbbed, spurts of cum spilling out into Rozanov’s warm mouth. Rozanov kept his mouth on him, working him lightly until he was shuddering with overstimulation, and when he gently released his thighs, Shane could feel his whole body still shaking.

Rozanov climbed up next to him in bed, a lopsided grin on his face, and slapped Shane lightly on the stomach. “Khoroshi malchik,” he said. “You did well, Hollander.”

The twin bed was certainly too small for two professional rock climbers, but neither of them mentioned it as they lay quietly together, both of them catching their breath. Shane stared at the ceiling, his usually racing mind quieted. He distantly felt Rozanov studying him, propped on his side between Shane and the wall, but Shane didn’t feel vulnerable or embarrassed anymore. Finally, he turned his head to meet Rozanov’s eyes.

“So…do you feel better?”

Rozanov snorted, and he gave Shane’s shoulder a light push.

“Yes, Hollander, that was much better distraction than your boring book. Reminded me that even if I don’t get gold medal in climbing, I can take the gold in sucking cock any day.”

“And me?” prodded Shane, attempting a light tone, but feeling a pit in his stomach as he recalled that he had just given his first ever blow job to a man who had certainly received many from more experienced lovers.

Rozanov’s eyes held a tenderness that showed he had heard Shane’s real meaning, and he leaned in to kiss Shane sweetly, the lust and haste of their earlier kisses replaced with something even more intimate.

“You take home silver today, Hollander. But I know you are very coachable. Maybe next time you will give me a real challenge.”

Shane’s face warmed at the praise and he lowered his eyes to Rozanov’s chest, then flicked them back up in surprise as he processed the last sentence.

“Next time?”

“Da, IFSC World Cup is in April. I think we will both make it in, don’t you?” He raised an eyebrow at Shane.

Shane huffed and flopped his head back to face the ceiling. The post-coital peace was ebbing, and the racing thoughts were returning. Rozanov wanted to do this again? What even was “this”? He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face.

“I should go back to my own bed, I guess,” he said, grabbing his shorts and boxers from the floor and pulling them on.

“Okay,” Rozanov replied simply, stretching his limbs out in the twin bed and pulling the thin sheet up over his naked body. “Goodnight, Hollander,” he said quietly, and out of the corner of his eye Shane caught Rozanov rubbing his fingers over his cross necklace as he turned over toward the wall.

Chapter 3: Vancouver

Chapter Summary

Hollander and Rozanov reunite sooner than expected, in a city new to them both.

Chapter Notes

———————————————————————

Worldclimbing.com

31 August 2024

RUSSIAN OLYMPIAN ILYA ROZANOV TO JOIN TEAM CANADA AT NATIONAL TRAINING CENTER 

Climbing Escalade Canada (CEC), the National Sport Organization that regulates competition climbing in Canada, announced today that it has invited Russian Olympic Sport Climber Ilya Rozanov to train with Team Canada in the lead up to the 2025 IFSC Climbing World Cup. Reportedly, Rozanov is being sponsored through a deal with Arc’teryx, which is headquartered in British Columbia, and will serve as the company’s international brand ambassador. CEC utilizes the Richmond Olympic Oval in Vancouver, which was updated to include lead and speed climbing walls in 2020, following the sport’s inclusion in the Tokyo Olympics…

----------------------------------------------------

Shane received a daily digest of climbing news to his email, because of course he did. Usually the articles were about outdoor ascent attempts or recaps of competition outcomes he already knew, so Shane was caught entirely off guard as he — leaning on the kitchen island of the Vancouver apartment his parents had moved him into a week before, a forkful of omelet halfway to his mouth — clicked into the article about Rozanov training with Team Canada. He read the entire thing, then read it a second time, his fork clanking down against his plate. His coaches hadn’t told him anything, but then again they had been on a summer break since the Olympics, with training starting up again the coming Monday. 

He hadn’t heard anything from Rozanov since the Olympics either, though he could almost feel the physical weight of Rozanov’s number in his phone. Shane had been awkward the day after they…whatever it was they had done. Hooked up would probably be the term, but it had felt like more than that somehow, and that thought was exactly what made Shane so embarrassed. He knew that Rozanov was a player, had heard the gossip about him taking a different girl to bed every night of the Olympics (at least until Shane had arrived to their room to cramp his style). Rozanov had been friendly enough at the climbing final, but he certainly wasn’t treating Shane like they were something special. Shane had felt an idiotic spike of jealousy when Rozanov chose to sit with a couple of Polish climbers a row in front of Shane in their competition viewing area, seemingly trying to speak Polish with them and making faces as they laughed uproariously. Rozanov had come to chat with Shane and the guys he was sitting with when the medals were being distributed, but Shane had made an excuse to dart away, made sure to be “asleep” by the time Rozanov got back to their room, and left for the airport the next morning while he was still sprawled in bed. Out of a sense of dutiful politeness he had left Rozanov a note on a piece of Olympic branded stationary telling him that he looked forward to seeing him at the Climbing World Cup. 

He had considered texting Rozanov about 20 times since then. Maybe a video of a boulder problem that was Rozanov’s style? Or a picture from a pretty crag, with a question about what the best places to climb outdoors in Russia are? He hadn’t sent any of them, so their chat still sat there with one message in it, Rozanov’s name he had texted to himself. 

Shane turned his phone face down and ran his hands over his face. His body was buzzing with something between anticipation and fear. Rozanov must have known that Shane would be training in Vancouver. Had he wanted to train together, wanted to see him? The thought made Shane’s head spin, and he tried not to notice the almost Pavlovian stirring of his dick. No, that was insane. Rozanov was coming for the sponsorship, and probably for the chance to train with North American coaches since the next Summer Olympics were in LA. But still, they would be climbing together, living in the same city…and Rozanov had been so sexy, so attentive, had said “next time” like he was already planning to take Shane’s body apart again. Shaking his head, Shane picked up his untouched plate of eggs and tipped them into the trash before heading out to the gym. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya grumbled awake to the sound of his phone vibrating somewhere in the tangled sheets of his hotel bed. Scrabbling his hand around blindly, he located the phone and brought it to his ear. 

“Allo?”

The responding voice was loud, jumping straight in without giving back a greeting. Grigori Rozanov, Ilya’s father. 

“Ilyusha, are you sleeping? Always a lazy one, it is 6 in the evening. I need you to get bread for dinner tonight.”

Ilya pulled the phone from his ear and squinted at it. It was almost 8am, PDT. He had switched his time zone just before collapsing to sleep at the airport hotel the night before. 

His father had started speaking again, voice muffled until Ilya put the phone back to his ear. “—bread we have has gone bad. The breads from the supermarket never last as long so be sure to go to the magazinchik on the corner—”

Ilya cut in, his confusion overriding the stony formality he usually employed to avoid his father’s wrathful lectures.

“Otyets, what are you talking about? I left for Canada two days ago. I’m staying here for 6 months, at least. Did you mean to call Alexei?” 

“Alexei? What Alexei?” 

“My brother, Alexei”. Ilya heard his own voice go shrill. He had seen his father and step-mother the evening before he had left for Vancouver, and his father had spoken at length about Ilya needing to give a good impression of Russian discipline to the Canadian coaches. “Papa, are you sick? I will call Alexei to come check on you.” 

Ilya ended the phone call and quickly scrolled to his brother’s contact, his hands shaking. Alexei lived only a few miles from their father in the Moscow suburbs, and while Ilya usually avoided speaking to him whenever possible, panic was clawing into his chest. Their father had been less sharp lately, sometimes repeating a story or misplacing his house keys, but forgetting that Ilya had left Russia? Forgetting Alexei’s name…or maybe forgetting him completely? 

Alexei answered, sounding aggravated “What do you want, Ilya.”

Ilya took a breath, willing his voice not to shake. “Can you go see father tonight? He seems…confused.”

“What, did he call you? Maybe he’s drunk again. He’s stupid, Ilyukha, forget it.” His tone softened a tad. Alexei had never been kind, in fact he’d been a menace to Ilya for most of their childhood, but Ilya had noticed him being a little gentler since his daughter had been born. 

“He asked me to buy bread. He knows I’m in Canada now. And he…it seemed like he didn’t know your name.” Ilya spoke the last sentence quietly, knowing it needed to be said but expecting his brother’s reaction. 

Alexei was silent a moment, and when his voice returned it had the same vitriol he had answered the phone with initially. 

“I’ll see father when I fucking have time. You’re not the only one with things going on in their life, just because you leave your country and your family to play around in some gay sport. I have responsibilities, a wife and a child. Call Polina if you’re so fucking worried.” 

The line went dead and Ilya tossed his phone on the bed, flopping backward onto the pillow with a groan. He had been awake barely 10 minutes and he already wished the day was over. He would text Polina, his father’s new wife who was barely older than Alexei, later. Maybe he would ask her to take his father to see a doctor, though he knew both she and his father would downplay the situation or complain about the cost. Anyway, Ilya needed to get up and shower. He would have his first meeting with the Canadian coaches today, and an administrator had offered to take him to see apartments in the afternoon. Staring at the ceiling, he pressed his gold cross into his sternum until it hurt. 

At 10am, Ilya walked from his hotel to the training center, which he was grateful was so close to the airport. Though he’d been told the weather in Vancouver was terrible, it was a perfect early September day, sunny and clear with a cool breeze coming off the Fraser. He was wearing a windbreaker over a faded tank top from the Russian band пицца and a brand new pair of pants from Arc’teryx. Honestly, the sponsorship had really helped him pack light for his move, which was good since he didn’t have a lot of money to spare. He’d worked odd jobs throughout the summer and always saved as much as he could of his earnings from competitions, but he couldn’t manage a full time job with his training schedule and he certainly wasn’t going to ask his father or brother for financial support. 

He pushed his way through the front door of the large sports complex, and standing there just a few feet away, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his athletic shorts, was Shane Hollander. Even though he’d clearly been expecting Ilya’s arrival, he looked as shocked as Ilya felt, those big, shiny doe eyes widening as they met Ilya’s. 

“Hey,” Hollander said quietly, dropping his gaze. He shifted on his feet, which Ilya noticed were clad in a horrible pair of purple Crocs, looking like he both wanted to move toward Ilya and run away. “I um, told them I would show you where to go. The coaches, I mean. It’s this way.” Seeming to have decided on the latter option, he turned and walked off briskly down a long white hallway that echoed with athletes’ shouts and the distant thwack of some kind of ball. Ilya lengthened his stride and caught up to Hollander in just a few moments, falling in step with him. 

“Hey,” Ilya said, one side of his mouth tweaking up in a sly smile. “Slow down, I thought you are Olympic climber, not sprinter.” 

Hollander huffed a tiny laugh, darting his eyes to meet Ilya’s, and slowed fractionally as he led Ilya through a labyrinth of clean white halls that led to various sports areas. Ilya spotted multiple basketball courts, an ice rink, and a number of yoga and fitness rooms. It seemed like the building was open to the public, not just professional athletes, which Ilya hadn’t been expecting. Hollander waved or said hello to almost all the employees they passed, and Ilya wondered how long ago he had arrived in Vancouver. He also wondered when Hollander had found out he was coming, and how he felt about it. 

As they turned into a cavernous room of towering lead climbing walls, Ilya decided to just ask. He probably wouldn’t be alone with Hollander again today. 

“When did they tell you I was coming to train with the team?” 

Hollander slowed to a stop, glancing over at Ilya again and then focusing his gaze on the climbing wall, eyes instinctually following a problem that zigzagged up to the cave roof. “I dunno, I read it online like a week ago. Did they, like, invite you? Or did your coach ask?” 

Ilya scratched his neck, keeping his voice low and casual. “Mm, no. Was my idea.” 

Hollander looked like he wanted to ask another question, but they were interrupted by a booming, cheerful voice from behind them.

“Mr. Rozanov! Shane found you, very good!”

For the next hour, Ilya tried to keep up as Canada’s head climbing coach, Frederic Desgranges, showed him around the massive lead and bouldering areas, the closest rooms for cardio and weight training, and pointed out the changing rooms with saunas reserved for the professional athletes. There was a cafe down the hall as well, where Ilya gratefully bought a black coffee and sucked it down, hoping the caffeine would help him remember the onslaught of information being thrown at his jet lagged brain, in English no less. 

The rest of the Canadian climbing team trickled in over the next hour and spread out, some starting with the treadmill or weights, others pairing off to belay one another. Most gave Ilya curious but amiable looks, and a few came over to introduce themselves. They were so friendly, these Canadians. He met an older male climber he had seen in recorded competitions before, Cliff (a fitting name for a climber, now that Ilya thought about it), who gave him a handshake that felt like it was going to break his fingers and invited him to climb outdoors that weekend. Another climber, Rose, had a strong Quebecois accent and greeted him with kisses on both cheeks. Before running off to her belay partner, she added him to a group chat with the rest of the team. It was definitely a different environment than Ilya was used to in Moscow, where he’d trained with a strict coach since he was 15 and infrequently climbed with other kids his age, all of them knowing they were each other’s future competition. 

At 2, the team dispersed, and Ilya was approached by a middle aged woman in a sweater and jeans. She introduced herself as Jackie, the administrator he’d exchanged logistical emails with, and ushered him to her minivan. She apologized cheerfully for the mess of car seats and tossed a pile of coloring books from the front passenger seat into the back, waving her hand for Ilya to sit. Ilya smiled and nodded as she pulled out of the parking lot, chattering about the different neighborhoods nearby, but exhaustion was making it increasingly difficult to follow her rapid English. He was already thinking that he might just agree to move into whatever apartment building she showed him first. 

After about 10 minutes they pulled into the parking lot of a large, modern looking apartment building covered in geometric windows. Jackie had continued chattering, telling Ilya that they were still in the Richmond area, which was not the trendiest for young people but very conveniently located for training at the Olympic Oval, when a figure caught Ilya’s eye. Mussed, dark hair under a shiny helmet, bent over, locking both wheels of a bike to a metal rack in front of the apartment building. Jackie seemed to notice just a moment later and rolled down her window to hoot out “Shane!” 

Hollander swiveled his head, still on one knee locking the back wheel with a heavy U-lock, then scrambled to his feet when he saw Ilya emerging from the passenger side of the car. Jackie led Ilya over to Shane, who was doing a fantastic impression of the “standing man” emoji, and on the way she conspiratorially stage-whispered, “I told this one’s parents about this building too, and they moved him in a few weeks ago.” 

When they reached Hollander, Ilya gave him a broad smile and said “I like your hat.”

Hollander jolted and practically tore his bike helmet off, grumbling “It’s called a helmet. Don’t you have bikes in Russia? Or do you all just ride around on bears or something?” He was making that angry kitten face again, which Ilya was coming to really enjoy causing. 

Jackie looked between them, seeming to observe that the two climbers knew one another and had at least a somewhat amicable relationship, and then looked at her watch. “This is convenient!” She said brightly, “I have some phone calls I could make from the car, and it’s better for Ilya to see a furnished apartment than the demo one they were going to let us into. Shane, I know you’re still settling in, but would you give Ilya a look at your place?” Shane looked like he might rather go free soloing over an active volcano, but he nodded his head and said “Sure, I can show him around.” Then, like he had earlier that day, he turned and walked quickly into the building without looking to see if Ilya was following, hoisting his ripstop backpack as he shouldered through the glass door. 

Ilya followed Hollander into an elevator. He couldn’t help admiring how good Hollander looked — tanner than he had been in France, which had darkened his adorable freckles as well, and a bit sweaty from the bike ride. Ilya fought the desire to lick a bead of sweat as it slid from the back of Hollander’s hair down the nape of his neck and into his T-shirt. 

They emerged on the 12th floor and turned down a long, hotel-like hallway until they reached apartment 1221. Hollander turned to him before unlocking the apartment door, looking uneasily into Ilya’s eyes. “Promise you won’t laugh. My mom likes interior design.”

Ilya looked at Hollander seriously. “I cannot promise you that,” he replied. Shaking his head with a snort, Hollander turned his key in the door and pushed it open. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane stepped inside and took his shoes off, placing them in their designated spot on the small rack by the door, then turned to look at Rozanov as he took in the apartment. It wasn’t much — a small kitchen attached to a sunny living room area, an open door to the bedroom with sparse furnishing except for a neatly made bed, and further into the apartment there was a bathroom and a second bedroom where Shane had set up a few hangboards and his yoga mat. 

Rozanov put his hand to his mouth to cover the yelp of a laugh as he rounded the couch and saw the array of throw pillows with rock climbing slogans on them: “Passive Aggressive” with an illustration of a tri-cam, “Dyno-mite” spelled out in sequins, and a plain white one emblazoned with “I ❤️ jugs”. Rozanov raised his eyebrows at Shane, gesturing at the pillow, and Shane responded with “Fuck off!” before Rozanov could say anything about it. 

Shane wasn’t sure exactly what he was supposed to be showing Rozanov, but he certainly didn’t want to spend any more time discussing the climbing decor his mother found it hilarious to gift him for every holiday, so he drifted over to the door to the bedroom. Rozanov followed, coming up closer behind Shane than was necessary, and Shane felt a large, warm hand through his shirt, resting cautiously on his lower back. Shane swallowed hard and turned his head, looking to Rozanov’s eyes and then down to his beautiful lips. 

“You didn’t text me,” he said, the statement coming out in a whisper, brattier and more pitiful than he intended. 

Rozanov’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “You didn’t text me, either.” 

Shane responded by turning fully to Rozanov and pushing him back against the door frame, crashing their mouths together with a desperation he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying since his plane left Paris. If Rozanov was surprised by this, he got with the program immediately, murmuring “Oh fuck,” before lacing his hand into the back of Shane’s damp hair and tugging, angling Shane’s head back further and deepening the kiss. Shane gasped and leaned his body further into Rozanov’s, not caring that the other man would feel that he was already so hard and needy. Rozanov pushed away from the doorframe and walked them clumsily toward Shane’s bed, keeping his mouth moving hungrily against Shane’s until they hit the bedframe and tumbled down onto it together. Shane didn’t usually like outside clothing on his bed…but his lust-addled brain convinced him easily that he could deep clean the sheets later. 

Rozanov got on his knees between Shane’s legs and yanked his tank top off, grinning impishly and tossing it behind him. Shane was awestruck by the body in front of him, even though he saw men’s bare chests constantly at the climbing gym. But this, this was different. Rozanov’s pecs were huge, and his golden cross hung between them, glittering like an invitation. Beneath the cross, his ab muscles rippled down to a thin trail of hair that led between his legs. Shane stifled a moan. 

Rozanov brought Shane back from his ogling by diving back on top of him, dragging his teeth against the skin behind Shane’s ear and sliding his hand up the front of Shane’s shirt to roughly palm over his abs and squeeze his chest. His calloused thumb swept over Shane’s nipple and Shane gasped and bucked his hips involuntarily. Shane pulled off his own shirt now and then pressed their chests together. They stuck to one another, tacky from sweat, and Shane could feel Rozanov’s heart pounding. Without thinking, he raised his hand up and placed it over where he could feel the rapid beating. Rozanov pulled back slightly and looked at him, his face flushed and his pupils blown wide, a lazy smile pulling at his lips. 

Shane was suddenly jolted back to reality. He drew his hand back like he’d been shocked and pushed himself up onto his elbows, feeling a cold, prickly rush of panic wash over him. What the fuck were they doing? Jackie was down in the car waiting for Rozanov to come back. How long had they even been up here? Besides, they hadn’t even talked about what happened in Paris, and now they were going to be on the same team, seeing each other almost every day. Shane had already been losing his mind over being ghosted from across an ocean — he didn’t think he’d be able to handle Rozanov’s indifference all over again with nowhere to escape. 

He knew Rozanov must be confused — he had pulled back onto his knees again and his eyes were flicking over Shane’s face like he was trying to decipher a complex puzzle. Shane scooted backward and stood up from the bed, grabbing his wrinkled shirt and pulling it back on while Rozanov tracked him without moving, his brows knitting together and his mouth falling open in silent questioning. 

“Jackie’s probably wondering what’s taking so long, so…” Shane stammered, walking backwards toward the bedroom door. “You should probably go.” 

At this, Rozanov’s face shuttered, the look of concern transforming into one of detachment with a hint of bitterness. He got up and tugged his tank top back on, running a hand over his curls to tame them. 

“Okay, Hollander. Thanks for the tour.” 

He strode past Shane out of the bedroom and stepped into the shoes he had kicked off by the front door. 

“See you,” said Shane, trying to sound as normal as possible as his mind continued to spin. Would Jackie be able to tell they’d been kissing? Shane was still trying to make a good impression on the coaches, and now they could find out that he had all but pounced on his new teammate on his first day. 

Rozanov looked him in the eyes searchingly for a beat, then gave him a nod and left, the door clicking shut firmly behind him.

Chapter End Notes

Food for thought:
"The new study adds considerably to the field of sexuality research than merely a novel measure, say the authors. As expected, heterosexual men showed strong pupillary responses to sexual videos of women, and little to men; heterosexual women, however, showed pupillary responses to both sexes. This result confirms previous research suggesting that women have a different type of sexuality than men.

Moreover, the new study feeds into a long-lasting debate on male bisexuality. Previous notions were that most bisexual men do not base their sexual identity on their physiological sexual arousal but on romantic and identity issues. Contrary to this claim, bisexual men in the new study showed substantial pupil dilations to sexual videos of both men and women.

"We can now finally argue that a flexible sexual desire is not simply restricted to women -- some men have it, too, and it is reflected in their pupils," says Savin-Williams. "In fact, not even a division into 'straight,' 'bi' and 'gay' tells the full story. Men who identity as 'mostly straight' really exist both in their identity and their pupil response; they are more aroused to males than straight men, but much less so than both bisexual and gay men," Savin-Williams notes."
https://news.cornell.edu/stories/2012/08/study-finds-pupil-dilation-reveals-sex-orientation

Chapter 4: Who Fell First

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Jealousy, (al)pining, and falling. Content warning for disordered eating.

Chapter Notes

Ilya let Jackie show him a total of three apartments before realizing that all of them were going to be much too expensive. Even a studio apartment in Hollander’s building was over $2,000CAD a month, and Ilya briefly wondered how he could afford a two-bedroom before remembering the Red Bull-sponsored cap the Canadian always wore in competition photos, not to mention his doting, professional-seeming parents. Jackie offered to show Ilya some places outside of the city, where it would be cheaper, but Ilya reminded her with chagrin that he didn’t have a car and was planning on relying on the SkyTrain. In any case, she needed to pick up her kids from daycare, so she dropped Ilya back at his hotel with a promise to research some cheaper options.

Ilya sat in the small, uncomfortable armchair in his hotel room and stared at the two suitcases he had brought with him until his vision fuzzed. Now that he was alone, he could drop the energy and bravado he always tried his hardest to exude. He was exhausted and embarrassed. Had this been a horrible, expensive mistake? He had been so hopeful about getting out of Russia, more importantly as far as possible from his father’s home, but it had been impulsive and a bit insane to ask to train with Team Canada just because he found one of their climbers intriguinging. He had assumed that the sponsorship deal with Arc’teryx would be enough money to get on his feet, and then he’d find a job as a route setter or trainer at a local gym, but he barely had enough for a safety deposit. Even if part of him felt like turning around and flying home, that would mean spending nearly all of his savings on the plane ticket. 

More embarrassingly, the object of his intrigue had unceremoniously kicked him out of bed a few hours before. Ilya was still trying to figure out what he had done wrong to make Hollander shut down like that. Did he think that Ilya was too eager, some kind of obsessed stalker who had forced his way into his country and then all the way into his apartment on his first day? Or maybe Ilya had been too forceful in the hook up itself, had misinterpreted Hollander’s kiss as permission to take things further. Hollander had been the one who kissed him first, but Ilya had pushed them onto the bed, Ilya had taken his shirt off and urged Hollander to do the same. That was right before he froze. Fuck. Ilya prided himself on always asking for consent, always trying to ensure that his partner was comfortable and satisfied, but he had been intoxicated by the intimacy of being in Hollander’s bedroom, tangling their sweaty limbs in that perfectly tidy space. He was half-hard just thinking about it, but he ignored that; he wasn’t going to be able to jerk off without replaying Hollander flinching away from him with those wide, frightened eyes. 

By the end of the week, Ilya had one big win. The older climber who had invited him to climb outdoors, Cliff, seemed to have taken a liking to him, and he offered Ilya the guest bedroom in his apartment in West End. Ilya moved his paltry belongings in, glad that he didn’t have more since the room seemed to double as storage for Cliff’s trad, ice climbing, and camping gear. They quickly fell into a comfortable routine, driving to the gym together in Cliff’s beat up Tacoma, lifting and climbing together, grabbing lunch at Cliff’s favorite spots, and hanging out at sticky dive bars to pass the evenings. Cliff was in his mid-30s and had been living in Vancouver for over a decade, guiding climbing tours in Squamish in the summers and climbing in comps in the off season. He wasn’t the smartest man Ilya had ever met, possibly due to the amount of weed he vaped throughout the day, but his companionship helped Ilya settle into the unfamiliar city. 

Ilya saw Hollander at the gym, but he had resolved to keep his distance — if Hollander wanted to be more than acquaintances who happened to know what each other’s naked bodies looked like, he could take the lead this time. Hollander seemed to mostly hang out with Rose and a few other female boulderers who Ilya recognized from IFSC Juniors. Rose was hot, Ilya couldn’t deny that. Her auburn hair was always pulled back in two long braids, and she had the toned legs and glutes that Instagram influencers paid thousands to replicate surgically. Though she seemed to be touchy with everyone, Ilya noticed her cinching Hollander’s chalk bag for him and brushing errant chalk dust off his shorts more frequently than could possibly be necessary. Maybe Hollander had freaked out because he was trying to date her — or was it possible he already was? Ilya made a mental note to casually press Cliff for details after a few drinks that night. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane was having a bad week. It was his first time living without his parents and he had to admit he wasn’t handling it super well. He thrived on routine, and even though his days were structured similarly to his Olympics preparation, there were so many more choices to make when you lived alone. Back in Ottawa he’d had a nutritionist and his mom had prepped his meals based around the diet plan he was on at any given time — bulking, cutting, recovering, a cheat day here and there for special occasions. His family ate a homemade dinner together nightly, no matter how busy they were, and his mom would stay at the kitchen table with him afterward, her planner and a glass of red wine in front of her, to go over his schedule and goals for the next day. The nutritionist had given Shane a general diet to follow in Vancouver, but he had gotten so overwhelmed by the lighting and the decisions at the grocery store near his apartment that he’d checked out with only bananas, pasta sauce, and the protein shakes he knew were safe and dependable. He was still seeing his therapist weekly by video call, but when he told her about the grocery debacle and only eating protein shakes for the past few days, she had suggested referring him to an eating disorder specialist, which he declined. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his body — he just needed to figure out what he was allowed to eat and how to get it without feeling on the verge of a panic attack. 

On top of all this, he had to see Ilya Rozanov at the gym every day. Worse, he had to hear him. Rozanov was one of those athletes who made a lot of noise while climbing — grunts as he fought to stay on an overhang, groans as he mantled, and encouragements in Russian when his (apparently new best friend) Cliff attempted something difficult. Shane usually found loud bro-y climbers annoying, but with Rozanov he found it annoying and arousing. One afternoon, Rozanov had been lowered after flashing a 5.12d and laid on the mat shirtless, glistening with sweat, and panting in a way that was so similar to what Shane had heard above him after Rozanov came on his chest in Paris that Shane needed to dart to the locker room and take a cold shower. 

Shane was usually a guy who could go a few weeks without masturbating and not bat an eye. His record right now was 18 hours. 

He tried to ground himself in climbing. That had always worked in the past. He worked out in the same order every day: protein shake and banana for breakfast, hang boarding, yoga, two hours of bouldering, protein shake for lunch, two hours lead climbing, and finally cardio or lifting on alternating days. He mostly traded belays with Rose and her friends. He’d met Rose in the youth climbing circuit, around age 12 or 13. They’d gotten along immediately, probably because Rose loved to talk and Shane was even quieter back then than he was now. Rose’s parents were Quebecois and had been particular about her speaking French as much as possible, so she had offered to help Shane study for French class over FaceTime, which she later informed him had been an attempt to flirt. He had gratefully taken her up on it at face value, and it soon turned into them talking nightly about anything and everything. They had even been “boyfriend girlfriend” for one competition season around age 15, until Shane had admitted that his inability to stay hard when they fooled around was less about nerves and more about having no interest in her body below the neck. Dating Rose had actually been part of how Shane came out to his parents — his mom had tried to give him a sex talk about pregnancy jeopardizing Rose’s climbing career, and he’d been so uncomfortable that he had blurted out that there was no danger of that, with anyone.

They hadn’t stayed quite as close in the past couple years as their lives got busier, but Shane was incredibly grateful to have someone familiar around. Unfortunately, it also made it more difficult to deal with the Rozanov situation. He hadn’t told Rose about their hookup at the Olympics since he had the sense that the Russian was not out as gay, or bisexual, or whatever he was… but Rose knew Shane well, so she could tell that he was acting extra strange the past few days – like darting into the locker room out of the blue and coming back with wet hair and a blush still on his cheeks. 

Cliff was organizing a crag trip that weekend, possibly the last one of the season before Vancouver’s infamously mercurial fall weather swept in. The thing was, Shane knew that if Cliff was organizing it, Rozanov was sure to be there, and there weren’t exactly locker rooms to run to out in the woods. Still, Shane had promised his mom that he would try to make friends on the team outside of Rose, and he was curious about some of the famous multi-pitch routes in Squamish. He texted the team chat on Friday evening that he was in.

On Sunday, Shane picked up his rented sprinter van and headed to the pinned location Cliff had texted out the night before, a crag called Stawamus Chief. Shane had meticulously laid out his trad gear the night before, counting out his full double rack, visually inspecting every cam and nut for cracks, and running his hands along his 80 meter dynamic rope to check it for weak spots. He listened to a sports podcast on the way, something about the Ottawa Centaurs having a legendary comeback season, and tried not to let his thoughts drift to Rozanov. He hadn’t missed the appraising looks he’d been giving Rose — and why wouldn’t he? Rose was beautiful, outgoing, and a great climber to boot. Shane’s gut clenched with jealousy as he imagined how perfect they would look together, a confident, attractive power couple. If Rozanov ever came out, he and Rose could even laugh together about Shane’s sexual ineptitude. Okay, he was being crazy. He switched to the radio and cranked it up until he couldn’t hear himself think. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya was a city kid at heart, so he was feeling extra out of place today. He and Cliff arrived at Stawamus Chief first of their group, so they could lay claim to North Star and The Great Arch, two of the toughest climbs in the area. The morning was damp and chilly, and Ilya was glad that they had brought a huge, steaming thermos of coffee. He wrapped his hands around a metal mug as he sat in a camping chair, Arc’teryx-branded toque pulled down almost to his eyes, and watched Cliff set out gear. 

Hollander showed up next and immediately started comparing equipment with Cliff, pulling out a Post-It filled guidebook and a laser pointer that he used to point out sections of the wall far above them while speaking animatedly. More climbers trickled in, including a guy named Harris who Ilya recognized as one of the staff at the Oval and who had brought along a crag dog, an excitable mutt named Chiron that Ilya got down on his knees to pet, no longer worrying about the dewy ground. 

Cliff hopped on the wall first, warming up on the first pitch of a route called Exasperator, with Hollander belaying him with great focus. Ilya sat back in his chair and watched, knowing Hollander’s attention was elsewhere and he could examine him more closely than he’d usually let himself. Hollander’s sleeves were pushed up, revealing the taut, tanned muscles of his forearms. His harness accentuated the curve of his lower back, and as Hollander turned to the side slightly to feed rope, Ilya’s eyes flicked to where his shorts were pulled up by the leg loops, revealing a nice sized bulge. Ilya considered offering to belay Hollander on the route next, so he could get an even better look from below, but Hollander was already lowering Cliff and switching places with him to climb. 

A group started setting up another route nearby, but Ilya stayed put, entranced as Hollander began to confidently, methodically place trad gear along the climb. Ilya hadn’t been particularly interested in trad before — he was mostly a gym climber and preferred to boulder when he did go outside — but it was a completely new experience watching Hollander pick out each piece with precision, slot it into a narrow crack, and tug on it to test the hold before clipping the rope in. He seemed perfectly at ease on the vertical route — like a completely different person from the one who had frozen up under Ilya’s body. When Hollander reached the top of the pitch, he called down to ask Ilya if he should clean the route or leave his gear for Ilya to use. Ilya hollered up to leave it, and stepped forward to meet Hollander as Cliff lowered him efficiently to the ground. 

Hollander was a little out of breath, and Ilya couldn’t help but stare at his freckles standing out against his pink cheeks as he tipped his head down to untie his figure 8. As he pulled the rope through, he looked at Ilya, meeting his gaze fully for the first time that day. 

“You sure you trust my gear placement?” he asked, so earnestly that Ilya had to smile. 

“Well, I don’t know how to place trad, so I don’t really have a choice.” He said with a shrug, trying to school his face into something more neutral. 

Hollander snorted. “If you don’t feel safe, don’t climb on them. Cliff can set something for you.” 

“No, no, I feel very safe, Hollander. Besides, is kind of intimate, no? Clipping my rope through your draws?” He couldn’t help himself — he reached down to a QuickDraw still attached to Hollander’s harness and pulled his thumb over the gate, making it snap. 

Ilya watched Hollander’s face carefully, wondering if he would shut down again. Instead, to Ilya’s delight, Hollander rolled his eyes and let out a breathy chuckle. 

“You’re weird, you know that?” He said, handing Ilya the end of the rope, which he’d neatly re-flaked by the wall, and pulling a bite through his GriGri. 

In response, Ilya tied in and then held out the figure 8 attached to the waist of his harness, murmuring “Don’t worry, tail is definitely more than 6 inches, I would know.” He gave Hollander a wink and turned his attention to the climb. 

They passed the rest of the morning like that — Cliff, Ilya, and Hollander trading off belays; Cliff and Hollander discussing crags they’d been to in Canada and the US; Ilya throwing sticks for Chiron to chase and occasionally bring back. Hollander seemed in his element out in nature, yammering about igneous rock and something called glacial flour, even identifying a few bird calls. Everything was fine until Ilya was climbing The Great Arch. 

The good news was that the climb was bolted, so Ilya got to do the first ascent without Cliff or Hollander having to place trad gear. The bad news was that there were only 8 bolts for the over 30 meter climb, which meant they were way more spaced out than Ilya was used to in the gym. It was a stemmy climb, requiring constant tension, and Ilya’s calves started to burn at only the second clip. He didn’t want to take — usually he climbed everything like he was in a comp and only had the one attempt. He pushed on until he was high above the second bolt, nearly to the third, when he saw a faint chalk X where he was about to place his right hand. He hesitated, pressing his feet firmly into the two walls as he assessed. The hold looked good, maybe good enough that he could hang on it briefly and shake his legs out. But, if someone had marked it with an X, it was probably chossy — loose, liable to come off the wall at some point. His legs had started to tremble involuntarily. He was so far above the clip; he had to use it. Reaching out with his right hand he crimped onto the hold, shifted his weight and — pop 

He was falling, further and faster than he ever had in the gym. A yell punched out of him, an attempt to shout kamen — rock — which the English-speaking climbers below wouldn’t have understood even if Ilya had managed to get the word out fully. It must have taken only seconds, but time seemed to slow as he rocketed toward Hollander’s helmeted head, first weightless as he whipped past the second bolt, then dropping even further as the dynamic rope stretched. He collided with Hollander, who had come off the ground due to the weight difference, messily slamming his tailbone into Hollander’s head and shoulder. Cliff ran up and grabbed the end of the rope behind Hollander, terror in his eyes. Ilya was frantic, trying to apologize, to explain. 

Hollander looked dazed and turned up to Ilya with watering eyes, asking “Should I lower you?” Cliff answered before Ilya could, telling Hollander to lower him slowly, with Cliff backup belaying. When Ilya reached the ground, he was shaking so badly he could barely stand. He leaned back against the wall, trying to slow his breathing. 

Cliff turned to him, but Ilya waved him toward Hollander. “I am fine, I am okay, check Hollander for spine injury, please.” The final word came out raw, begging. His mind was swirling with guilt. How could he have been so careless? He should have asked to take and rested at the second clip, he should have avoided that loose hold somehow, he should have downclimbed or taken a more controlled fall that Hollander was ready for. He would never forgive himself if he had hurt Hollander badly. God, he always fucked things up. 

Other climbers gathered around as Cliff assessed Hollander for injuries and concussion symptoms. Ilya fumbled to untie his knot until someone, one of the girls Ilya recognized from Rose’s posse at the gym, came over and gently tugged it out of his hands, prying it loose with the aid of a carabiner. 

Cliff sat back on his heels and informed them that Hollander didn’t seem to have a neck or spinal injury, but he was mildly concussed. 

“I will drive him to urgent care.” Ilya said firmly. 

Hollander whipped his head toward him, “I can drive.” This was undercut by the wince on his face, probably from moving his head so fast. 

“You cannot drive, Hollander, we do not know how bad concussion is.” Ilya said, voice calmer than he felt. “Come, we will go now.” 

Hollander got to his feet unsteadily. “I need to sort my gear…” 

“Cliff will take care of it. He will bring it to the gym on Monday.” 

Hollander grimaced and nodded, and they set off to the car. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane rested his head against the cool window of the van, trees and craggy rock formations blurring by. To his left, Rozanov sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He seemed to be driving as fast as possible without jerking the car around the many switchbacks, which Shane appreciated because his head was throbbing and he felt a bit nauseated. 

He must have drifted to sleep briefly, because when he opened his eyes the scenery had changed from woods to suburbs. Through cracked eyes, he saw the familiar red lettering of a Tim Hortons a few blocks away, and his stomach grumbled loudly. Rozanov glanced over, noticing that Shane was awake. 

“You want food?” He asked.

Shane thought back over the day, how he hadn’t eaten since his protein shake and banana for breakfast. It was mid-afternoon. His stomach protested with another loud gurgle. 

“I take that as a yes,” said Rozanov, pulling smoothly into the parking lot. 

Inside, Shane hovered by the display of sandwiches, wraps, and donuts. Donuts were definitely not within his diet, but he didn’t know the macros of the sandwiches. Maybe they could work. His mind drifted back to when he was in youth climbing, on days when his dad would take him from school straight to practice. They would often stop and get sandwiches from Tim Hortons, and his dad always bought a box of Timbits for them to share, winking at Shane and whispering not to tell his mom. 

“What do you want? I am paying.” said Rozanov, pulling out his wallet. 

Shane shook out of the memory and rubbed his temple. “Do you think the turkey club is healthy?” he asked. 

“What do you mean, healthy?” Rozanov asked, looking at Shane quizzically. 

“Like, nutrition. Protein, calories…” Shane thought he was making sense, but looking at Rozanov’s raised eyebrows, maybe the concussion was worse than he thought. He tried to enunciate more clearly. “Is it okay to eat?”

Rozanov was still looking at him strangely, but his voice softened. “Yes, it is okay, Hollander. Actually, is more than okay to eat calories when your stomach tells you it is hungry. And to eat something that tastes good. Not only boring protein shake.” 

Now it was Shane’s turn to look confused. “Wait, you know about the protein shakes?”

Rozanov shrugged. “You drink them every single day at the gym. I start to think maybe you have brand sponsorship with them, not just Red Bull.” 

Without another word, Rozanov strode up to the cashier and ordered two turkey clubs, four donuts, and a black coffee. He paid in cash, counting out the bills precisely before handing them over. Grabbing the bags, he led the way back out to the van. 

They sat with the sliding door of the sprinter van open, legs hanging out into the parking lot. The sandwich was the most delicious thing Shane had tasted in weeks, and he had to hold back a moan as the tangy, fatty flavors lit up his taste buds. He housed it in about two minutes, then sat quietly while Rozanov ate. 

Rozanov wordlessly pushed the bag of donuts toward him. Shane shook his head. 

“I can’t.” Shane said quietly. 

“What do you mean you can’t?” Rozanov replied. “You climbed a lot. Sugar is good for energy. Plus, it will make you feel happy. Then I will feel happy. Right now I feel very guilty for breaking your head.” 

Shane stared into the donut bag. One had sprinkles, another chocolate coating, the third was blueberry, and the fourth was plain with sticky, off-white icing. 

“Why did you get so many?” he asked. 

“I didn’t know what you like. You were having trouble making decisions, so I got options.” Rozanov said simply. 

Shane reached in and pulled out the donut with sprinkles. He took a bite, letting the sweetness melt on his tongue. The world didn’t end. He took another. Rozanov finished his sandwich, balling his trash up and stuffing it into the bag the sandwiches had come in. He reached into the bag of donuts, snagged the chocolate one, and ate the whole thing in two bites.

“Hey,” Rozanov said, after Shane had finished his donut and wiped his hands. Shane looked over at him, meeting his eyes. From this distance, he could see that Rozanov’s eyes had a gray outline encircling the pale blue irises. His eyes looked serious and sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Rozanov.” Shane replied, shaking his head. “The bolts were spread out, we should have added some trad pieces –” 

Rozanov cut him off. “No, not that. The other day. I’m sorry if I…scared you. Or hurt you. I don’t know.” He looked down at his lap, flexing his hands. 

Shane didn’t understand for a moment, and then the words clicked into place and his dizziness came back worse than before. He braced a hand against the door and swallowed hard. “Oh! No. No, you didn’t. Hurt me, I mean. I just, after Paris…I couldn’t…” He trailed off, his head swimming. 

Rozanov was looking at him with concern, eyebrows furrowed, eyes flicking from Shane’s face to his hand and back. 

Shane closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against his hand. It was so bright out. When Rozanov remained silent, he tried again, his voice a rough whisper. 

“I liked it, in Paris. But then you ignored me, and I felt so stupid. You didn’t text me…but then you showed up here, in Vancouver, and you said it was your idea. I wanted to kiss you, want to kiss you, but I can’t. I can’t feel like that again.” 

Shane opened his eyes a crack and Rozanov’s expression had shifted again. Pain was all over his face, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. 

Rozanov opened his mouth, then closed it. He turned his head away and said, “You are tired. I will take you to urgent care, then home.” 

They returned to the front seats, and Shane faced the window to prevent himself from doing what he really wanted, which was to nuzzle into the space between Rozanov’s tight jaw and his shoulder and stay there forever.

Chapter End Notes

Please leave a comment if you have made it this far! I'm enjoying myself but could use the encouragement :)

Chapter 5: Slow Down

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Sad Ilya x Horny Shane

Chapter Notes

On Monday, Ilya told Cliff his stomach was hurting and he didn’t want to wear his harness and make it worse. That was fine — they spotted each other in the weights room, bouldered together for a few hours, and then got an early lunch. Ilya needed to post some influencer shit on Instagram for his brand deal anyway, so a shorter day at the gym was convenient — necessary, even. 

On Tuesday, Ilya “accidentally” left his harness at home. He could have borrowed one, but he complained that the Oval didn’t stock the particular belay device he liked to use. Cliff gave him an odd look and left him to boulder alone, opting to get some time on the lead wall with two older guys on the team, Wyatt and Scott. Ilya bouldered hard, working on an overhung V13 over and over until he had bleeding flappers on both hands. He washed his hands in the locker room and taped them up sloppily, then stormed into the sauna where he sat alone in the wet heat, head tipped back and eyes closed, until his curls were heavy with sweat. 

On Wednesday, he skipped the gym entirely, shooting an email to the coach that he had a meeting about his visa. The coach replied with just a thumbs up; he didn’t really care what Ilya did since he wasn’t actually on the Canadian team. Ilya slipped out of the apartment before Cliff woke up, texted him the same excuse, and got on the bus. 

He got off at the only Russian grocery store in Vancouver he’d been able to find good reviews of on Reddit. There were a few stools by a window, so he bought a coffee and a piece of black bread and tucked himself into the corner seat. He pulled out his phone and his sore, taped fingers worked automatically, pulling up American Alpine Club’s “The Prescription” archive, which described outdoor climbing failures in great detail and provided analysis of how they could have been prevented. He had spent hours reading back through the catalogue over the past few days. First up this morning was an article from January 2021. He copied the text and dropped it into Google Translate. The coffee was strong, but not strong enough to break through the melancholy haze that had descended over Ilya as soon as he had left Hollander at his apartment building on Sunday. 

Ilya’s father had always called him moody, usually in combination with words like ungrateful, useless, soft. His mother had called him sensitive, but she didn’t say it as an insult — her tone was one of tender recognition. Ilya thought about how similar he probably looked to how his mother had at times in his childhood, when he would find her sitting at the kitchen table, a cold cup of tea untouched in front of her, face blank but stained with dried tears.  

He finished the article — lowering error, no stopper knot, fatal, the climbers were a husband and wife — and moved on to the next. 

A few hours passed. The older woman running the store brought him another piece of black bread and a glass of kvas. He raised his eyes to hers and roughly whispered spasibo. She gave him a firm pat on the shoulder and said nothing. 

When his phone notified him that it was at 10% battery, he finally pulled himself off the stool, legs stiff and butt aching from the hard seat, and left. It was 2pm, so most of the team would be done with the gym for the day, some grabbing late lunch in groups, others off to part-time jobs. Ilya took the Canada Line to Lansdowne and walked the last fifteen minutes, river wind whipping inside the collar of his jacket. 

He hurried to the bouldering area, hoping to get in a solid session before public climb hours began in the evening. He would have to work on slab today or else risk pulling off even more skin. Turning the corner, he jolted to a stop. The room was empty except for one climber. 

Hollander was on the wall, seemingly unaware of Ilya’s entrance. He had his hips open, groin nearly flat to the wall as he raised one knee and carefully placed the tip of his shoe on a foot hold. He didn’t look down while he did this — even that amount of movement would have pushed him off the wall. In any case, he didn’t need to. He had read the route and was precisely, perfectly executing his beta. Ilya watched as Hollander dug in his toe and slowly stood on it with an incredibly controlled pistol squat. 

When Hollander reached the top after a few more moves, Ilya composed his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression, expecting the Canadian to jump down and notice him staring. Instead, Hollander began to carefully downclimb, a feat that was even more difficult than the climb itself. When he was back to the starting hold, he stepped daintily to the mat and finally turned around. 

Ilya’s face was decidedly not neutral now, if Hollander’s immediate blush was anything to go off of. He was sure that his face looked something between awed and baffled. When Ilya didn’t say anything for a full ten seconds, Hollander shrugged and said “It’s good training. Plus, I’m trying not to shake my brain up any more.” He pointed at his head, smiling. 

Ilya did not return the smile. “I’m sorry,” he said somberly. 

If Hollander noticed something was wrong with Ilya’s mood, he didn’t mention it. He sat down on the mat a few feet from Ilya’s leg and massaged his pumped calf. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Ilya smirked just a little, remembering Hollander asking him the same question in Paris. 

“This is my gym too, Hollander,” he replied. A realization popped into his head, “What are you doing here? You boulder in morning, every morning.”

A faint blush rose to Hollander’s freckled cheeks again. “I went grocery shopping. I read online that it’s less busy on weekday mornings.” 

Ilya thought about the weekend, when they had stopped for sandwiches. When Hollander climbed, every minor choice was done methodically and with 100% confidence. But in that store, he couldn’t make the simplest decision — had seemed near tears over a donut. Ilya didn’t understand it, but he found himself wanting to. Hollander was a paradox. So strong and so fragile. Ilya recognized it, like looking in a mirror. He recognized it like his mother had recognized the sadness in him. 

He was seized by a sudden yearning to grab Hollander and just hold him, tell him that they are both going to be okay. But he couldn’t do that. The last time he had been that close to Hollander’s body, he had scared him away. It hadn’t escaped him that Hollander said Ilya didn’t hurt him, but he hadn’t said Ilya didn’t scare him. It would make even more sense for Hollander to fear him now that he’d injured him. It would be best for them to keep their distance, for Hollander’s good. 

Unfortunately for Hollander, Ilya was selfish. He plopped down beside him into a hip flexor stretch, put on a mock serious face, and asked, “Did you buy any donuts?” 

Hollander snorted and pushed his shoulder playfully. “No, but I did get a s’mores flavored energy bar. Does that count?” 

“Uh, no. It does not.” Ilya pushed him back. 

Hollander leaned back on his elbows and jutted his chin toward the problem he had just climbed. “Are you warmed up? I want to see you try this.” 

Ilya grimaced. “You know I’m not very good with slab. Too much thinking.” 

“Whatever,” Hollander replied, rolling his eyes. “You’re a professional climber. I think you can handle a V8. 

Ten minutes later, after Ilya had popped off the first few moves of the climb at least 15 times, Hollander conceded, “You really are bad at slab.” 

Ilya shot him an outraged look, protesting, “It is my butt! It is too juicy and round and it pulls me out from wall!” 

Hollander groaned, but he was smiling. He came up to the wall, hovering behind Ilya as he began the climb again. Ilya tried not to notice that at this distance he could smell Hollander’s sweet-scented detergent, familiar from their brief tangle in his bed, tinged with the musky smell of sweat. Hollander followed him through beginning moves, spotting him with open hands and prodding his lower back with a finger when Ilya’s weight began to shift away from the wall. 

At the crux, Ilya tried to pistol squat like Hollander had, his thigh burning and calf shaking as he pushed onto his toe. 

“That’s it…” Hollander murmured, and then yelped “Ah!” as Ilya exploded up the wall, grabbing sloppily for the next hold and immediately barn-dooring off, crashing down to the mat. 

Ilya lay on his back, panting, looking up at Hollander’s adorable, frustrated face. 

“You have to slow down, Rozanov” he huffed, sticking out his hand to help Ilya up. 

“I’m not very good at doing things slow. I tend to do them fast and messy.”

Hollander gave Ilya an unimpressed look as he hauled him to his feet.  

“I am not trying to be sexual this time!” Ilya protested, “It is just coming out like that.”

They moved on to a few other climbs, in tacit agreement that Ilya could not, in fact, handle that particular V8. When they stopped for a water break, Hollander got quiet, sitting on a bench and fiddling with his Hydro Flask but not actually drinking. Ilya eyed him warily. Had he pushed too far about the donut thing? The silence stretched until Ilya felt like he was going to explode. 

“What is it, Hollander? You are freaking me out.”

Hollander flicked his eyes up to Ilya’s. 

“I know it’s not my place but…are you and Cliff fighting? I noticed you were avoiding the lead wall and he was there, climbing with some other guys. I wanted to offer…you can stay at my place if something happened between you two.” 

Ilya was stunned into silence for a moment by the offer, as well as the realization that Hollander must be keeping tabs on him to notice the shift in his routine. He sat down on the bench next to Hollander and sighed heavily, picking at the tape on his hands.

“No, no, we did not fight. I am…I am feeling a bit scared to lead climb…after…” he waved his hand vaguely at Hollander. Hollander’s eyes widened, and shame crashed over Ilya. “I mean, I know you had it much worse! I didn’t even get hurt, really. I just…I’m sorry, this is probably last thing you want to hear about.” 

Ilya was about to stand up and leave, continuing to blabber apologies, but Hollander halted him with a single touch — a hand flat on Ilya’s chest, over his heart. 

Ilya took a shuddering breath, feeling his heart pound, knowing Hollander could feel it too. He raised his eyes to meet Hollander’s, and that familiar intensity pulsed between them. 

“Do you want to?” Hollander murmured after a moment, his eyes shiny and serious. 

“I —” Ilya stammered, “what?” 

Hollander dropped his hand and smirked at Ilya cheekily. 

“Do you want to lead with me? Public climb doesn’t start for a half hour. We can put you on something real easy just to get your sea legs back.” 

It was Ilya’s turn to blush, though he would deny it if anyone ever accused him of doing so. He stood, tugging at his shorts — a little hard and completely flustered — and grumbled, “What the fuck is sea legs?” 

As Hollander chuckled, Ilya snatched his water bottle from the bench and stalked toward the lead cave, calling behind him “Yes, fine, davay.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After that day, something shifted between them. They weren’t friends, exactly, and there was still unmistakable sexual tension when they brushed by each other in the locker room or gear closet. But Shane found himself laughing at Rozanov’s horrible impression of the Quebecois accent whenever he greeted Rose, and when he saw Rozanov dynoing wildly up the lead wall, expending way more energy than was necessary, he would sometimes shout at him to slow down and think, to which Rozanov would shoot him a devilish grin before continuing to climb exactly the same as before. 

Rose finally cornered Shane two weeks later, at the start of October. She had asked him to grab a smoothie with her in the Oval’s cafe, which was situated within view of the weight room where Rozanov and Cliff were lifting together. Well, they had been lifting — now they seemed to be competing for who could dead hang on only one arm for the longest, and Rozanov was attempting to tickle Cliff with his foot to make him fall. 

“Shane? Hello? You’re drooling!”

Shane snapped his eyes to Rose guiltily, raising his sleeve to his mouth. 

“I’m not!” Shane retorted, inspecting the sleeve like it had wronged him. 

“Well, not literally, but…” Rose crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a critical look. “What’s up with you? Are you really crushing on Rozanov? I thought we left falling in love with straight men in like 2022 after the Jacob debacle.”  

“It was Jason. And no, I’m not. We’re just friends. Or like, friend-ly, I guess.” 

“Shane,” Rose raised an eyebrow. “That was not a ‘friendly’ look you were just giving him. That was a please-come- grip-my-dick-like-you’re-gripping-that-pull-up-bar look.” 

“Rose!” Shane whisper-shouted, whipping his head around to see if anyone else was within earshot. There were no other customers, but Shane noticed that the barista was smiling and pointedly busying himself cleaning the blender.

“I’m just saying,” Rose continued, uncrossing her arms so she could sip her smoothie, “I don’t want you to get hurt. Why don’t you ask for the barista’s number? I’ve seen him check you out every time we get drinks here. Maybe that will take your mind off of a certain Russian ladies’ man who…” 

Rose was cut off by a boisterous, accented voice. 

“Dobrey den, Kip! Black coffee, please, and a scone if Hollander did not already eat them all.” 

Rose snorted, and Rozanov turned to her in mock surprise. 

“Ah, Rose! C’est tigidou. Camel toe!”

“It’s calme toé.” Shane corrected. 

Rozanov gave Rose a cheeky wink and collected his coffee and scone from the counter. He strode over to their table and pulled up a chair, then got up again and returned with a plastic knife and napkins. He cut the scone into three pieces and pushed a piece each to Shane and Rose. 

“Peace offering,” he said, looking innocently at Rose over the lid of his coffee as he took a loud sip. 

Shane looked at Rose with eyes that begged her to not bring up anything they had just been discussing. He knew that she saw and understood the look, so it was even more of a betrayal when she did exactly that. 

Lowering her voice, she asked casually, “Rozanov, don’t you think Shane should get the barista’s number? He’s cute, right?” 

Shane could feel his face heat up. Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “Kip? He is very cute, like little…mm I don’t know how to say in English. Burunduk. Little guy in tree with big cheeks.” 

“Chipmunk?” Shane supplied. 

“Ah, yes, I think so, probably.” Rozanov said. “Shane” — he said this like Sheyn, drawing out the vowel in a way that made Shane’s heart flutter — “should ask him for phone number if he wants to. But it can be complicated, dating someone who works at same place as you. If it doesn’t go well, you have to see them all the time. Very awkward.” 

Rose gave him a skeptical look, but begrudgingly said, “That’s actually good advice, Rozanov.” She took a bite of her piece of scone. 

“I don’t always follow this though. Sometimes is too tempting.” Rozanov stuffed the rest of his scone in his mouth and stood up, brushing crumbs off his lap. “Anyway, I came to tell you that Cliff is having Thanksgiving party next Saturday. Everyone is invited. Bring a food from your culture to share. I am sure you can guess what I am bringing from Russian culture.” 

Rozanov winked at Rose again, then looked down to where Shane had been tearing his piece of scone into tiny pieces. 

“Eat, Hollander,” he said authoritatively. 

Shane picked up the largest remaining piece and popped it into his mouth. He met Rose’s eyes as he chewed and shrugged his shoulders at her questioning look. 

“We’ll be there,” Shane responded. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The party was well underway when Ilya heard the faint knock at Cliff’s door. It was unlocked, and Ilya was sure that anyone would be able to tell from the hallway that they were in the right place from the thumping bass and din of voices. He watched the door, which stayed closed. He smiled to himself — he had a hunch about who would hear a party raging and still be polite enough to knock and wait. 

When he opened the door, it was Rose he was face to face with. She was carrying a tourtière in one hand and a box of St. Catherine’s taffy in the other. She leaned up to kiss both of Ilya’s cheeks in an unusually friendly manner and strode past him into the party, already waving at a gaggle of girls drinking and chatting in the living room. This left Hollander standing at the door, looking a bit uncomfortable. Ilya couldn’t help leaning against the doorframe and looking him up and down wolfishly. He looked really good, if a bit formal, in a light puffer jacket, well-fitting button down, and dark jeans. 

“What’s this?” Ilya prompted, nodding to the platter Hollander was gripping.

“Yakisoba,” Hollander answered, his voice lilting a little differently than his usual Canadian accent. “It’s a Japanese dish with wheat noodles. My mom would usually make it for Thanksgiving so…” he trailed off. 

Ilya saw that Hollander’s face was flushed, even more so than usual. He couldn’t resist teasing him about it, not when he was looking so adorable, waiting for permission to enter as if Ilya was a bouncer who might turn him away. 

“You are looking very pretty tonight, Hollander. Very…pink?” 

Hollander’s face got even pinker at that, all the way up to his ears. He groaned in embarrassment. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have — ugh. Rose made me drink a bottle of wine with her while we cooked. I told her I was…nervous about the party. I hadn’t had red wine in so long, I forgot it makes my Asian glow really bad.” 

Ilya wasn’t completely sure what that meant, but if he stayed at the door any longer with Hollander sweetly shifting on his feet he was absolutely going to kiss him, so he stood back and gestured for Hollander to follow him inside. 

He led Hollander to the dining room, skirting around groups of chatting climbers bobbing their heads to the music. Ilya had made sure to invite some Oval staff too, including Jackie and Harris, wanting to thank them for their help over the past month. Everyone seemed to be meshing together well. He took Hollander’s platter and placed it with the other dishes on the table, then reached over and snagged a large bottle of Beluga vodka and two red plastic Solo cups. 

“You know,” he said conversationally, as he poured a generous amount in each, “I always thought these were just in American movies. I feel like I am at toga party.”

Hollander snorted as Ilya passed him one of the cups. Sensing his hesitation, Ilya brought his mouth close to Hollander’s ear and whispered. “You won’t throw up, just drink it a little slow, eh? Like you’re always telling me to slow down.” 

Ilya pulled his face back and smiled when he saw Hollander take a tiny sip, then wince. Ilya downed his shot, feeling the satisfying burn cascade from his throat down to his stomach, and then clapped Hollander on the shoulder. He was careful to do it in that masculine, good-to-see-you-man way, but he couldn’t resist giving a light squeeze before he pulled his hand back. 

Hollander’s eyes flicked to Ilya’s mouth, lids dropping for a moment, before he flicked them back to Ilya’s eyes in alarm. 

“I should go say hi to Jackie and her husband,” he stammered, and scurried off.

Ilya took a moment to get his wits about him,  straightening the dishes on the table and making sure they all had serving implements. He had made it a rule over the past few weeks not to touch Hollander, not without explicit consent at least. Yet here he was, crossing the line and making Hollander run off again. He wished he wasn’t drawn to him like a magnet, but even now, with his back turned, he felt like he could sense Hollander in the room, the air a little more electric than it had been 15 minutes ago. It was going to be a long night. 

Two hours later, the party was mellowing out. The potluck spread had been picked clean, and most of the remaining guests lazed on couches and the carpeted living room floor in conversations. Ilya had insisted on doing vodka shots with probably a few too many people — in fact, they’d gotten through his nice bottle and he’d had to run out to a liquor store for a much inferior handle of Smirnoff. He was getting tired, and his head was already starting to pound with tomorrow morning’s hangover. He slipped away to the kitchen to take a break from the noise. The kitchen was a small galley off the dining room with enough room for a sink, refrigerator, stove, and not much more. Ilya busied himself washing dishes and wine glasses — the party had been Ilya’s idea, so he didn’t want Cliff to have to do any cleaning.  

Hollander had seemed happy tonight — had even danced with Rose to a few songs. Ilya had felt a familiar pang of bitter jealousy when he spotted them — that straight couples, even straight friends, could show their affection so openly. Even though gay marriage was legal in Canada, it was rare that Ilya saw a gay couple kissing or holding hands in Vancouver, though maybe that was because the culture was quite averse to PDA in general. Certainly in Russia, though some affection between male friends was tolerated, he couldn’t have danced pressed together with Shane the way Shane and Rose had been. 

Ilya heard a noise at the kitchen door and turned, sudsy sponge still working to get a stubborn piece of poutine off the rim of a plate. It was Hollander. 

“Hey,” Hollander said, holding up a beer bottle. “I was just looking for the recycling bin.” 

Ilya tipped his head toward a cabinet next to the fridge and set the clean plate in the dish rack. He wiped his hands on a towel. 

“You have a good party?” he asked, leaning a hip against the counter, too tipsy to not try to keep Hollander in the tight space with him a little longer. To Ilya’s surprise, Hollander took a step toward him, deeper into the kitchen, and leaned his lower back against the counter next to Ilya. 

“Yeah,” he said breathily, “good party. I don’t usually stay long at this kind of thing. This time I wanted to, though.” 

Hollander’s words were a little slurred. He’d definitely had less to drink than Ilya, but it was clear that his tolerance was trash. He was still pink, and must have gotten warm because the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. Ilya could see that his chest and the back of his neck were flushed too. Ilya was pleased that Hollander had felt comfortable at the party, had even loosened up a little. He would be lying if he said that seeing Hollander outside the gym wasn’t a large motivation to have the party in the first place. 

Hollander turned his head, and Ilya realized he hadn’t said anything, had just been zoning out while staring at Hollander’s profile. 

Hollander’s eyes dropped to Ilya’s lips again, but it seemed more purposeful this time. He looked up at Ilya through his eyelashes and murmured, “Do you want to show me your room?” 

Heat shot to Ilya’s gut and he glanced at the kitchen door. 

“I don’t think that is a good idea, Hollander. Everyone is here, you know?” 

Hollander pouted. Like, actually pushed his bottom lip out, still looking up at Ilya with those brown, shiny doe eyes. 

“When are they gonna leave? I could wait…” 

“I —” Ilya spluttered, his pulse tripping as he fought for control. “I think you wouldn’t be saying this if you hadn’t been drinking.” 

“I would!” Hollander protested, a bit too loudly. “I want to! I’ve been wanting to.” 

He turned so he was facing Ilya fully, lips pulling into a small, goofy smile. Slowly, his eyes locked on Ilya’s, he raised his hand up and put it over Ilya’s heart. 

It was too much. Ilya closed the distance between their mouths, hearing his pulse pounding in his ears. He grasped Hollander’s hip and pushed him back against the counter, slotting a leg between his thighs. Hollander moaned into his mouth and rolled his hips, reaching his hands into Ilya’s hair and gripping it hard. Ilya nipped at Hollander’s bottom lip and he opened his mouth in response. They kissed sloppily, feverishly, and Ilya knew that there were still party guests no more than 10 meters away, but every time he tried to pull them apart, Hollander tightened his hands in Ilya’s hair and chased his mouth until they were sealed together again. 

Finally, Ilya fought his mouth away, panting. He reached his own hands up and peeled Hollander’s out of his hair. 

“We can’t do this right now,” he said. “I don’t want you to do something you wouldn’t do if you were sober. And even if everyone leaves, Cliff will be here.” 

Hollander dropped his eyes down to their hands, which Ilya had clasped between their waists. He whined in dismay, trying in vain to wriggle a hand free. 

Ilya dropped his voice even lower. “Come back here tomorrow evening. Cliff is driving to see some guiding friends in Whistler, and he’s going to stay the night up there. We can…talk then.” 

Ilya waited for Hollander to raise his eyes, and then released his hands and gave him a final peck. 

“Okay?” he asked. 

“Okay.” Hollander replied.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter is brought to you by a TikTok I saw of Robbie Graham-Kuntz wearing an Arc'teryx hat. Decided Kip needed to be here too.

Chapter 6: Slow Burn

Chapter Summary

mitsk_i is back...you know what that means 🍆🍆

Chapter Notes

Shane stayed in bed until 10am on Sunday, which was something he hadn’t done since…well, maybe ever? He had actually been awake since 8, but he felt frozen in place by trepidation every time he thought about getting out of bed. Getting out of bed would mean showering, and showering would mean figuring out exactly what he needed to do to his body to be prepared for this evening. 

He wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. Yes, he had gotten more drunk than usual and yes, he had practically begged to suck Rozanov’s dick while their colleagues and friends were one room away. But what he’d told Rozanov was true. He had been aching to be touched by him again, and fuck if the amount Rozanov had allowed wasn’t just as good as he remembered. 

What Shane was spiraling about was his inexperience. When they had hooked up in Paris, he’d been caught completely off guard, so he’d done his best to follow Rozanov’s lead. He knew he hadn’t given Rozanov the best blow job in history, but the Russian had seemed to realize it was his first time and had liked it well enough, even if he did have to finish with his own hand. Then, a month ago, here in his room, he had kicked Rozanov out before they could get past kissing and rutting against each other. 

Should he have practiced more so he would be ready? He’d had weeks — he could have downloaded some dating app and found a hook-up where he didn’t care so much about doing well. Was it worthwhile to download one now? No, it was too late for that. Maybe he would watch some porn today, for research purposes. 

Thinking about porn, his mind skidded in another alarming direction. Should he shave his pubes? He didn’t remember if Rozanov did — he’d been a bit distracted the whole time he was on his knees. Also, did he need to douche? He’d never done it before, but of course he had heard about it. Oh fuck! Was he supposed to shave his asshole?? 

Shane frantically jumped out of bed and grabbed his laptop, then rifled through a drawer until he found a notebook and pen. Settling back into bed, he clicked his browser into Incognito Mode and searched “how to prepare for gay hookup”. He scrolled through Reddit threads and HIV prevention websites, personal blogs and journal articles, jotting down:

Shane looked at the time. God, it was almost noon, and the next step was going to be even harder. He’d been getting better at going to the grocery store on weekday mornings — it was quieter then, usually only a few elderly shoppers slowly pushing their carts through the aisles while employees restocked the shelves. But it was the weekend now, a holiday weekend at that, and he didn’t even know where he was supposed to buy half of the stuff on his list. 

He knew Rozanov probably had lube and condoms already — I mean, he assumed that Rozanov had been using condoms when he slept with women — but how embarrassing would it be if they both thought that and then they didn’t have any when the time came? His mom always warned him about diffusion of responsibility and instilled in him that if he wanted something done, he should do it himself. 

Shane wished he could call his mom for help, but at the same time he really, really did not want to talk to her about this. He considered calling Rose and anonymizing who he was meeting up with, but she would figure it out and probably try to talk him out of it. Besides, what did she know about preparing for gay sex? 

Who else… Shane thought about the few kids he knew from high school who had come out as gay or bi. He had the phone numbers of a few of them, but what would he even say? “Hey, it’s Shane, the quiet kid from that English class presentation 3 years ago. Can you teach me how to clean my ass?” 

Shane groaned and flopped back on his pillow, covering his face with his hands. He could text Rozanov…but wasn’t that weird? He didn’t actually know how much experience Rozanov had with men, just that it was enough to give him the most intense orgasm of his life. Shane pulled out his phone and pulled up his texts with Rozanov. There were a few messages back and forth from the past month — logistics about team meetings; a picture of a water bottle in the lost and found, asking if it was Rozanov’s. He could at least see what time he should come over. Before he could overthink even more, he shot off a text.

Shane Hollander:

What time should I come over?

Should I bring anything?

Within a minute, he had an answer. 

Ilya Rozanov:

7

no you are good, I have everything 

Shane stared at the text chain. Rozanov would have understood what he was asking, right? Maybe Shane didn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of price comparing in the personal intimacy aisle while other people shopped for last minute Thanksgiving needs. No sooner had he put his phone back in his pocket than it buzzed again. 

Ilya Rozanov:

come hungry 🍆

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya paced the living room of the small apartment like a caged wolf. He had already cleared the coffee table of books and tidied the kitchen counter, rolling his eyes at the cracker crumbs and weed grinder leftovers Cliff had a habit of leaving everywhere. He had changed into joggers and a tank top that clung to his chest and abs, and looking at himself in the bathroom mirror as he fussed with his curls, he had a fleeting worry about what Hollander would think.

Hollander. They had exchanged a few texts setting the time, but Ilya didn’t know if the Hollander he received today would be the same Hollander that he had seen last night — the pouting, desperate man who had cornered him in the kitchen and tried to take his tongue off with feverish kisses. Would it be that Hollander, aroused and unfettered? Or would it be the man who dodged him for weeks, avoiding his gaze in the climbing gym and pretending that Paris had never happened? 

Dinner was ready and keeping warm in the oven. Ilya liked feeding Hollander. Hollander clearly enjoyed, maybe even needed, permission to act on the things he secretly desired. Permission to “be bad”. Ilya didn’t personally think that eating food with flavor and fat was “bad,” but he got the sense that Hollander did. He didn’t want to push too far, but he had found a recipe, borrowed a couple of Cliff’s pans that never got used since they always ate out, and made something that he thought had come out quite nice. 

A soft knock at the door.

Ilya made it to the entryway in just a few long strides, slowing himself just before he opened the door to try to look casual and running his hands through the sides of his hair in a final attempt at taming it. When he opened it, Hollander was on the other side, studiously examining the doormat. He was wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeve button-down, an outfit that looked oddly formal on a man who spent his days covered in chalk and sweat at the gym. 

Ilya thought of the word breathtaking. He’d always thought it was an exaggeration, but he actually felt his lungs seize at the blush already present under the spray of freckles across Hollander’s cheeks. 

“Hey,” Hollander began. “Sorry, I think I’m a few minutes early –” His eyes wandered to Ilya’s ear, the door frame, anywhere but the other man’s face. 

Ilya wasn’t sure what to make of Hollander’s lack of eye contact. He had noticed it before, that Hollander would look down or past you at times, but he hadn’t realized until now how much he relied on Hollander’s eyes to parse his emotions. Was he anxious? Scared? He decided to try for levity. 

“So you want to stand in hallway all night?” 

It worked. Hollander looked up and met his eyes. Deep brown pools, brimming with desire and determination. Hollander let out a short breath and then lunged forward, slamming the door behind him. His hands found Ilya’s biceps, pushing him against the wall of the living room hard enough that the breath was briefly knocked out of Ilya — by force this time. 

Ilya loved it. He kissed Hollander back hard, his hands grasping at his jaw, trailing to his waist, and then Hollander was pushing him into the living room toward the couch, climbing on top of him as Ilya fell back against the cushions with a moan that escaped even as his lips were pressed against Hollander’s. 

Hollander’s hands were on his tank top, yanking it up —

“Hollander wait, wait,” Ilya said. Hollander was straddling him and visibly panting, his thick thighs pressed against Ilya’s. Ilya grabbed both of Hollander’s wrists, not hard but enough to hold him still. Hollander hovered above him, his lips slightly apart, his breath coming in short gasps.

“What do you want?” Ilya asked. He was staring at Hollander carefully, trying to read the other man’s desires, reasons, everything from just his eyes and the pink flush of his cheeks. 

“This,” Hollander breathed, and tried to reach for Ilya’s shirt again. Ilya held him firmly, thankful for his strong forearms. 

“Slow down, Hollander,” Ilya said quietly. He still couldn’t forget the last time they had almost hooked up – how Hollander’s eyes had suddenly gone flat and lifeless and how he had practically bolted from the room. Ilya still didn’t know what he had done wrong; he only knew that he didn’t want to see that absent look on Hollander’s face again.

“You are okay?” Ilya asked, seeking eye contact. 

Hollander snorted and sat back, his shoulders tense now. “I’m fine, Rozanov,” he said, but his voice sounded slightly rough. He didn’t meet Ilya’s eyes, choosing instead to focus them somewhere around his collarbone. 

Ilya released Hollander’s wrists and wrapped his hands around the other man’s waist, pulling him more fully into his lap. “Is okay to go slow,” he purred, slowly undoing the buttons and pulling Hollander’s collared shirt off his shoulders. “Remember?”

Ilya tried to hold himself together as he looked at the shirtless man straddling him. Hollander’s chest was smooth and tanned, but flushed slightly pink from embarrassment or arousal – or maybe both. His cock was straining against his jeans in a way that must have been almost painful, the crotch of his pants pressed up against Ilya’s joggers. Ilya ran his hands over Hollander’s pecs, his abs, light touches that made the other man groan. 

“Look in my eyes, yes?” Ilya said, his fingers tracing the edge of Hollander’s jeans, teasing the space just above his belt. “Then I see you’re okay.” 

“Okay,” Hollander panted, bucking his hips. His eyes met Ilya’s, umber irises shining with pent-up feeling. “I’ll do what you want.” 

The words struck Ilya deep and his cock twitched. Letting out something that was almost a growl, he unbuckled Hollander’s belt and pulled it off him in one smooth motion, palming Hollander’s cock with the other hand as he did so, giving just enough pressure that Hollander let out a small gasp. 

“Please, Rozanov –” Hollander started. His eyes fluttered closed. “Can you –” 

Ilya pulled Hollander’s jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free, dark and flushed and already leaking. Ilya swore, Russian words escaping him in a flow of enthusiasm as he grabbed the meaty part of Hollander’s ass and sank down into the couch cushions, pulling Hollander up so the other man was kneeling above him, his cock bobbing inches from Ilya’s mouth. 

Ilya looked up. Hollander’s mouth was open as he gazed down at Ilya, his fingers latched onto Ilya’s hair like it was the only thing holding him in this universe. 

“You still want?” Ilya asked. He knew the answer, but he needed to hear Hollander say it. 

“Fuck – yes, Rozanov, please –” 

Ilya took the head of Hollander’s cock into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the head and licking down the shaft in long, slow strokes. He had some practice sucking cock, and he knew he was good at it. He pressed his mouth all the way down on Hollander’s cock, his nose nestled into Hollander’s coarse hair and groin, his tongue stroking up and down at the base of the shaft. 

Hollander made a noise between a moan and a gasp that Ilya would have loved to record, his hands yanking Ilya’s hair so hard it hurt. True to his promise he was still looking down at Ilya, mouth slack, eyes misted over with lust and desire. “Oh my god,” Hollander moaned, tilting his hips just slightly as Ilya sucked him down. Ilya wondered if Hollander was trying to hold back from fucking his face. He filed that away for another time. 

One more long lick and Ilya stopped, pulling his mouth away from Hollander’s cock and wiping saliva from his chin. He guided Hollander back down onto his lap, watching his face carefully for signs of distress, doubt, second thoughts. 

But Hollander only looked starved. He reached down and palmed his saliva-soaked cock, jerking it hastily, trying not to let the orgasm that Ilya had postponed fade away. 

“Easy,” Ilya said, almost laughing at his desperation. “Hollander, I would not leave you like this.” 

Ilya reached for the waistband of his joggers and pulled them down, his own shaft springing out fully hard, eight inches of cock that curved slightly upwards. Guiding Hollander forward, he pressed his shaft against Hollander’s, feeling the slick layer of his own saliva. 

Hollander’s cock was hot and leaking. The skin-on-skin contact was so intense that Ilya’s cock twitched when they touched, and a strained groan escaped him. He took a deep breath and then took both of their cocks in his hand, gently stroking both thick shafts.

Hollander was trembling above him, a stream of words spilling from his mouth as he rocked back and forth into Ilya’s hand. “Just like that,” Hollander babbled. “More, please.”

“You will not come until I say,” Ilya said, seized with a sudden desire to manage every part of Hollander’s experience. “I will watch you come.” Then, as he began to form a rhythm, stroking harder, he reached for Shane’s ass, ever so gently brushing his hole. 

He felt Hollander tense above him, and his brown eyes looked down at Ilya, widening slightly. Ilya pulled back almost immediately, afraid that he had pushed too far, afraid that Hollander would jerk away from him and run. “I do not have to,” he said quickly. “Only if you want.” 

But Hollander was writhing on his lap, and his eyes looked more interested than afraid. “I want to –” Hollander said quietly. “I’ve just never – before.” 

“We go slow,” Ilya said. Then, looking directly into Hollander’s eyes, he reached up and put fingers into Hollander’s mouth. Hollander immediately started sucking on them, his cheeks pulling in, covering Ilya’s index finger and middle finger with saliva.

“Blyat, ty idealen,” Ilya swore, then pulled his fingers from Hollander’s mouth and brushed his index finger against his hole. He teased for a few moments, still pulling rhythmically at their cocks, then pushed his way gently but firmly inside. 

God, Hollander was tight. Warm and firm, squeezing around his finger. For a moment Ilya just enjoyed the sensation – his finger inside Hollander, in the deepest and most intimate part of him – and then he crooked his finger gently. 

Hollander let out a low, throaty gasp, snapping his hips forward in the same motion into Ilya’s hand. “Fuck Rozanov,” he moaned. “Holy shit. That’s it. Right there. Please don’t stop.”

Ilya had no intention of ever stopping. He stroked their cocks, Hollander’s hand right on top of his, guiding him, while with the other hand he fucked Hollander until he was keening, clenching so tightly that Ilya worried his finger might fall off. 

“Rozanov, please,” Hollander moaned. “I can’t – I’m going to – if you keep going I’m gonna come –” 

“Not yet,” Ilya panted, jerking their cocks a little faster. He could feel the orgasm building inescapably in his balls, the lust of taking Hollander apart, untangling this man who was a perfect climber, a perfect Canadian, who was neat and tidy and had folded his clothes in the Olympic Village. A part of him felt that he was wrecking Hollander, corrupting him, but when he looked up at Hollander’s pink and sweaty face, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the pressure of holding in his orgasm, he knew that that was wrong. He was honoring Hollander, honoring this beautiful man by giving him just what he wanted.

Ilya felt himself losing control. “You ready to come for me, Hollander?” he growled.

“Please,” Hollander gasped, his voice cracking. “I want it so bad. Please let me.” 

“Come for me,” Ilya said, his finger pressing firmly, unrelentingly. 

Hollander didn’t just come – he exploded, shouting as his cock painted Ilya’s chest and abs with cum, his asshole clenching tightly around Ilya’s finger. Seeing Hollander throw his head back, his chest and ab muscles flexing as he spasmed, caused something to uncurl deep in Ilya’s gut and a moment later he was coming also, gasping as his cock shuddered and released over and over again. 

Hollander collapsed onto Ilya’s chest, his breath coming fast and heavy, both of their chests sticky and wet from their releases. Ilya stroked the back of Hollander’s head, murmuring things in no particular language. He felt light, unhinged – his heart felt as though it had left his body and was floating a few feet above where they were laying on the couch. The only thing that kept him present was Hollander’s breath quiet against his ear, the other man’s heart thumping against his own chest. 

They had been laying together quietly for a few minutes, letting their breaths slow and their heart rates steady and sync, when Shane pulled his face out of Ilya’s neck to ask, “Is something burning?” 

“FUCK! The food!” 

Ilya bolted upright and sprinted to the kitchen completely naked, slamming his finger into the on/off button on the stove. He opened the oven door, causing a cloud of dark smoke to belch out. Grabbing a dish towel, he yanked the tray of food out and quickly slammed the oven door shut, cursing in Russian — a staccato stream of хуй and ебать with inventive declensions and religious references. 

Shane stumbled into the kitchen behind him, tripping as he attempted to pull on both his boxers and jeans, right as the smoke alarm started to blare shrilly. Ilya grabbed a dish towel and started swinging it toward the detector, and Shane ran back out of the kitchen as fast as he had entered. Ilya heard the thunk of him pushing open a window a moment later. 

After a good thirty seconds of Ilya waving the towel at the ceiling like a white flag of surrender, dick swaying in time with his efforts, the alarm fell abruptly silent. Ilya heard Shane’s footsteps pad over to the kitchen door, and then his flushed, freckled face peeked in, surveying in the sight in front of him. Ilya, bare as the day he was born, his body as muscled and golden and beautiful as ever, cum drying on his stomach, one hand clutching a cloth above his head. The dinner Shane had had no idea was waiting for him, charred in places and still emitting a thin thread of smoke. Their eyes met, both looking a bit crazed, and then, like a dam bursting, simultaneously burst out into laughter. 

Soon they were both crying they were laughing so hard, Shane with his head braced in his arms against the doorframe, Ilya doubled over and shouting, “My stomach! Ow!” between renewed eruptions of cackles. 

He turned to the stovetop and looked down at the ruins of his romantic plans, wiping a tear with his palm and letting out a dramatic sigh.

“I was trying to woo you, Hollander, and this is what I get.” 

Shane approached him, peering down at the sheet pan with furrowed brows, trying to make out what it had originally been. 

“Zucchini stir fry?” he guessed. 

“Eggplant parmesan,” Ilya replied ruefully. 

“We could still try it? Some parts aren’t burnt too badly,” Shane offered, reaching out to poke Ilya’s hip. 

Ilya caught his hand and turned them toward one another, pressing the warm, sticky skin of their stomachs together and his nude crotch against Shane’s jeans. He kissed Shane on the crinkled brow and then the mouth — not sexually, just sweet and smiling against Shane’s lips. He tipped their foreheads together and murmured, “Maybe we order pizza.”

Chapter End Notes

leave a comment xoxo

Chapter 7: Steam Heat

Chapter Summary

Smoke shifts to steam

CW: eating/food issues

Chapter Notes

Shane spent much of the holiday Monday mentally replaying the night before. While doing his morning yoga, in the shower, loading his chalky gym clothes into a washer in the apartment’s shared laundry room…flashes of Rozanov’s piercing blue-gray eyes fixed on his, dark and searching and caring even as they both neared climax; the frisson of their open mouths against one another, panting and inhaling one another’s breath like they were one organism, a symbiotic entity made of want and pleasure; the feeling of their slick cocks sliding together while Shane’s brain had been empty but for a chant of more, please, more.

He wondered if Rozanov was thinking about him too. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that their rendezvous, heated as it had been, meant they were …something, but it hadn’t seemed like it was meaningless to Rozanov either. He wanted to text him, but he was stuck in the same mental spiral as he had been after the Olympics, not wanting to text first and risk the embarrassment of misinterpreting a situation. So Shane did what he had learned to do when a social situation confused him. He waited, he analyzed the data he had, and he controlled the variables in his life that he could.

He ate an extra healthy breakfast to make up for the pizza loaded with greasy meat that he and Rozanov had scarfed down like wolves. He did 52 push ups (his mom’s age) and then 20 more (his own) — then he felt guilty for leaving out his dad, so he did 53 more. He matched that number with sit ups and squats, pushing until his thighs were trembling and his shirt collar was soaked with sweat.

It was while he was laying on his yoga mat, breathing hard and staring at a stain on the ceiling he had never noticed before, that his phone buzzed. He assumed it would be his mom, maybe texting to make sure he had signed up for the Boulder National Championships in Montreal next month. It was Rozanov.

Rozanov:

Cliff is back

He says it smells weird in apartment, like burn popcorn

🍆🔥😅

Shane:

Haha 🙂

Shane waited, unsure if that was all Rozanov wanted to say. After a minute, he saw three dots pop up again.

Rozanov:

Was fun yesterday

Shane:

Yeah, it was. Thank you for having me over.

Rozanov:

lol so formal Hollander

You can have me next since you have no roommate

Shane took a deep, steadying breath and then texted something he’d been planning to say the night before.

Shane:

You can just call me Shane. Unless you’re the one who likes formality.

Rozanov:

Okay Shane

You can call me Ilya

But I did like when you moan Rozanov so pretty last night

So sometimes is okay 😘

The ensuing week wasn’t as awkward as Shane feared. He and Ilya kept to their usual belay groups, maybe exchanging a few flirty glances here and there, but both of them were ramping up their training for the comp in early November. Ilya seemed to actually be working hard on his slab technique, conferring with the coaches about the setting styles they predicted and drilling tricky problems repeatedly. For his part, Shane was working with the team physical therapist on his pulleys, which he’d had issues with ever since youth climbing. He added in gentle finger and wrist stretches before his hangboarding sessions and focused fastidiously on open hand crimping.

Shane thought he was doing a pretty good job acting normal, even weathering Rose’s protective hovering when Shane and Ilya happened to be in the same area of the gym. That is — he was doing a pretty good job, until Thursday afternoon when Shane and Rose were at a sushi place down the road from the Oval and Shane received a text simply stating

Rozanov:

Cum 2 sauna 💦

Shane was sure he turned as pink as his tuna sashimi as he flipped his phone face down on the table with a clatter, darting his eyes at the exit and then back to Rose. She eyed him questioningly, pausing her story about her younger brother’s hockey season in the QMJHL. Shane’s heart was racing, but he tried to play it cool.

“Just my mom,” he said, with a tight smile.

Rose raised her eyebrows, saying nothing, waiting for him to dig himself deeper into the lie.

“She was, um, reminding me that I needed to talk to Coach Desgranges. About…my schedule next week? I need to do an ad thing. For Redbull.”

Shane clamped his mouth shut to stop himself from adding any additional inane details. He actually did have a photoshoot for Redbull next week, but he had already spoken to their coach about it days ago.

“Franchement?” said Rose, “You’re blushing that hard about a conversation with Coach Desgranges? Tu me prends pour une valise?”

“Non!” Shane protested. “I mean, no. I just…I really do need to get back to the gym. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Shane stood, shouldering his bag and pulling out his wallet. He held out enough cash to cover his food as well as Rose’s, hoping this would smooth over the annoyance on her face. She sighed and accepted the money, then stood to kiss him on both cheeks.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” she said, looking with concern into his eyes.

Shane looked away.

Shane jogged the few blocks to the gym, then slowed to a walk as he entered the building, feeling foolish. Was he really this pathetic, running because Rozanov booty called (or booty texted, he supposed) him at 3 in the afternoon? His emotions were at war as he wended his way through the white hallways to the climbing section of the Oval — irritation and curiosity, vulnerability and red hot desire.

He decided to gain back a little dignity by making Rozanov wait. Plus, if he actually wanted what had been implied in his text, Shane was definitely going to make sure nobody was around to walk in on them. He glanced into the coaching office, glad to find it dark and empty — he could tell Rose honestly that he had looked for Coach Desgranges but couldn’t find him. He checked the boulder and lead areas — also empty — the team was done for the day and open hours for the public hadn’t yet begun. Finally, he headed to the locker room, anticipation fluttering in his stomach.

He stripped down by his usual locker, tucked away in a corner near the showers. He didn’t usually use the sauna, since he was sure that it wasn’t sanitized regularly, but he tried to push that out of his mind for now. He grabbed a clean towel from a pile near the sinks and wrapped it around his waist, then slipped on the Crocs he kept in his gym bag.

Shane approached the sauna’s glass door, pausing a moment to take in the awe-inspiring body he was becoming increasingly familiar with. Ilya sat like some kind of ancient prince — a towel draped around his hips, tied loosely in front; his large, muscled thighs spread out in that lazy, masculine way that would annoy Shane in any other setting but right now was making his mouth water; his arms stretched out along the upper tier of wooden benches, a sheen of sweat glinting like dew on the hills of his defined shoulders; his head tilted back, putting the beautiful line of his neck and jaw on display. There was something calm and settled in his expression, like he was giving himself over completely to the sauna’s heat.

Shane opened the door, and Ilya raised his head, smiling easily. He raked his eyes appreciatively over Shane’s body, until he got to Shane’s feet and threw his head back with a laugh.

“Why are you wearing those fucking shoes, Hollander,” he groaned.

Shane looked down at his Crocs, caught off-guard. “Um, to not get foot fungus? Or step on people’s disgusting wet hair?”

Shane closed the door and sat down awkwardly, leaving a few feet of distance between them and picking at the fraying strings at the edge of his towel, suddenly feeling the clutch of anxiety in his chest. He could see Ilya was smiling out of the corner of his eye, but he knew that his aversion to germs and mess was an issue for some people — even his parents had scolded him about it in childhood when he would refuse to play with other kids in the sandbox or public pool.

Ilya seemed to notice his shift in demeanor, because he slid over and wrapped one arm around Shane’s tense shoulders, his eyes soft and repentant.

“Hey, Shane, I am kidding. I like your weird little shoes with holes like shveytsarski cheese. Makes me hungry.” He nipped Shane on the neck, then pulled back to meet his eyes again, searching for the emotion beneath. “Really,” he said with a sly little smile, “I like that you keep so clean. Then it is even more sexy when you let me get you dirty.”

Shane’s shoulders had relaxed as soon as Ilya’s mouth grazed his neck, and when his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, it was all the invitation Ilya needed to close the space between them and kiss him filthily.

Shane moaned into the kiss, reaching for Ilya’s chest, feeling the slick of sweat that beaded across his pecs. The word dirty echoed in his head, and he shuddered at the thought that they were doing this here, in the sauna, in the gym – not during public hours, and the gym was empty, but the danger of it all still felt like electricity prickling across his whole body.

For a few moments they grappled each other on the wooden bench, all sweat and slick movements, and then Shane reached out and palmed Ilya’s cock through his towel, pressing against the hard shaft. Ilya groaned and Shane looked up at him almost shyly, and saw that Ilya’s eyes had fluttered closed, his mouth slightly open, his face framed in golden curls.

In one smooth motion, Shane dropped to his knees on the wooden floor, cursing quietly as he felt the heat of the floor even through his towel-draped knees. Ilya looked down at him, eyes wide, his hands running through Shane’s hair, his face rapt in anticipation.

“Bozhe moy, Hollander,” he murmured. “You need it, mm?”

In response, Shane pressed his hands against Ilya’s knees and nuzzled his face up against Ilya’s cock, his nose pressing against it as Ilya’s cock strained to escape the towel. He smelled the clean scent of the towel and beneath it, the musky smell of Ilya, and a sound caught in his throat. When you let me get you dirty, Ilya had said. Shane felt incredibly dirty now.

He reached for the towel, unknotting it hastily, and when it fell away it was like a gift, Ilya’s dick hard, flushed, and bobbing in front of him. Shane leaned forward and lightly swirled his tongue around the head of Ilya’s cock, rewarded by a groan and a slight shift of the hips. Ilya was staring down at him, his eyes dark, the sweat from the sauna running down his chest in small rivulets. “Fuck, Shane,” Ilya moaned, almost sounding pained. 

Shane didn’t answer, just surged his head forward and swallowed Ilya’s cock down. Christ, he had forgotten how big it felt – how the head of Ilya’s dick bumped against the back of his throat, how he had to battle not to gag. But Shane wanted to do this well, wanted to show Ilya how good he could be for him, that he wasn’t just a boring Canadian climber with no sexual experience. Following instinct he reached for Ilya’s shaft, his hand gripping the base of his cock, twisting slightly and stroking as he bobbed his head up and down.

Ilya let out rough, low sound. “That’s it,” he groaned, both hands in Shane’s hair now, pulling it gently, rocking Shane’s mouth ever so slightly forward and back on his shaft. “You are so good for me, Shane. So perfect when you suck my cock.”

Warmth bloomed in Shane’s belly, his own cock oozing precum. He could feel tears gathering in his eyes as he choked and sucked, but he refused to slow his pace, spit and sweat mingling together on Ilya’s cock as he drew it between his lips again and again. He wanted to be perfect for Ilya.

He felt Ilya tense above him and his cock, if it were possible, seemed to harden even more in Shane’s mouth. Then Ilya’s grip on his hair became almost painful and Ilya gritted out, “Blyat – fuck Shane, I’m coming,” and Shane’s mouth filled with the sharp and bitter taste of cum.

Gasping, Shane gave one final lick and pulled away, gulping down Ilya’s cum. He wiped his mouth, which was dripping an embarrassing amount, and looked up at Ilya, who was staring down at him as though he had just discovered a new V12 out in the wild. “Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya said, and there was a note of surprised appreciation in his voice.

They just grinned at each other for a second, sweat sliding off both of them, and then Ilya reached for Shane, pulling him up from his knees and pulling his towel away from his waist at the same moment. For a moment Shane felt awkward, exposed, his cock so hard that it was pointed upward, and then Ilya had laid the towel on the bench and was guiding Shane onto it on his back, murmuring Russian into his neck. And then Ilya had pushed Shane’s knees up and – oh fuck – his tongue was on Shane’s hole.

Shane let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal and almost jerked away, shocked of the warm wet furl of Ilya’s tongue stroking against the tight muscles of his ass. “Easy,” Ilya said, a smile in his voice even as his words were slightly muffled. “Relax, kotik.”

Then Shane heard a sound like a bottle cap and he jerked his head up, looking down his torso to find Ilya perched between his legs, a bottle of lube in his hand and a mischievous smile on his face. “The fuck?” Shane said, hoping Ilya wouldn’t notice the quaver in his voice. “You brought lube in here?”

“Is good to be prepared,” Ilya said, nonchalantly rubbing lube over not one, not two, but three of his fingers. Shane’s mouth fell open. Was this it, were they going to –

Then Ilya pressed the first finger inside him and his mind went blank. He felt vulnerable, naked as Ilya opened him up, his finger crooked against that spot that made Shane’s entire body jolt. For a brief moment Shane felt a stab of sadness – Ilya felt miles away, and for a moment strangely impersonal – and then Ilya was lying half on top, half beside him, his finger stroking Shane from the inside, his mouth against Shane’s neck. Soon, a second finger was probing and then pressing inside, the sudden fullness making Shane jerk his hips and moan.

“I wanted you like this,” Ilya whispered in his ear, his fingers moving more steadily now, beating out a slow, torturous rhythm in Shane’s ass. “Just like this, in the sauna, where anyone could see.”

Shane bucked his hips and moaned, words escaping him. He reached for his cock, which was dripping precum on his stomach, but Ilya let out a sharp “tsk” sound like he was correcting a dog, and Shane’s arm fell back to his side.

“You like that idea?” Ilya said. His third finger pressed against Shane’s thick ring of muscle and then passed inside. Shane felt how strong those fingers were, thick and calloused from years of climbing. “You like the idea of people walking by and seeing how good you are for me?”

Shane was jerking his hips more wildly now against Ilya’s hand, wanting more, needing more, his cock so hard it ached. When he thrust his hips he suddenly felt the sharp burning of Ilya’s fingers inside him, but it was so mixed with pleasure that he felt his brain was going to explode.

“I need –” he groaned. “Ilya, please,” he added, not sure what he was even asking for.

Ilya’s fingers stroked across his prostate and Shane’s cock throbbed. “I want to fuck you Shane,” he said. “Not here. But soon.”

Shane’s eyes widened and he looked into Ilya’s eyes. Blue-gray eyes behind long lashes. Ilya looked almost shy, his eyes flitting back and forth across Shane’s face, looking for an answer, looking for approval. “Would you like?” Ilya said, his voice low.

“Yes,” Shane gasped, his pelvis trembling under Ilya’s hand. “God yes, please.”

Ilya growled and then lowered his head onto Shane’s poor, leaking cock, which he had ignored for this whole time. Shane wanted to believe he could last, wanted to enjoy Ilya’s mouth and fingers at the same time, but the pressure of three fingers in his hole and Ilya’s wet, hot mouth stroking up and down his shaft proved too much for him. His hips snapped forward, his cock pressing all the way into Ilya’s mouth, and then he was coming, his hole clenching around Ilya’s fingers, his thighs tensing and releasing as his body was rocked by waves of pleasure.

For a period of time they just lay there together, Ilya’s head on Shane’s shoulder, the soft, strange feeling of his fingers slipping out of Shane. Shane felt his heart beating like a rabbit’s in his chest. He was dizzy, floating on a cloud of Ilya.

“Come, let’s shower,” Ilya murmured, getting to his feet and securing his damp towel back around his waist. Shane wobbled to his feet, his limbs still jelly, and felt an ooze of lube slipping down between his thighs. Rozanov pushed open the heavy glass door and cool air rushed in. Shane followed, the fluorescent lights and locker room smells of sweaty climbing shoes and bleach dissipating the soft, fucked out haze of Shane’s mind. They were back in reality.

Shane wasn’t sure if they would use the same shower stall, so he chose one at random and was secretly gratified when Rozanov followed him in. They each soaped themselves up with the body wash from the dispenser, and Shane washed his hair with the dispenser shampoo while Ilya rinsed his curls. Shane couldn’t resist reaching up to run his hands through Ilya’s hair, enjoying the hair texture so different from his own, and Ilya’s arms came down to rest around his lower back, his fingers lightly running over the dimples there.

Shane was thinking about his own hair, more similar to his mom’s than to his dad’s, when he idly asked Ilya, “Do both your parents have curly hair?” while pulling on one springy clump and watching it bounce back into place.

Ilya’s hands stilled against Shane’s back, and his jaw tightened. He took a step back, and Shane almost shivered at the abrupt loss of body heat, even beneath the warm spray of the shower head.

“Are you done?” Rozanov asked, putting his hand up to turn the shower off. Shane nodded, feeling confused and awkward. Suddenly it felt like they were strangers, standing here together naked and wet. He stepped out of the shower, grabbed a fresh towel from the pile, and busied himself drying off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya dreamed that night of a tender hand running through his hair. He turned his head and his mother gazed back at him, blue-gray eyes and a tired smile. When her hand trailed from his hair down to his cheek, it was cold as ice.

He jolted awake and didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

Chapter End Notes

Posting this from a double decker bus in London, feeling extremely Hermione, pip pip cheerio smash that subscribe button ;)

Also, if Shane’s anxiety and food issues are feeling particularly OCD coded in this fic, that’s because I have OCD and am working through some stuff here lol

Chapter 8: Butter Tart Meltdown

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Alexa, play All The Things She Said 😬

Chapter Notes

At 6:59am, Ilya’s phone buzzed. 

Hollander:

Do you want to get lunch after the team meeting today? 

Ilya felt exhausted down to his bones, having been awake since his nightmare in the early morning. He hadn’t even remembered the coach had called a meeting at 2 for everyone competing in the National Championship in Montreal. He gave Hollander’s text a thumbs up reaction and tossed his phone back onto the bed, heading to the kitchen to make coffee for Cliff and himself. 

The meeting was fine. The team was putting them up in a hotel for two nights, and Ilya was grateful that he wouldn’t have to pay for his own accommodations. He had money coming in every few weeks from Arc’teryx now, but he was barely saving any with the way Cliff liked to go out for every meal. Actually, if Ilya could place well in the upcoming comp, it would go a long way toward moving out of Cliff’s place at some point; first place for each gender would win $5000, with $1000 each going to second and third. 

Ilya spent most of the meeting rubbing his sore shoulder, which had been flaring up as the weather got colder, and sneaking glances at the back of Hollander’s head. When the meeting ended, Rose immediately pulled Shane into a conversation. Ilya stood and meandered closer to them, pulling out his phone and pretending to respond to a text in an attempt to look casual. When he was near enough to make out their voices, he realized Rose was speaking rapid French. He got the sense they were talking about him, based on Rose flicking her eyes over with a wary, appraising look. 

“Tsé, tu ne sauras pas ce qu'il veut à moins de lui demander. Si tu l'aimes vraiment bien, tu dois lui parler.” 

“Okay, okay, Je comprends. Je te parle plus tard.”

Shane turned around, shouldering his gym bag, and saw Ilya leaned against the wall typing on his phone. Ilya nodded at him and strode out the door, assuming he would follow. He did. 

Out front of the Oval, Ilya finally slowed his pace, and Shane nearly ran into his back. 

“Where do you want to eat?” Ilya asked. 

“Wherever,” Shane responded, fiddling with a strap on his bag. 

“Really, Mr. Healthy? Should we go to McDonald’s then?” 

Ilya elbowed Shane lightly, who huffed out a laugh and finally met his eyes. 

“Maybe not McDonald’s.” 

They ended up at a cafe a short walk from the training center. Shane ordered a salad and Ilya got a coffee and two butter tarts from the counter. They sat at a small table in the back corner; the only other patrons were a few UBC students tapping on laptops near the front window.

Ilya stuffed one tart into his mouth and chewed without really tasting it while Shane made small talk about the upcoming comp — how he was going to add on a few days at home since Montreal is only a few hours drive from Ottawa, that he’d been to the gym where the comp was being held but not since they installed autobelays in the top rope area — and Ilya waited until Shane’s food was delivered to cut him off. 

“Hollander,” he said, “you did not ask me to lunch to discuss autobelays.”

Shane fell silent, stabbing aggressively into his salad a few times but not actually taking a bite. 

“I told Rose,” he said quietly. 

Ilya considered this. It wasn’t a surprise really, from the amount of time she and Hollander spent together, and he hadn’t asked Shane to keep it a secret. He should have asked, probably — should have explained all the way back in Paris. But Shane was so tightly wound already. Ilya had been enjoying their time together — even told himself that it was good for Shane, helping him release the stress that he seemed to carry around at all times. Ilya was the cause of that stress now. 

He sighed. “When?” 

“I went to her place yesterday, after we — when I left the gym.” 

Right, yesterday. Shane had asked a simple question about Ilya’s parents, not knowing he’d stepped into a minefield — that the answer was I get my curls from my mama, who I found dead when I was 12, and my father cut my hair short for years because they reminded him of her. I hated him, I still hate him, and now he’s losing his mind. 

Shane’s voice was rough, barely above a whisper, and he kept his eyes on his plate. “I haven’t told anyone else, just Rose. She saw I was upset and kind of guessed. Anyway, I wanted to let you know.” 

Shane’s eyes were moist and shining, and Ilya wanted so badly to reach out and touch him — run a thumb over his beautiful freckles, smooth the little furrow between his brows. He was so good, so sweet, and he didn’t deserve to be hurt on Ilya’s account. 

“It is okay. Is my mistake.”  

Shane’s eyes flashed up to meet Ilya’s now, and in an instant his sadness shifted to indignation. 

“Mistake? Wh— Fuck off! You’re going to say all of this was a mistake? Now?” 

Ilya stammered, caught off guard by Shane’s reaction. “Maybe I don’t mean mistake. I am not sure is right word. Is my fault, I mean. I should not have made you do something you had to keep a secret.”

“You didn’t make me do anything.” 

Ilya ran a hand through his hair and made a frustrated noise. Everything was coming out wrong. 

“Da, fine, I did not make you. You just don’t understand—” 

“So help me understand!” Shane’s hissed, his voice tinged with panic. Ilya couldn’t help but reach over and place his hand on Shane’s on top of the table, pressing down firmly in an attempt to ground both of them. Shane was breathing fast, and Ilya held his gaze quietly until it started to slow, then regretfully pulled his hand back.  

“Look, Hollander — Shane. Things are not good for people like us in Russia. Not, like, people call you names. I mean that you hang a rainbow flag, they say you are political extremist and maybe send you to prison. When I was in school, they tortured hundreds of gay men in Chechnya and my teacher taught about it like it was normal news topic...” Ilya’s voice broke and he clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head. He remembered that day, how he had hid in the school bathroom and fought not to cry. He hadn’t kissed a boy yet at that age, but he’d wanted to, and that was scary enough. 

He didn’t have the words in Russian or English to capture the fear and pain and anger roiling in his chest that he couldn’t live as his full self in the country that created him. He had been naïve to think that these trysts in France and Canada were safe. He had been reckless, selfish, and in the back of his mind he had always known he couldn’t stay here in this comfortable bubble. Hollander could. There was a chasm between them, and if they weren’t careful, one of them was going to fall in. 

“After World Cup in Spring, I have to go back home.” he said bitterly. He tried to laugh, but it came out dry and humorless. “So we will hope that Rose is not Russian spy. I don’t think so, but you never know.” 

Shane had been silent as he listened, and when he spoke, all of the indignance had left his voice. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You were right, I don’t understand. It’s probably safer if we don’t do this any more.” 

Ilya had known this was coming, but it still hit him like a knife to the chest. He stood up on legs that felt like lead — he needed to leave right now, before he did something crazy like sink to his knees and beg Hollander to hold him. Instead, he pushed his untouched butter tart across the small table. 

“Eat, Hollander,” he said with a sad smile, and then he turned and walked out of the cafe. 

Cliff wanted to go to a club that night, and Ilya was glad for the distraction. Whatever this thing with Hollander had been, it was over now, and that was for the best. Shane could date Rose or Kip the barista or whoever he wanted, and Ilya would go back to meaningless sex with beautiful women. Simple.  

Ilya scanned the club as he choked down a large swig of his second drink — terrible vodka not made much better by the addition of overly sweet tonic. He was wearing an almost-sheer black button down and dark jeans; he’d even scrunched a bit of gel in his hair to keep his curls from frizzing up in the club’s humid atmosphere. Cliff stood to his right, and two other Team Canada guys, Wyatt and Luca, stood in front of them sipping mostly full beers. Wyatt had a girlfriend — Ilya was pretty sure she was in med school somewhere near Ottawa — but it seemed like he was happy to hang out and wingman. He was chattering about a comic book store he was going to hit up while they were in Montreal, and Cliff and Luca were doing a better job than Ilya at pretending to listen. Luca seemed the most out of place in this setting; he was freshly 19 but looked about 14, and he had brought his backpack for some reason, complete with climbing shoes carabinered to the outside. People kept bumping into him and then apologizing, like an extremely Canadian slapstick routine. 

Ilya took another sip, grimaced, and tilted his head toward the dance floor, moving into the crowd without looking at whether the other men followed. He took in the bodies grinding together, pink and purple strobe lights intermittently illuminating faces, cleavage, sweaty hair. Suddenly, there was a woman in front of him, looking seductively up at him through fake eyelashes and running a hand up his arm, a few other girls giggling behind her. That was easy. He wrapped a large hand around her lower back and pulled her closer, rocking his hips to the bass-heavy music. She was pretty, if a bit heavily made up for his taste. Bleached blonde hair and a tiny, tight dress. No freckles. She ran her hand over his bicep appreciatively and continued up to his neck, pouting her over-lined, glossy lips. Ilya smoothly turned her to face outward, splaying his hand over her hip and lower stomach, and bent to kiss along her neck as they moved to the beat. 

As the woman pressed her ass against him and moaned a bit theatrically when he nipped her ear, Ilya’s mind drifted. Unbidden, a memory of Shane and Rose dancing at the Thanksgiving party came to mind.  Shane’s flushed face and endearing smile, his stilted swaying as he tried to follow Rose’s lead. Rose had been touching Shane’s chest, toying with the collar of his shirt, and he had reached around to tug on her braid at one point, making her laugh. Their body contact had been so devastatingly intimate in its easy familiarity. 

Ilya opened his eyes and pulled his head out of the woman’s neck, trying to shake off the thought, but all that did was make him imagine how Shane and Rose would look here, amidst the writhing bodies of the dance floor. Would they press even closer together, jostled by the crowd around them? Would the strobe lights catch on Shane’s delicate cheekbones as he leaned in to speak in her ear? Would Rose slide her hands under his shirt, feeling the ripples of his warm, hard abs? Would they kiss because they were drunk and they could? 

Ilya spun the woman around to face him again and kissed her aggressively. She matched his energy immediately, opening her mouth for his tongue and dragging her long nails down his chest. He ground against her, fisting a hand in her long, straw-textured hair. Her lips were soft and his mouth was getting sticky with gloss and it was the opposite of kissing Shane Hollander and he couldn’t fucking stop thinking about him. 

Ilya pulled away, wiping his lipgloss-slicked mouth on the back of his hand and glancing around for a route back to the bar. He needed at least two more drinks before he left with this woman, or whatever woman in this club would have him. Suddenly, over the driving synth beat, Ilya heard whooping. He whipped his head around just in time to see an iPhone’s flash cut off. 

“Rozanov’s got that dog in him for real!” Luca shouted gleefully, jostling Cliff and Wyatt’s shoulders. “I am so sending this to the group chat!” 

Group chat? What? — Ilya’s blood ran cold. He shouldered his way through the bodies separating him from Luca and grabbed his phone. 

“Whoa, hey! What the fuck, dude!” Luca protested. 

“Did you send?” Ilya said. He tried to swipe his way into the phone, but was stopped by a passcode. 

Luca grabbed the phone back and punched in the code. “It’s just a dumb video, man. I wanted to show the guys that didn’t show up tonight what they’re missing!” He turned the phone to show Ilya the video, sent moments before in the WhatsApp group Cliff had created for the night out — a chat that had every male climber on Team Canada. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

15 kilometers away, Shane’s phone buzzed on his nightstand. He glanced at the lock screen — a text from Luca in the stupid “bro chat” that Cliff had created a few hours before, telling everyone to get their asses to some club in the West End. Shane rolled his eyes — was Luca even old enough to get into a club? He had his laptop out and was sitting cross legged on his bed, a notebook beside him with a half-page of tidy notes. On the screen was a Wikipedia page, “LGBTQ Rights in Russia”. 

Rozanov had been right, he hadn’t understood what a risk it was for Ilya every time they hooked up. His immediate reaction during their lunch had been guilt and fear — he couldn’t bear to be the reason Rozanov got in legal trouble or even physical danger — but after talking to Rose and making her swear eternal secrecy, he was also feeling something else… Pride? Or validation? It was a hard emotion to describe, but it felt like Ilya had…chosen him. Even if they weren’t a couple, maybe could never be, Ilya thought he was worth taking a risk for. 

Shane’s phone buzzed again, and he checked the lock screen. A message from Ilya. He smiled as he reached for the phone. He hadn’t expected this. Ilya had seemed really upset when he left the cafe, and Shane had wanted to give him some space before reaching out to apologize. In the meantime, Shane planned to learn everything he could about the situation for queer people in Russia so that Ilya wouldn’t have to explain any more. 

He opened WhatsApp, clicking into Ilya’s chat. 

Rozanov:

Pleas don’t watch video 

Shane frowned, scrolling up in their thread. Ilya hadn’t sent a video — they hadn’t texted at all since Shane’s message in the early morning (it had been drafted in the wee hours of the night, but Shane had waited until a reasonable time to send it). 

Oh, this must be about the other chat. Shane clicked over into the group and yes, Luca had sent a video. He couldn’t make out anything from the thumbnail — it was dark, probably inside the club. Why wouldn’t Rozanov want him to watch it? Maybe someone had done something gross, like fallen and split their head open? He turned up the brightness on his phone and clicked the video. 

The video was dark for a moment, and then the flash kicked on, illuminating a slice of a packed dance floor. Dancing, grinding bodies — what exactly was he supposed to be seeing? Oh. Two of the grinding bodies, locked together in a sensual kiss. A man, tall, with curly blonde hair and broad shoulders in a fitted black top. A woman, long blonde hair, cleavage nearly spilling from a tight dress as she stood on tiptoe in her heels to tongue into the man’s mouth. Ilya and… probably the most opposite person from Shane. White, dainty, effortlessly sexy. Not a risk to Ilya’s safety. Men’s voices were hooting, cheering, and the kissing kept going, and as they broke apart the video cut off. 

Shane darted to the bathroom and hovered his head over the sink basin. His heart was pounding, and he felt like he was going to throw up. After a minute of nothing but heavy, stuttering breathing, he leaned back against the wall and slid down to the cool tile floor. 

Rose had been right. Shane had known that Ilya had a reputation as a player, and he’d gone and gotten played. How stupid was he, feeling special, chosen, Googling Russian social policies while Rozanov was out fucking some random girl he just met? Sure, hooking up with Shane had been dangerous for Rozanov, but he was a fucking rock climber — he got off on danger. He’d gotten what he wanted from Shane and moved on when the risks outweighed the benefits. Shane could only be glad that they hadn’t actually had sex. That would only have made this that much more devastating. 

Eventually Shane brushed his teeth and dragged himself to bed. At least it was the weekend and he wouldn’t have to see anyone for two whole days. He was already dreading being back in the gym with Rozanov on Monday, but he hoped that his mom coming into town for the photo shoot would be distraction enough. 

Chapter End Notes

Posted from the train from Birmingham to Oxford hehe xx

Chapter 9: Taking Flight

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

In the words of Shane Hollander, holy shit! About 48 hours ago this story had 7 subscribers, and now it has over 50. Thank you to the folks who posted it on Threads! I hope I do not disappoint you all 🫡

This chapter is full angst. The boys will be back together and communicating a tiny bit better within the next couple chapters, but I do feel that angst and miscommunication is a key ingredient in an HR fic.

Chapter Notes

Ilya hadn’t stopped thinking about Shane all weekend. There had been no reply to the text begging him to not watch the video, which Ilya could only assume meant that he had. It didn’t feel right for Ilya to text again, to explain or ask forgiveness — they weren’t together, so there wasn’t actually anything to ask forgiveness for. Still, he knew how it looked. They’d blown each other at the gym on Thursday, he’d practically cried telling Hollander about his hardships as a queer man in Russia on Friday afternoon, and by Friday evening he had his tongue in some random girl’s mouth. A girl he didn’t even care about, and certainly hadn’t gone home with, but he knew Shane didn’t know that. 

He had planned to talk to Shane at the gym on Monday, but when Ilya entered the lead cave after his cardio warmup, he saw that Hollander was seated, surrounded by a group of people. At first Ilya didn’t recognize any of them; they seemed to mostly be in their 30s and 40s, wearing stylish, professional clothing and toting large bags of equipment. Then Ilya spotted someone he had seen before. Right next to Shane, with the same dark hair and intense eyes, the woman Ilya had seen at their Juniors comp in Texas — Shane’s mother. 

Shane was sitting in a canvas chair like the ones used on movie sets, and his mother was conversing seriously with a woman with pink streaked hair who was holding some kind of tablet in her hand. No, wait, not a tablet — she dabbed a small brush onto it and then brought it to the side of Hollander’s nose. Makeup. Hollander was getting his makeup done. Ilya’s stomach somersaulted, and he almost laughed out of pure shock. Hollander must hate this. He barely tolerated chalk getting on any part of him but his hands, and he had blushed fiercely when Ilya called him pretty once. Ilya stepped a little closer, peering at Shane’s face — his eyes were closed but yes, there it was, the slightly downturned mouth and little furrow between his eyebrows. The angry kitten face that Ilya adored. 

There was something different about Hollander’s face that Ilya couldn’t quite place. Of course makeup made people look different — Ilya himself had worn eyeliner to a few clandestine queer parties in Moscow — but this makeup artist seemed to be going for quite a natural look. No eyeliner, no blush…wait. A bolt of outrage shot through Ilya as he realized what was different. Shane’s freckles were missing! What the fuck were these idiots thinking? Ilya’s hand involuntarily clenched. He wanted to grab a cloth and wipe the offending powder off of Shane’s face. Just then, Hollander’s eyes flickered open like he had somehow felt Ilya staring, and he met Ilya’s gaze. After a long, tense beat he drew his deep brown eyes away, fixing them on his hands and nodding to something his mother said, but Ilya could see the blush rising to his cheeks even through the makeup. 

The rest of the people around Hollander were unpacking fancy photo and video equipment, talking quietly among themselves. A woman with curly hair and bright blue glasses was pulling an impressive pair of costume wings out of a Redbull-branded carrying case. Ilya thought to himself how different this was from anything he’d done for his brand deal. Arc’teryx mostly wanted him to wear their clothing in his own Instagram posts and at comps. Just another thing that Canadian golden boy Hollander was beating him at — raking in lucrative brand deals seemingly without trying. 

Ilya suddenly realized that he’d been standing in place, staring at Hollander, for at least a few minutes. He glanced around, and to his chagrin he found that he himself was being watched. Rose was standing at the entrance to the lead cave, near the coaching offices, looking at him with her arms crossed. 

Rose stalked past him, tossing a braid over her shoulder, and slipped right into the crew around Shane like she belonged there. Moments later, she was inexplicably enveloped in a tight hug by Shane’s mother. What the hell? Maybe she and Hollander were actually dating or something. 

Rose moved to Hollander, crouching a little to meet his eye level since he was seated in the canvas chair. They exchanged a few words, and Ilya saw Hollander’s eyes briefly dart in his direction before he pursed his lips and nodded. Then, Rose was heading over in Ilya’s direction. Ilya tried to look nonchalant, like he’d just been interested in something unusual happening at the gym. Rose was, of course, not fooled by his act. When she reached him, she skipped any niceties, stating firmly, “You need to leave. He doesn’t want you here.” 

Ilya’s heart panged at the blunt statement. He thought about protesting — after all, this was his gym to practice in as well — but he knew Rose was right. Shane didn’t want him here, and probably didn’t want him anywhere. And as much as he would love to see Shane in those wings, in whatever alluring poses the director dreamed up, he wasn’t helping his case with Shane by ogling him in front of a bunch of brand execs. Ilya flicked his eyes to Hollander, who was resolutely staring at his lap again as the pink-haired lady spritzed his hair with a spray bottle, then nodded at Rose and headed to the bouldering room. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less right now than be photographed, in the gym, in makeup, while wearing a fucking pair of wings. With his mom, Rose, and Ilya fucking Rozanov in the same room. It was almost funny, what a nightmare situation it was. Almost. 

Once Rose had asked Rozanov to leave, Shane felt fractionally more comfortable, but he still never liked this part of his brand deals. Wearing branded clothing at comps or in public was fine with him — actually, it helped him to have clear guidelines for what to wear when — but he wished sometimes that his mom would stop accepting contracts for him to do photoshoots. 

At least for this one he didn’t have to stand in one place and smile, like he’d had to for that seltzer ad last year. He was going to be doing some tricky lead climbing moves — dynos, figure 4s, the kind of thing that impressed the public — shirtless and with a pair of costume wings on his back for their “Redbull Gives You Wings” campaign. He knew that a few other athletes from new Olympic sports were doing it too — a popular American skateboarder and that Australian breakdancer who’d had fifteen minutes of online infamy. Shane wasn’t sure why he had been selected over other Olympic climbers who had placed better, but he thought it probably had to do with being ranked as one of the “hottest men of the Olympics” in some inane Cosmopolitan article. 

He’d asked for Rose to be the one to belay him so he had someone familiar on hand to psych him up. While they were in between takes but still tied in together, Shane noticed that Rose was chewing her lip, contemplating him. 

“What?” he huffed, already overstimulated enough by the itchy wings and makeup that had turned sticky with sweat.

“It’s just,” she said cautiously, “You know when Rozanov was here earlier?” 

“Yeah, what about it,” Shane sighed. He wanted so badly to rub a hand across his face, but he knew it would only cause the makeup artist to scold him and apply more powder. 

“I still think he really fucked up, being so weird to you at the gym, and then the video from the club…” 

Shane snapped his head around. “I don’t want to talk about that stuff here. Just say ‘I told you so’ and we can move on.”

She paused, looking as if she was battling herself internally. “You did say he told you not to watch it…that must mean something, right?” 

“Yeah, it probably means he thought he could get me to come over and suck his dick a few more times.” 

Shane practically spat the words out, his eyes fixed on the director of the ad campaign who was speaking with the photographer across the room. They seemed to be wrapping up their conversation, and Shane couldn’t wait to finish the shoot so he could wash off the makeup and body oil slathered on him and go work out hard enough to quiet his spinning mind. 

“I’m just saying, Shane, the way he was looking at you earlier…” Rose said, “It seems like he actually feels bad. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if you gave him a chance to explain.”

Shane’s only reply was a frustrated huff, but he couldn’t help recalling Ilya’s look earlier that day, his blue eyes blazing with something between anger and anguish as they locked with Shane’s, refusing to break contact until Shane looked away. 

Thankfully, the shoot wrapped with enough time for Shane to work out before having lunch with his mom, so he was in a slightly better mood as they dropped into a booth at the same sushi restaurant he’d been to with Rose less than a week before. Shane felt his mother’s watchful eyes on him as he pretended to engross himself in the menu (even though he already knew he would order the same thing as last time). 

When the waitress had come and gone and taken the menus with her, he couldn’t pretend any more. He raised his head to look his mom fully in the eye for the first time that day. Her expression was patient but expectant; she had been waiting for him to be ready to talk. 

“What’s going on, Shane? Something’s wrong. Talk to me.” Her voice was soft but insistent. 

Shane shook his head. The eye contact was too much. He brought his gaze down to the napkin he’d started folding into neat triangles. “I’m fine, Mom. Just a little tired from the shoot.” 

“Shane Hollander,” her voice was a warning now, still soft but not giving an inch. “Please don’t forget that I’ve known you from the first moment you were born. This is not you a little tired. You’re upset about something. Just tell me and we’ll fix it, whatever it is.” 

Shane wished so much that his mom could swoop in and fix what happened with Rozanov. Truthfully, even if it wasn’t dangerous for anyone to know about Rozanov’s sexuality, he wouldn’t know where to start. Back in Paris, or even before that? Or would he skip to here in Vancouver, the aborted hookup in his room, Rozanov driving him to urgent care after the concussion, the gentleness and awed curiosity that Rozanov had touched him with on his couch? Maybe he would just start with the past, horrible few days. Had it not even been a week since Rozanov’s sudden coldness after the sauna? Barely three days since their talk at the cafe and the abrupt crashing down of reality when Shane had watched the video from the club, nearly thrown up, and then crawled back to bed to watch it again and again like picking at a scab until it welled over with blood. 

He could give her a partial truth, at least. “It’s been hard living alone,” he said, rubbing at his eye when it prickled uncomfortably. “I’ve been having trouble buying groceries, that kind of thing. It’s a lot of decisions and it makes me…scared, I guess. I don’t want to do things wrong. I think maybe I have.” He heard his own voice choke up and he realized just how true it was. “I miss you and I miss dad. I miss home.” He felt moisture welling in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let the tears fall. Instead, he took a deep, if shaky, breath and held his mother’s gaze, which had shifted to determination. 

“I’m getting you a ticket back to Ottawa with me,” she said firmly. 

“What — no! Mom, that’s not what I meant. I want to stay on the team!” 

“You’re not leaving the team. I’ll talk to your coach and tell him we’re having a family emergency. You can come home until Nationals in Montreal — that’s only a couple weeks away. You were already planning to spend a few days at home, this is just a few more. You can train back at the regular gym, see your therapist a few times in person, and talk to the nutritionist about a more comprehensive meal plan. I’ll book the ticket now.”

Listening to his mom explain his next steps felt like being wrapped in a warm weighted blanket. Distantly, he was embarrassed to be 20 years old and still so dependent, but as their food arrived and they ate quietly, his mom tapping through the airline website left handed while deftly chopsticking neat bites of her chirashi bowl with her right, Shane felt his shoulders lower and his heart rate slow. He even smiled a bit when his mom put her phone aside and told him about his dad’s new project building birdhouses to hang up at their lakeside cottage in the spring. 

By that evening, he was packed and on the plane home, typing out an apology to Rose as he sipped a small plastic glass of ginger ale. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya made it three days before texting Shane — a second green WhatsApp bubble appearing beneath the one pleading with him not to watch Luca’s video. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Where are you? 

He made it another two days with no response before he texted again, his dignity already out the window. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Are you okay? Can we talk? 

This one got a response hours later, when Ilya was already home in his room at Cliff’s, stretching out his shoulder, which had been feeling worse by the day from his extra training ahead of the competition. 

Shane Hollander:

I’m okay, thank you. 

Ilya wasn’t sure whether he felt better or worse after receiving such a polite, bland reply, like something you would text a complete stranger. Clearly Hollander wasn’t okay — he hadn’t been back to the gym since the photoshoot on Monday. Ilya didn’t know if he was sick or injured or on some kind of brand-sponsored trip. He doubted the last option, since the comp in Montreal was in just over a week and he knew that Shane would want to focus on training in the lead-up. He’d heard murmurings about something with Shane’s family, but he hadn’t wanted to ask anyone directly since he didn’t have a cover story for the desperation that would surely be audible in his voice. 

As he stared at his phone, trying to figure out what he could possibly text to get a longer response, the screen was taken up by a call. Alexei.

Ilya had been avoiding his calls all week. He knew it couldn’t be anything good. His father had been calling as well, and he answered those, even if the conversations went in circles and he answered the same questions every time, sometimes even multiple times during a single call: Yes, he was in Canada, but he would be home in the spring; No, he didn’t think that Polina was trying to trick him by hiding his belongings; Of course, he was trying not to bring shame to Russia and to his family’s name. 

He knew Alexei would just keep calling until he picked up. His shoulder twinged from where he had kept it in a stretch for too long, and he jammed his thumb onto the screen to accept the call. 

“Chto ty khochesh, Alexei?” 

“Ah, the spoiled little prince answers. How are you, Ilyukha? Having fun?” 

“I’m in Canada to work, Alexei. I’m not on vacation or something.” 

“Ah, right, your important job climbing up plastic walls. Maybe if you keep losing like you did in the Olympics, you can get a job as a circus clown.” 

Ilya hung up the phone. Alexei called back immediately. 

“What.” Ilya snarled, standing up to pace the cramped area between his bed and Cliff’s racks of climbing gear. 

“You need to send two thousand dollars.” 

Ilya spluttered, genuinely shocked. “Two thousand dollars? Are you fucking crazy? For what?” 

“For Papa. Polina took him to the doctor about his… mental problems, and they said he should come back for tests. If we want them done soon, we’ll need two thousand dollars, to start off with. Maybe more, later.” 

“I don’t have two thousand dollars.” Ilya gritted out. He wasn’t even lying. The team was paying for his hotel room in Montreal, but everyone had had to buy their own flights. That had taken up a sizable chunk of his funds; plus, he had needed a couple new pairs of climbing shoes ahead of the comp, since the pair he had brought from Russia had worn down until there was a frayed hole you could see his big toe through. 

“Send what you have. You can send the rest when you get paid next.” Alexei’s tone was infuriatingly casual. 

“Why don’t you have the money, Alexei? Aren’t you the one with the ‘real job’?” 

“I have a wife and daughter to care for, Ilya. I’m a father. You are just a son. An ungrateful one. It’s just as Papa says, Mama spoiled you. And now you abandon the family, too.”

“Takogo blyadstea ya ot tebya ni ozhidal. I’ll send what I’m able. Schedule the appointment for Papa. Don’t call me again.” 

Ilya hung up, and this time Alexei didn’t call back. He checked his banking app — the Canadian account he’d set up for Arc’teryx to deposit to — then pulled up the money transfer website and sent $500 CAD. He sat down heavily on the end of the bed and tossed his phone aside, groaning. 

A minute later there was a soft knock at his door, and then it pushed open a crack. 

“Hey, brother,” said Cliff, gentler than usual. 

Ilya shut his eyes. He could practically feel waves of anger and embarrassment radiating from him. Cliff wouldn’t have been able to understand the conversation, but he’d been yelling, probably sounding like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. 

“I’m sorry,” he said lowly. “I should not be so loud in your home.” 

“Hey, mi casa es tu casa, amigo,” Cliff said, in what Ilya figured must be French. “Want to go get some dinner?” 

Ilya shook his head and gave a tight smile. “Not tonight, thank you though. I will finish my shoulder exercise and go to bed.”

“Okay well, if you need a snack, I just got a box of me bars.” Cliff grinned at him, as if waiting for him to fill in a punch line. 

“…me bars?” 

“Clif bars! Get it?” Cliff laughed heartily at his own joke, and Ilya couldn’t help but let out a wheezy little chuckle at the stupidity. He really liked Cliff. He didn’t know where he would be right now without him. 

“Goodnight, Cliff. Do not do anything I wouldn’t.” 

“Not likely, ladykiller.” Cliff smiled, so Ilya thought this was probably a good thing, even if it sounded quite bad. 

Hollander didn’t come back the next week, either. Ilya texted three more times, all variations on his previous messages — where are you, can we talk — and got no further response. Ilya didn’t know why he was this obsessed. Why did every room feel empty if it didn’t contain this slow fucking climber with beautiful freckles and a weak deadpoint? 

Ilya spent long hours at the Oval, both to avoid being alone with his thoughts and because it was more important than ever that he place well in the comp. $5000 would be huge for him, if he could manage to get first place in his category. He could send $1500 to his father and still have enough left over for a security deposit and one month’s rent for an apartment of his own. He was grateful to Cliff, but he didn’t want to depend on his kindness indefinitely, and it would be great to have a bit more space and privacy than the guest bedroom provided. 

Ilya was getting his shoulder taped daily by the team’s physical therapist, but he wasn’t sure how much good it was doing. Worse, the pain was making him tentative on dynamic moves where he needed to catch with his right hand and brace his shoulder muscles to stop the momentum. This type of movement required practice, but the more he drilled it at the gym, the more he strained his shoulder. He was taking pain medicine twice a day and going to the sauna at the end of every session, but he still woke up every morning throbbing from his shoulder down to his elbow. 

He dreamt of his mother or of Shane almost every night. Once, they were both in a dream together. A beautiful child, who Ilya somehow knew to be Shane, was climbing a tree, cautious and yet full of joy. His mother, Irina, waited below. Her arms were open to catch him, but Shane kept climbing higher and higher, never looking at her. Irina began to cry, calling for him to come back, wailing that it was dangerous to go so far, and Ilya was torn between comforting her and following the child. He woke up before he could move in either direction, and he felt the hot tracks of tears down his temples and into his hair.

Chapter End Notes

A note on one Russian phrase in this chapter - when you put "takogo (or takovo) blyadstea ya ot tebya ni ozhidal" into Google Translate it comes back with something like "I didn't expect this kind of fucking bullshit from you". I drew the phrase directly from a book on Russian "mat" (swears) called A Beginner's Guide to Cursing in Russian (written by Mark Pettus), in which it's translated as "I didn't expect such a fucking low blow from you". The translation of curses from Russian is always going to be a bit imprecise because they're so complex compared to what we have in English!

Also, I've been going back and forth between the Russian language bits being in Cyrillic and transliterated into Latin characters, and it bugs even me, but idk they just feel right in different situations. I do speak some Russian and lived in a Russian-speaking country for a year! Apologies for any issues in French, though. I don’t speak it, but I’ve been having fun looking up Quebecois slang/idioms.

Chapter 10: Montreal, Part 1

Chapter Summary

Was going to post this on Sunday, but just couldn't wait!

Shane's views on bisexuality are not my own. Poor guy is trying so hard to be chill that he's missing what Ilya is actually saying.

CW for rough (but consensual!) sex stuff

Chapter Notes

Ilya arrived in Montreal with $622 CAD to his name. He was exhausted from the travel (made longer by booking a cheap flight with a 4 hour layover) and his shoulder was burning with pain despite his double dose of ibuprofen before leaving. He practically dragged himself to the Comfort Suites where Team Canada had booked a block of rooms, with no time to even drop off his bags before the team meeting in a small hotel conference room. 

A few climbers from the team were already in the room chatting amiably, and he gave them tired nods before slumping into a chair in the back, keeping his hood up to hide his limp curls, flattened by the few hours of sleep he got on the second plane. He wondered if Hollander would show up. He’d definitely been signed up for the comp, Ilya remembered that from their last actual conversation before everything went to shit, but if he’d gotten sick or injured, maybe he wouldn’t be recovered enough to compete. 

Ilya didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Shane walked into the room looking far from sick. He shed his coat, scarf, and toque, hanging them on a chair at the front of the room, revealing a tight sweater that showed off his impressive shoulders and biceps. He had a fresh haircut with edges so sharp he must have gotten it in the past day, and his nose was pink from the brisk Montreal air. Rose was right behind him in a long puffer coat and earmuffs, and she made a beeline for the group chatting amongst themselves. 

Shane glanced around the room, and when he met Ilya’s gaze, his eyes widened. Ilya could almost physically feel Shane taking in his disaster of an appearance, reading him like he’d read a tricky route. When he turned around and sat down, Ilya was surprised by how relieved he felt. Shane was okay. They’d looked in each other’s eyes, which was more contact than they’d had in two weeks, and while Shane hadn’t exactly seemed happy to see him, there wasn’t any anger in his eyes either. 

Ilya’s phone buzzed and he dug for it in his coat pocket. 

Shane Hollander: 

Hey. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Oh, you are talking to me now? 

Shane Hollander:

Yeah, I am. I can go back to not responding though. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Please don’t

Shane Hollander: 

You look like you got run over by a truck.  

Ilya Rozanov: 

I also feel like I was run over by truck 

Can we talk today 

Shane Hollander: 

Yeah. I booked a room for myself so I wouldn’t have to share.

1217

Don’t come until I say. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Isn’t that my line 😈

After the team meeting, Ilya quickly deposited his luggage in the room he was assigned; he was sharing a room with Luca Haas, who was chattering a mile a minute without seeming to mind that all of Ilya’s responses were grunts of various inflections. They headed back out to a charter bus, which took them to the gym where the competition was being held. It was huge, bigger than the training center in the Olympic Oval, and was decked out with Canadian flags and larger than life posters of Canadian climbers. Ilya saw Shane blush and duck his head as the team walked by a poster of him — some kind of promotional photo where he was decked out in his Olympic outfit. Ilya had to force his legs to keep walking, knowing if he allowed himself to stop for even a moment, he would get lost in the memory of those plush, shiny lips or the way those eyes, which were narrowed sternly in the photo to give off an air of fierce competitiveness, could also crinkle up at the corners when Shane let out a rare, genuine laugh. 

They weren’t allowed to see the climbing wall itself since the problems for the comp had already been set, but they were checked in and briefed on procedures for the next day by a bubbly woman before being herded back onto the bus to a team dinner. Ilya sat in the back of the bus, headphones in, so he only noticed when they reached the restaurant that neither Shane nor Rose got off. 

Ilya Rozanov:

?

Shane Hollander:

Not yet. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Obviously not yet 

Team dinner

Where are you? 

Shane Hollander:

Having dinner with my parents. 

Ilya Rozanov:

And Rose? 

Shane Hollander:

And Rose. 

Ilya stuffed his phone back in his coat pocket and didn’t pull it out until after dinner. It was a nice place, French food, and Ilya made a point not to order much. The team decided to split the bill and cover the coach’s meal as a ‘thank you’, and when the waitress came to take Ilya’s debit card to add to the stack, he gritted his teeth so hard his molars ached. $580-something CAD left…

Back at the hotel, Ilya showered, dawdling while he waited for his phone to buzz. He thought about jacking off so he’d have a clearer head for talking to Shane, but then felt weird about Luca Haas being a door away, watching Ice Truckers and eating vending machine trail mix. When he had soaped every part of his body thrice, including his belly button and the back of his knees, he emerged and tapped his phone screen with a pruny finger. No new messages. 

He should have been focused on resting up for the competition. He should have been stretching his shoulder, maybe putting a warm compress on it, and getting to sleep even earlier than usual — after all, Montreal was 3 hours ahead of Vancouver. Instead, when his phone finally, finally buzzed at 10:30pm, he was up like a shot. Luca gawked at him from his bed, where he was on his side, scrolling blearily on his phone. Ilya stared back, opening his mouth as he racked his mind for an excuse, then simply turned on his heel and left.

Ilya Rozanov:

Here 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Being back at home had felt like putting on an old, worn-in pair of sweatpants. Maybe Shane had outgrown them just a little, but it was so comfortingly familiar, falling back into the routine: working out on the treadmill and hangboards in the garage like he had most mornings from age 13 to 19; eating three meals a day chosen by his nutritionist and painstakingly prepared by his mom; climbing at his old gym, where he was even asked to autograph a poster of himself that had been put up over the water fountains. 

What was new were his…nighttime activities. Being four thousand kilometers from Rozanov had been just far enough to get some perspective on everything that had happened, and he was feeling much more rational about it all. He had rifled through his bedroom closet until he found an old, half-filled English journal from high school, and he had jotted down some truths:

• Rozanov was bisexual, so he would probably always need to hook up with both women and men to feel fulfilled. Shane couldn’t hold that against him. 
• Rozanov wasn’t out. Being seen with women kept up his image as a typical, heterosexual Russian athlete. Expecting him to be exclusive to a man (which they hadn’t discussed anyway) was dangerous. 
• Rozanov was experienced. Shane would have to be insane to pass up the opportunity to have sex for the first time with someone who already knew about and accepted his sexuality and was willing to show him the ropes in a gentle, educational way. 
• Rozanov was really freaking attractive, and Shane couldn’t stop thinking about him, so something was better than nothing. 

With this list written out, Shane had felt more confident in his next steps than he had at any point since Paris. He asked to borrow the family car the first weekend he was home, and drove an hour outside the city limits, where he was sure he wouldn’t be recognized. He’d gone to a store called Pleasures n’ Treasures and made sure to pay in cash — he’d watched enough spy movies to know about leaving a paper trail. Back at home that night, after a rousing game of Scrabble that his mother won handily, he waited until he was sure his parents were asleep before pulling out a paper bag with the spoils of his journey: a small bottle of a well-reviewed brand of lube, a strip of condoms, and the most important item — a dildo. It was just about the length and girth of Rozanov’s cock, so Shane could practice until he was confident that he could take it comfortably. The dildo was deep purple in color, which Shane only realized with chagrin once he was home matched the color of his Crocs almost exactly. It was pretty life-like, with a prominent head and veins running up the length. He hadn’t been able to find one with a foreskin like Rozanov had, which he thought was a real hole in the market.  

Since that weekend, Shane had followed a nightly routine just as religiously as he followed his workout and meal plans during the day. He went through nearly the whole bottle of lube in a week (he should have gotten a bigger one, he realized, but he had wanted a quantity he could take back on the airplane back to Vancouver) practicing opening himself up and getting the dildo inside. The angle was always a bit tricky, so he never really got the electric bolts of pleasure he had felt when Rozanov’s fingers had been inside him, crooking insistently — but that was fine, these sessions were really more about building experience and physical tolerance than they were about pleasure. 

A few nights in, Shane had realized there was more practice he could do. Again, waiting until his parents were definitely asleep, he washed the dildo extensively in the bathroom sink before returning to his room and pulling up the incognito browser on his laptop. Eyes fixed on a tutorial video, Shane taught himself to deep throat like there was going to be an exam. He didn’t even get hard while he watched clip after clip of different men and women having their mouths used and their throats fucked. His focus was on being good at this, being the best. It was only when he turned a video off a few days later and closed his eyes, gliding his lips and tongue up and down the shaft and imagining Rozanov panting above him, that he was suddenly rock hard and quivering. 

The morning of the drive to Montreal with his parents, Shane made sure that his paper bag was rolled up in a towel and stuffed deep in his suitcase. As usual, his dad drove and his mom sat in the backseat with him, singing along to the radio and playing silly road trip games, a custom they’d had since he was in elementary school and developed a near-debilitating fear of getting carsick. Shane had offered to take the train, but his parents had insisted that they would enjoy a day trip to Montreal and besides, they wanted to take Rose out to dinner for being a supportive friend. Shane acquiesced, and he was privately glad for the distraction so he didn’t spend the entire trip running through his talking points for Rozanov in his head. 

He had a whole plan, and it only fell apart a little bit when he saw Rozanov in the conference room, looking miserable and like he hadn’t slept in days. A bitter part of Shane whispered that he had probably been out clubbing, maybe fucking some girl until all hours of the night. But deep down, he knew this wasn’t true; he’d gotten each of Rozanov’s increasingly desperate texts, and when their eyes met for the first time in weeks, Rozanov’s expression was brimming with that same pent-up desperation. A team meeting wasn’t the place for an anguished staring contest, so Shane wrenched his eyes away and internally resolved to only summon Rozanov to his room when it was late enough that there could be no hanging around afterwards.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Shane opened the door of room 1217, it was Ilya’s turn to stand frozen in a doorway, shifting from foot to foot in an unusual display of discomfort and uncertainty. Shane stepped to the side and tilted his head to invite Ilya in, leaving just enough space that their clothes gently brushed up against one another. Ilya found his pulse already racing, thumping in his throat.  

Shane turned and walked to the bed, sitting stiffly on the edge, hands clasped between his knees. Ilya wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Sitting on the bed next to Shane felt like it would be moving too fast after weeks apart, but at the same time, all he wanted was to be close to him, to feel the heat and presence of him. He settled on leaning against a wall.

“Can you sit down or something?” Shane’s eyes had a fierce resolve, but Ilya caught the quiver in his voice. 

Ilya walked a few steps closer and perched against a desk across from the bed.  

“I have some things I want to say,” Shane began, “and I’d appreciate if you let me get through them. Then you can go. Okay?” 

Ilya’s heart rate picked up even more, which he hadn’t thought was possible. It felt like he’d reached the top of a cliff and had just realized he wasn’t tied in to anything. 

“Okay,” he choked out. 

The room was silent for a moment. 

“I think we should have sex.” 

“Hollander, what —!” That was quite possibly the last thing Ilya had expected Shane to say. Shane shot him a warning glance and Ilya snapped his mouth shut. 

“I’m not saying I want anything more than what we were already doing. You can hook up with women — you should, even. You can hook up with whoever you want.” 

“But—”

Shane barreled ahead. “It’s not safe for anyone to know we’re doing this, so we’ll be more discreet than before. We won’t talk at the gym. We definitely won’t hook up at the gym. Nobody will know besides Rose, and she promised me she won’t tell.” 

“Shane—” 

“You can talk in a minute, Rozanov. Okay, um…” Shane had lost his place in the bullet points. Right, experience. “You’re good at this stuff, and I’m not. You make me feel good, and I want to…I want to be good for you.” Shane swallowed thickly and raised his eyes to meet Ilya’s. “So, yeah. Not tonight, because I don’t want to be sore before beating your ass in the comp. But tomorrow, I want you to fuck me.”

Ilya’s mouth was dry. If he was a cartoon character, he would have plucked his eyes out, shone them on his shirt, and popped them back in to make sure he was actually here, in Shane’s hotel room in Montreal, having the most baffling conversation of his life. 

“Okay, your turn,” Shane said, sighing with what sounded like deep relief. 

For all the times Ilya had texted Shane in the past couple weeks asking to talk, his mind was suddenly blank. He scrambled for how to respond. There were so many things he wanted to correct, to clarify, to ask. Instead, what came out first was—

“I didn’t go home with that girl.” 

Shane let out a small scoff, like that didn’t matter at all. It prickled somewhere in Ilya’s chest that Shane was being this blasé. 

“I didn’t! I…chyort, I was going out of my mind the whole time you were gone.” 

“Well, I’m here now,” Shane replied easily, his voice dropping seductively. 

Ilya’s heart lurched, but something felt wrong — off. He tried again. 

“I like you.” 

Shane let out another scoff, paired with an eye roll that looked almost fond. “You don’t like me, Rozanov.”

“Yeah, I do, Shane…” 

It hadn’t gotten past Ilya that Shane hadn’t said his first name all day. He felt a chill at the insistent use of his last name — his father’s name, his brother’s name — and the refusal to speak the name his mother had given him. She hadn’t chosen a name of masculinity and strength like the one chosen for his brother, Alexei. She had given him a name of devotion. The Lord is my God. 

Ilya reached up and pressed his mother’s cross into his sternum. “I think I like you maybe a little too much,” he said, quiet enough that it was almost to himself. 

Ilya had the strange feeling that he was part of a scene but was saying the lines wrong. How was Shane able to be so calm and removed, almost unfeeling? And yet…he was here. He’d invited Ilya to his room. He’d said Ilya made him feel good, and that he wanted to make Ilya feel good too. And wasn’t that what Ilya wanted? To use his body and shut off his mind and in doing so, make other people happy? 

Shane got up from the bed and carefully closed the space between them. When they were barely an inch apart, in that slowing of time that came with the charged moment before, Shane placed his hand on Ilya’s chest, just over his heart.  

“Okay,” Shane said, tilting his chin up just barely to look Ilya right in the eyes. “Okay, you like me. Will you let me show you how much I like you?” 

Before Ilya had time to process, Shane leaned in and kissed him hard. It was instantly unlike any of their previous kisses, where Ilya had held Shane’s jaw just so, set the pace, tried to read Shane’s body for hesitation or discomfort. Shane moaned as he sucked at Ilya’s bottom lip, and Ilya felt like he was barely keeping up. He tried to reach his hands up into Shane’s hair, but Shane pulled away, getting his fingers under the hem of Ilya’s shirt and jerking it up to his shoulders. Then he was pushing Ilya against the wall, his hand flat against Ilya’s taut abs; his mouth moved to Ilya’s neck, his tongue greedily swirling at the sensitive pulse point just behind Ilya’s ear. 

Ilya groaned. His head spun. He could feel his cock responding, pressing urgently against the fabric of his jeans, but the dizzying, conflicted feeling in his chest wasn’t going away. This felt different – not like the eager yet sweetly cautious Shane he knew, but someone else – a stranger pressed against his chest, nibbling at his earlobe. Reaching for his – fuck. 

Shane’s hand was on Ilya’s cock and Ilya responded instinctively, shoving his hips forward, begging for more friction. Shane’s hot breath was in his ear. “Rozanov,” he moaned, “I want to blow you… want you to fuck me… do whatever you want with me.” 

Ilya’s cock jerked involuntarily. “Fuck, Shane,” he murmured, kissing Shane’s cheek and neck. “I think maybe we should talk more first…” 

Shane didn’t seem interested in talking. The pressure fell away from Ilya’s cock suddenly, and Shane was on his knees looking up at Ilya with brown eyes dark with desire. “Please?” he said quietly.

Ilya had no restraint left, not when Shane was looking at him like he was the solution to all his problems. Ilya could only respond by begging in turn, “Da, pozhaluysta,” nodding and twitching his hips forward.

Shane yanked down Ilya’s pants and pressed his wet mouth against the head of Ilya’s cock through his underwear. For a moment he hovered there, licking and sucking Ilya, dampening his boxers. Then reverently, like he was praying at the altar of Ilya’s body, he pulled the waistband of Ilya’s boxers down and his cock sprang free.

Ilya reached down and curled his fingers in Shane’s black hair, pulling his head back gently, dizzy at the sight of Shane’s soft, freckled face so close to his cock. “Shane,” he said. “I want to make sure you are okay.”

Shane grinned up at him, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said. Then he surged forward and swallowed his cock so deep Ilya could feel the tight walls of his throat. He swirled his tongue around Ilya’s shaft, flicking at the head, his mouth working furiously. Ilya groaned, holding Shane’s head in both hands and staring down at him, transfixed by this man who wanted to give him everything.

“I want you to fuck my face,” Shane murmured, pulling back and sliding his tongue in a slow stripe from Ilya’s balls to the tip of his cock. He looked up at Ilya, eyes wide and earnest, pulling his shirt up and over his head without ever losing sight of Ilya’s face. 

The sight of his chest, smooth and waiting, his eyes blown wide with arousal, did something deep inside Ilya’s gut. He reached for Shane’s head and pulled it onto his cock again, hard, holding his head still as he began to thrust feverishly into Shane’s mouth. “You want it like this, Shane?” Ilya panted, his heart hammering against his chest so hard he was sure Shane could hear it. “You like being good for me?”

Shane groaned, saliva spilling messily out of the side of his mouth, his tongue laving over Ilya’s dick as it pistoned in and out of his mouth. His moan vibrated Ilya’s cock and the stimulation was almost overwhelming, so much so that Ilya pulled out for a moment, gasping.

Shane knelt in front of him, his face flushed, his mouth hanging slightly open. But his eyes were dark and wild. “Do it harder,” he said, his voice rough and needy. “I can take it, Rozanov.”

Ilya tapped his cock against Shane’s cheek, then along his lips, buying time, trying to get a hold of himself. Shane’s mouth felt so fucking good — better than last time, better maybe than Ilya had ever had before. And Shane was asking for it, begging for it with tears at the corners of his eyes. He was asking Ilya to give him this. 

Shane’s eyes fluttered closed, and he stuck out his tongue, patient and ready. Ilya swore and thrust in, hard. Then again. And again. “Just like that, Shane,” he murmured, running his fingers mindlessly through Shane’s hair. “You are perfect. Perfect mouth for my cock.” 

Shane’s eyes opened wide, glazed over with lust, and a single tear escaped down his cheek. Ilya felt a thrill of pleasure shoot through him at the powerful response to his words. “You like that, kotik?” he said, his cock slamming hard against the back of Shane’s throat. “Fucking made to suck my cock.”

Shane groaned and choked, his throat convulsing around Ilya’s cock, and the sensation was so strong that Ilya nearly came immediately. Shane was still looking up at him, tears spilling from his eyes now under the pressure of Ilya’s assault on his throat, but Ilya could see the fight in him still, the desire to be good, to win.

“I’m close,” Ilya gritted out, rolling his hips, grinding Shane’s face almost into his stomach. Shane let out a responding groan, his mouth so full of cock that he could hardly make a noise. “Fuck, fuck Shane –” and then Ilya came hard, his cock twitching and then exploding deep in Shane’s mouth, filling his throat with rope after rope of cum as Shane gasped and swallowed it down.

Ilya’s knees gave way and he was on the ground, still clinging to Shane, shudders still traveling through his legs and back. Shane’s face was flushed and wet, but he was smiling mischievously at Ilya, looking proud. The little shit.

In one motion Ilya lifted Shane around his armpits and pushed him up and onto the bed. His shoulder twinged in protest, but he didn’t care. “My turn,” he said, shedding his remaining clothes hastily before kissing his way down Shane’s chest, swirling his tongue around each nipple, moving down until he could slip Shane’s hard cock out from his joggers. God, Shane was wet – his cock had leaked all over his underwear and pants and was slick to the touch.

Ilya lowered his mouth over the head slowly, almost reverently, his right hand moving to cup Shane’s balls so gently that Shane gasped. “Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane said. He was half-sitting up on his elbows, eyes dark and lashes still wet with tears as he stared down at Ilya. “I wish you could fuck me right now. I know I could take it.” 

Ilya licked Shane’s cock delicately, then gave a quick stroke with his hand, watching his every facial tic and move. 

“We will make a deal,” he said softly, breath ghosting over Shane’s cock. “If you win gold tomorrow, I will blow you, fuck you, whatever you want.” 

Shane’s cock twitched in Ilya’s grasp, and he threw his head back. “And if you win?” he breathed.

Ilya surged upward and kissed Shane desperately, tasting himself there, drinking in the muffled sounds of Shane’s pleasure as he pumped his fist. How had he gotten so lucky? Shane fucking Hollander, so competitive and so skilled and so fucking earnest in his belief that Ilya would be right there with him, together at the top. 

Ilya brought his mouth down again, swiftly bobbing up and down until he felt Shane’s cock harden even more in his mouth. “Rozanov,” Shane sputtered. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna come –”

Ilya swallowed the hot cum that spilled into his mouth. He felt dizzy, heady, as though waves of what they had just done were spilling out of him. He laid his cheek against Shane’s warm thigh. As soon as his heart rate settled, he would climb up the bed to Shane and hold him for a while. Then they could shower together, or Ilya could just bring a warm washcloth over, once he was able to use his legs again. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if Ilya fell asleep here... After all, it was on a different floor from the team. Nobody would see them emerge together in the morning. 

But Shane was already pulling away, scooting back on the bed and pulling up his sweatpants, running his hands over his knees awkwardly. 

“I should get to bed,” Shane said, quickly. “The comp tomorrow, you know…”

“What?” Ilya said dumbly, his head still hazy. 

“It’s late,” Shane said, and when Ilya didn’t respond, added, “This was fun though.” 

Ilya’s mouth suddenly tasted acrid. He swallowed hard and moved off the bed, picking up his discarded clothes and pulling them on mechanically. Shane watched him from the bed, hands folded together. 

When he was fully dressed, he looked at Shane once more. Shane looked back with a small, somewhat sad smile. 

“Goodnight, Shane.”

“Night, Rozanov.”

Ilya felt strangely like he was controlling a video game character as he took the elevator down and padded back to his room. Fortunately, Luca was out cold, snoring lightly with his mouth open. Ilya suddenly felt incredibly depleted, tired down to his bones. He’d shower tomorrow morning. For now, he slipped in between the cold hotel sheets as quietly as possible. 

For all his exhaustion, Ilya didn’t fall asleep quickly. He stared at the ceiling, for minutes or hours, with unease coiling in his chest. Shane on his knees, tongue out, tears leaking from his closed eyes. Shane begging him to go harder, moaning at Ilya’s filthy praise. Shane…

When Ilya finally slept, it was with a hotel pillow curled close to his chest, his chin tucked securely on top, imagining he was holding onto a warm, freckled body.

Chapter End Notes

Who do you feel sadder for? Who do you think will take gold at the comp? Everyone doing okay after that sex scene?

Chapter 11: Montreal, Part 2

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

The Montreal comp, and the outcome of the bet

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the long delay in posting! Life has been life-ing us, but as recompense there will be another chapter out in 2 days.

Recommended watching along with this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QVkppNWQFEU
Watch Mejdi Schalck finish the first climb at like 28:30. That's Climber!Ilya right there. There isn't a perfect comparison for Climber!Shane because I imagine his climbing style to be the most like Ai Mori, but out of this particular comp stream I would say watch Sorato Anraku finish the same climb around 45:30

CEC NATIONAL BOULDER CHAMPIONSHIP - MONTREAL 2026 LIVESTREAM 

Two commentators, Matt Groom and Alannah Yip, speak back and forth over live competition footage:

Matt: Russia’s Ilya Rozanov is stepping up to the fourth and final boulder, waiting to be given the go-ahead that his time has begun. As a reminder, he is currently residing in Canada, so he has been given special allowance by the CEC to participate in this national competition. 

Alannah: It’s been a good comp for him so far, with three tops. However, this can also be said for Hollander, so the medals will all come down to this final climb — possibly down to number of attempts if both climbers manage to top this problem. 

Matt: Scott Hunter has already made sure that he will take at least the bronze, but the gold and silver are Rozanov and Hollander’s to take if they can both top this problem. 

Alannah: That’s right. 

Matt: All right, five minutes are on the clock.  Rozanov has pulled on and is moving confidently through. 

Alannah: The start of this problem is a very commit-y double-clutch move, and it’s a tiring one as well, so these climbers are going to want to use their attempts as efficiently as possible. I know that’s how I felt back in my competition days. 

Matt: That’s what I’ve heard as well! Ooh and he’s back on the mat. As we mentioned earlier, Rozanov does appear to have KT tape on his shoulder, which indicates that he has an injury or strain of some kind. 

Alannah: Now, Rozanov is back at the point where he fell on his first attempt and…he moves past it, and on quickly to the next sequence. 

Matt: He certainly looks determined! Rozanov has control of the zone now and has managed to find a knee bar to give himself a moment to shake out! 

Alannah: We haven’t seen any of the previous climbers shake out here -  then again, Rozanov is the tallest climber in today’s comp, so it may be the length of his leg that allows for the knee bar. 

Matt: He’s taking a bit of time shaking out — clearly he wants to make this attempt count and avoid having to do that starting move again. As we’ve seen, this last series of moves can be quite intense on the right shoulder, which Rozanov can’t be happy about. 

Alannah: Rozanov is back in action, and he makes the move out of the zone hold look almost effortless. 

Matt: Here comes the shoulder section…he’s placed his palm for the push, and that close up just showed how chalked up the hold has gotten from the past few climbers. Ohhhhh and he’s down on the mat again. 

Alannah: That’s a nasty fall. It looks like he’s in a lot of pain, holding onto his shoulder.

Matt: One minute fifteen seconds left on the clock — will he go for one more attempt? Yes, he’s waving off the medical staff and chalking up. 

Alannah: Back on the wall, and he’s moving very quickly through these first moves. He takes the zone and does not appear to be stopping to shake out here, which he chose to do last attempt. He sticks the palm press — let’s see if he can make it through the push this time. Yes, there it is, he’s fully extended now and has gotten one hand on the finish hold. 

Matt: 10 seconds left on the clock. 

Alannah: Will he be able to maintain tension to match hands? 

Matt: YES! 

Alannah: And there’s that classic Rozanov yell! 

Matt: That was a powerful top. 

Alannah: He’s waving to the crowd, but he does seem to be a bit more subdued than usual — maybe that shoulder is still giving him trouble. 

Matt: And here’s a close up — looks like he’s pulling out a necklace and giving it a kiss. You don’t see a lot of climbers who wear jewelry since it can be a hazard, but competitors are allowed to wear it as long as it’s minimal. 

Alannah: And there’s something you don’t see every day — Rozanov is heading back to the holding area and Hollander is on his way to the fourth problem, but he seems to be stopping to offer a handshake to Rozanov. 

Matt: These two may be fierce rivals on the wall, but Shane Hollander is known as one of the most sportsmanlike competitors in professional climbing. 

Alannah: If they speak to one another, that would violate competition rules, but it does look like Hollander has just given him a nod and is heading to be given the go-ahead from the judges. 

Matt: Okay, five minutes on the clock. Again, Hollander has topped all three of the previous problems, as did Rozanov, so the final place rankings will come down to number of attempts. He’ll need to finish this problem in two attempts or less to take home the gold today, since he struggled quite a bit on that second problem. 

Alannah: Wow, there he goes — Hollander has just done that tricky double-clutch like it was nothing! 

Matt: He’s moving very methodically, but there are some very reachy moves coming up, which may be difficult for a climber of his height. He does have a positive ape index, but he’s going to need every centimeter. 

Alannah: And he’s just taken control of the zone hold, not even a minute into his time! 

Matt: That’s right, and here’s that reachy move. He does seem to be hesitating. It looks like he’s going to attempt a toe hook here, which we saw Haas attempt earlier, though not successfully. Hollander has stuck the toe hook — 

Alannah: There’s a reason they call him Sticky Shane!

Matt: But he’s still having trouble getting a good position to get his left hand to that hold. Ooh. Down he goes to the mat. Still plenty of time, and he’s gesturing for the holds to be brushed. He’s chalking up and shaking out, and there he goes back onto the wall. 

Alannah: Looking good on the double-clutch move again, doesn’t even look too tired. 

Matt: Smoothly back to the zone, but now let’s see what he does with this reach. Remember folks, the gold is on the line here — he’ll need this to be his final attempt.

Alannah: And the crowd are definitely aware of this, not sure if you can hear it on the livestream, but they are going crazy! 

Matt: It looks like he’s trying the toe hook again but doesn’t quite like that position. He’s sizing up the next hold, which is quite good if he can get there — and, wow, that was quite a deadpoint! Look at that! 

Alannah: That is not Hollander’s usual static climbing style — it almost looked like something Rozanov would do! 

Matt: Maybe there is some cultural exchange going on over there in Vancouver. 

Alannah: (laughs) I guess so! 

Matt: Hollander is into that strengthy push move now, and the crowd is getting even louder! He is something of a favorite here in Montreal. 

Alannah: There he goes with the push — back to his usual, slow and steady style. 

Matt: It’s another reachy move to the finish — will we see him go dynamic again? 

Alannah: No, it looks like we’re seeing a bit of a beta break here! 

Matt: There’s a close up now, and we can see he’s making use of a bolt hole to get a slightly higher foot.

Alannah: Not something we’ve seen any climber attempt at this section of the climb! 

Matt: He’s standing up carefully on it, looks like it is going to stick — 

Alannah: Yes! He’s got the top and he is holding on there with both hands, just to really make sure the judges see that he has control! 

Matt: Wow, what a finish that was! 

Alannah: It is often said that Shane Hollander has one of the highest climbing IQs out there.

Matt: Well, that gives us our medal order — Hollander with gold, Rozanov with silver, and Hunter taking bronze. In just a few minutes we will have all the male competitors out here for the medals to be officially awarded, and then a brief break before we return with the women’s category! 

--------------------------------------

Ilya was being assessed by competition medical staff when he heard the raucous cheers for Hollander. He had topped the problem, that much was clear. Ilya hadn’t been able to tell from the audience reaction exactly how many attempts it had been, especially since this doctor woman wouldn’t stop maneuvering his shoulder, sending bolts of pain down to his elbow and up his neck. 

Fuck, he had never wanted to win a competition so badly before. He needed this money. He felt sick to his stomach, and he tried to breathe slowly through his nose so he wouldn’t retch from the combination of stress and pain. 

Shane came back through the curtain, flushed and grinning. Ilya was over in a corner with the doctor, and he watched as Shane scanned the holding area. When their eyes met, Shane’s grin grew wider, impish. Ilya raised his eyebrows questioningly in return, but Scott and Luca were on Shane in the next moment, slapping him on the back and conversing in tones just quiet enough that Ilya couldn’t make it out. 

“Mr. Rozanov?” 

There was a note of irritation in the doctor’s voice, and Ilya realized that this was probably not the first time that she had attempted to call for his attention. He turned to her repentantly. 

“Da, yes, sorry. I am listening.” 

“So, my examination is done. You’ll need to follow up with your team doctor and likely with an orthopedic surgeon as well, but my assessment at this time is that you have a SLAP tear — a superior laboral tear from anterior to posterior. It’s possible that you also have biceps tendinitis, since you noted pain going down the arm; these are often comorbid diagnoses. This type of tear can be sudden, but it can also be caused over time from repetitive overhead activity.” 

The doctor pulled off her gloves efficiently, placing them in a small red container beside her chair. 

“Best case scenario will be at least a month of rest. Worst case scenario — well, I’ll let you discuss that with the team doctor. Any questions for me?”

Ilya blinked at her, trying to process the medical jargon delivered in rapid English while adrenaline still coursed through his body from his last climb. Biceps, pain, repetitive overhead activity…yes, he was a professional climber. This didn’t exactly tell him anything new. But tear. At least a month of rest. Those were scary, new words. Those were words that could mean surgery, mean the end of a climbing career. The nausea in Ilya’s stomach turned to cold, heavy dread. He couldn’t afford surgery. He couldn’t afford to rest. He pushed to his feet and took a step away from the doctor; her mouth was moving but he had static in his ears. 

Worried eyes snapped up to him as he gripped his elbow close to his chest, stabilizing his shoulder as best he could. Haas, Hunter… Where was Hollander? Oh, there, his back to Ilya, talking to the clipboard lady. If they were alone, Ilya would collapse to his knees and ask Shane to hold him. No, no he wouldn’t. Shane needed him to be strong. He’d shown as much last night, the way he had begged for Ilya to be dominant, aggressive even. And then, the moment that Ilya had let himself weaken a fraction, seeking softness, Shane’s walls had shot back up. So, no, no collapsing allowed. Ilya tried to straighten up more fully, but pain shot through his shoulder and his vision blurred at the edges. The adrenaline was wearing off now, and Ilya swayed on his feet. 

Then, a hand was on his good shoulder. Ilya turned his head and a wave of relief washed over him when he saw who it was. Cliff. They had barely spoken this weekend with how preoccupied Ilya had been with Shane and his financial woes. But here he was now, this mountain of a man with large, rough hands, guiding Ilya gently like a lost child, using his body to block out the hubbub of the holding area. 

“You okay, brother? What’d the doctor say?” 

“A tear…” Ilya murmured, “bad, I think.” 

Cliff grunted in understanding, shaking his head. 

“Fucking sucks, man. At least you’re getting a silver out of it.”

Ilya turned his eyes up to Cliff blearily. “Silver?” 

“Oh, yeah, I overheard Hollander say as much. He topped that last problem in two attempts. That kid is like a fucking robot built to send boulders! Seems like he wanted it extra bad this time, too.”

Now Ilya was sure he was going to vomit. The pain killer the doctor had given him fizzed acidicly in his nearly empty stomach. 

“Bathroom,” he choked out, turning to the exit of the holding area, and Cliff gripped his good shoulder and led him there. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rozanov didn’t make it back in time for the medals, which was a bit disappointing to Shane. They usually loved to rub their victories in one another’s faces, even when it was just comparing their lifting or running PRs or teasing each other about their IFSC Youth and Juniors rankings. They hadn’t had a chance to banter like that since Shane had gone home to Ottawa, and now that they were back on speaking terms, Shane had been excited to see that competitive sparkle in Rozanov’s eye again. It would have been even sweeter knowing that they were both thinking of their private bet and the night ahead. 

Shane hoped Rozanov wasn’t just being a sore loser. It was rare that any climber would have a reason to skip the awarding of medals, and Shane knew that Rozanov needed to be photographed wearing Arc’teryx clothing on the podium to fulfill his contract. Shane readjusted his Red Bull cap, a new one with the “Red Bull Gives You Wings” slogan embroidered on the front. Well, if Rozanov didn’t care about keeping his brand deal, it wasn’t on Shane to worry about it. 

The judges had finished presenting Scott Hunter with his bronze medal and smiling for photographs, and now the head judge stood between Shane and Scott, holding a silver medal and a wireless microphone. 

“In second place, with 98.7 points, Ilya Rozanov! Due to injury, his medal will be provided after the competition.” 

The judge held up the silver medal above his head and the crowd clapped politely, exchanging concerned murmurs. 

Shane’s mind stuttered and then skidded backwards through his memories of the past few hours. Ilya was injured that badly? He had seen him sitting next to the doctor in the holding area, but he had figured that was a routine assessment, since Rozanov’s shoulder had been acting up for weeks. Now that he thought about it, when they had shaken hands just before Shane’s turn on the final boulder problem, Ilya had looked pale, with a sheen of sweat on his brow. Shane had written it off at the time as being from regular exertion, but it definitely could have been more than that. Shit. He’d been so focused on winning their bet, he hadn’t really looked at Ilya all day. 

Shane nearly missed his own name being called out by the judges. He forced a smile onto his face and stepped forward, raising one arm in a wave. They were announcing his points, putting the medal on him, and suddenly he didn’t care about the competition at all. He needed to get to Ilya and make sure he was okay. 

As soon as the medal was around his neck and he’d shaken the judges’ hands, Shane bolted back to the holding area. He’d explain to his parents later, but he needed to see Ilya now. Darting through the curtains, all that was left in the room were empty folding chairs, a few gym bags, and scatterings of chalk. No doctor. No Ilya.  

Shane grabbed his bag and headed out the back side of the holding area, panic building in his chest, just barely holding himself back from sprinting. A few dark offices and storage closets and then, right around the corner, a locker room. 

Shane burst through the door and two heads whipped toward him. Cliff, sitting on a wooden bench, hunched over. Ilya seated on the floor against a bank of lockers, his arm cradled protectively to his chest, his face sallow and drawn. 

“Hollander,” he said brokenly. 

“Ilya,” Shane breathed. 

It took a while to convince Cliff to leave Ilya with Shane. Of course, he’d never really seen them interact more than competitive comments made in passing at the gym. But Shane was unshakeable when he set his mind to something, and Ilya silently nodded his agreement when Cliff looked over to him skeptically, so Cliff retreated from the locker room, warning Ilya that he would have his phone ringer on and would hunt him down if he didn’t get a call in the next hour. 

Once they were alone, Shane shuffled his feet, not quite sure what to do. Usually their positions were reversed: Ilya helping Shane after his concussion, Ilya making Shane eat, Ilya telling Shane what to do in the bedroom. Shane had gotten brief glimpses of Ilya’s emotions — his fear of lead climbing after his fall, the cracks in his voice when he talked about life in Russia — but most of the time he seemed completely confident and in control. Now, in Cliff’s absence, Ilya had curled further into himself, dropping his head down onto his knees.

Shane had been in that position many times, usually from anxiety and overwhelm rather than pain, so he tried to think of what his mom would do. He shot off a quick text, and then, tentatively, he sank to the floor facing Ilya’s uninjured side. Trying not to overthink, he pulled Ilya’s head from his knees and onto his shoulder. Ilya startled and tensed away like a stray dog, but Shane stayed put, his hand resting softly on Ilya’s hair. That was the key, the staying put, and after a minute the tension drained out of Ilya’s body and his head settled heavily onto Shane’s shoulder. Neither one said anything, but after a moment Shane cautiously laced his fingers into the sweaty curls at the nape of Ilya’s neck. His skin was feverishly hot, and he turned his face further into Shane at the gentle touch. 

They stayed that way a long time, long enough that Shane’s legs started to go cold and numb from the locker room floor. His body was beginning to ache from holding up part of Ilya’s weight, and then there was the fact that they had both climbed hard enough to win a gold and silver medal less than an hour ago. They needed to eat and take showers and roll out their muscles so they wouldn’t be even more sore tomorrow. 

When Shane finally pulled back, Ilya blinked at him like he was waking up from a dream. Then he frowned and straightened up, wincing. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I made you miss bus to hotel.” 

“It’s okay, I texted Coach. There’s another bus coming after the women’s comp is finished, but that’s not for a while. My parents are probably still waiting for me — they could give us a ride back to the hotel.”

“No, is okay,” Ilya said, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself up to standing, using the wooden bench for leverage. “I will wait for bus.” 

“Are you sure?” Shane asked skeptically, getting to his feet as well. “They could also take you to the hospital, or wherever you need.”

Ilya shook his head. “I need to make some calls anyway. Will tell Cliff that you did not murder me, maybe call physical therapist to say stupid tape does not work.” 

“I guess you’ll have to call your parents too. They might have seen what happened on the livestream. If it was me, my parents would be freaking out right now.” 

Shane was aiming for commiseration, but Ilya snorted and muttered something in Russian that he couldn’t understand. Shane’s immediate reaction was to bristle, maybe ask what Ilya had said that required hiding away in another language, but then Ilya’s eyes flicked over to his, the usually sharp gray-blue dulled by pain and melancholy, and any irritation was forgotten completely. 

“Will you come to my hotel room tonight?” Shane asked, the words coming out a little rushed in his desire to move on from whatever he had said to make Ilya even sadder. “We don’t have to…you know…anything.” 

Shane nudged Ilya’s foot with his own, gently, and waited until Ilya’s eyes met his again. “Even though I did beat you, like I said I would.”

Shane was pleased to see a tiny smile flicker on Ilya’s lips as he nodded. 

Shane didn’t wait until late at night to text Ilya this time. He ate a late lunch with his parents near the hotel — his mom designated it a cheat day in celebration of his gold medal, so they had pizza (she still dabbed the grease off his with a napkin). As soon as they dropped him off and departed back to Ottawa, Shane hopped in the shower to get himself very clean, and when he was satisfied, shot a text off to Ilya. 

Ilya knocked a little while later, while Shane was sitting with his legs curled under him in the hotel room’s stiff armchair, skipping through the livestream of the morning’s comp. He had watched the section with Ilya on the fourth boulder multiple times, paying particular attention to his fall and his insistence on still completing the climb. Stupid, Shane thought angrily, though he knew he probably would have done the same.  

Shane strode over to the door. He had opted to put on a flannel and a presentable pair of sweatpants, hoping the cozy outfit would communicate that he was just inviting Ilya over to hang out, maybe watch a movie or something. Ilya was injured, Shane reminded himself sternly, and then his mouth went dry as he opened the door. 

It wasn’t fair how sexy Ilya could look after a day like this. He had on faded jeans and a black ribbed tank top, with his right arm held in a maroon sling over top. His dark blonde curls were damp and a bit more chaotic than usual, and the color had returned to his face, though he still had dark bags under his eyes. 

Ilya seemed to notice Shane’s lingering gaze, because he smirked and said, “You look like you will eat me, like wolf in children’s story.”

“Shut up,” Shane retorted, hiding the familiar blush rising to his cheeks by stalking back into the hotel room. 

Once the door had clicked closed behind Ilya, Shane turned back to face him, hooking his thumbs in his sweatpants’ pockets. They stared at each other for a moment, until Ilya broke the tension by sitting on the bed and scooting himself up to lean against the headboard. He patted the space beside him with his good arm, like this was his hotel room and Shane was the guest. 

Shane snorted and joined him on the bed but didn’t recline, opting to sit cross-legged. He felt jittery, anticipatory, which he tried to rein in by grabbing a pillow onto his lap and fiddling with the care instruction tag. 

“So…what do you want to do?” Ilya said. 

It seemed like he was trying to be casual, but Shane noted the tension in Ilya’s voice. He was nervous too. Shane looked up from the pillow to meet Ilya’s eyes, and his hands stilled when he saw the expression — desire, but with something vulnerable just beneath. 

Shane had scoffed last night when Ilya said he liked him. It was easier to believe that Ilya only wanted to see him because it was a convenient way to get off, or maybe he was just curious about this strange climbing rival who was so different from himself. But here Ilya was, back in his bed for the second night in a row, even without the promise of sex. And he was asking Shane what he wanted to do, with a look in his eye that said whatever that was, he would do it — no longer a stray dog shrinking away from Shane’s touch, but a tamed one rolling over and exposing its stomach. 

Shane couldn’t help himself. He shifted forward and pressed his lips to Ilya’s gently. Even though they had kissed just last night, this felt entirely different. Last night, Shane had kissed Ilya like he had something to prove. This kiss felt as effortless and necessary as breathing, and Shane sighed contentedly as Ilya kissed him back, sucking his lower lip tenderly. 

They didn’t rush to press against each other like they usually would. Shane was cautious of Ilya’s shoulder, noting the way he winced just from turning his body more fully toward him. Ilya brought his good hand to cup Shane’s jaw, holding his face close even when they paused to breathe against one another’s mouths. In a moment between kisses, Shane looked down between them and saw Ilya’s other hand, the one cradled in the sling, clenching and loosening impotently. His dominant hand, Shane’s mind whispered, and Ilya’s jaw flexed tight when Shane reached out to ghost his fingers along his forearm through the rough material. 

Shane kept the pillow in his lap as a barrier, a physical reminder to himself that they had to take it easy, until Ilya removed his hand from Shane’s face and grabbed it away, tossing it sloppily behind him off the bed. He raised an eyebrow at the obvious erection pressed up against the seam of Shane’s sweatpants, and nodded to the space between them, inviting Shane closer. Shane uncrossed his legs and slotted against Ilya’s side, just close enough that their clothing touched, but he held all of his own weight. Ilya gave him a wicked smirk and hooked a heel around the back of Shane’s knee, yanking Shane’s leg over his lap. 

“Is just a bad strain, Hollander. I will not crumble apart if you touch me.” 

Shane’s dick was pressed firmly against Ilya’s thigh now, and it was getting hard to think rationally. He could see that Ilya was hard too, straining against his jeans, and when he lowered a hand to cup him lightly, Ilya let out a hiss and his cock twitched up into the contact. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” Shane murmured, looking up at Ilya coyly. 

Ilya quickly shook his head. “Mm, no. I will blow you.” 

Shane pulled his hand back involuntarily and his eyes snapped to Ilya’s face, confused and a bit embarrassed. He tried to keep the hurt from his voice when he asked, “Did I do something wrong?” 

“No, no” Ilya shook his head more vehemently. “I do want to, I — you can see how much I want to fuck you.” He nodded down to his tented lap with a low laugh. “It’s just, I don’t think I can do it how you want right now. Push you down, boss you around. I might not be able to even hold myself up over you that long.” 

He smiled ruefully, but Shane could tell there was real embarrassment beneath. 

“We don’t have to do it like that right now though,” Shane said, blushing hard and pulling his leg back from Ilya’s lap, wishing he still had the pillow tag to fidget with. 

“Oh?” Ilya replied, intrigued.  

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t always need you to push me around and be in charge. I like it when you do that because I can just do what you say, and then I know it’s the right thing to do. And… it feels nice when you tell me I did good. But it doesn’t have to be like that every time. I can…be in charge. If you want.” 

Ilya seemed genuinely surprised. His mouth was open a little, and his eyes scanned Shane’s face like he was cataloguing something important. He swallowed hard and nodded. 

“Okay. I want.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya watched Shane quietly process this change in dynamic, furrowing his brow in such adorable seriousness that Ilya would have laughed if his heart wasn’t already thumping in his throat. He’d seen this look on Shane’s face before, at comps, when they were given only a few minutes to look over multiple boulders and work out beta ahead of time. He was reading Ilya’s body like a route. The thought made Ilya shiver.

“We should get undressed,” Shane said, his voice quiet but clear. 

Ilya smiled. He believed in Shane’s ability to take the lead physically — after all, he’d been pretty aggressive the previous night, pressing Ilya up against the wall and sucking him off so forcefully that his knees had buckled — but he might need a little coaching on the verbal component. 

“We should?” Ilya purred, quirking an eyebrow. “What if I don’t want to?” 

“Oh! I, uh, that’s okay too—” Shane stammered, his eyes darting around as if searching for an escape route. 

Ilya cut him off by placing his hand on his chin, holding firmly. He slid a thumb over Shane’s lower lip and waited for Shane’s eyes to lock onto his. 

“Fucking make me, Hollander,” he murmured. 

Shane’s eyes darkened, the black of his pupils widening almost imperceptibly within the deep umber of his irises. With their eyes still locked, Shane got up off the bed and held out a hand to Ilya, guiding him to stand up as well. Without saying another word, he methodically stripped Ilya of his clothing. They moved in tandem to take off Ilya’s sling and pull off the tank top underneath, then loop the sling back around his neck, rough against Ilya’s bare skin. Ilya fumbled with the button on his jeans, frustratingly imprecise with his left hand, and Shane swatted his hand away, deftly unbuttoning and unzipping the pants and pushing them down off Ilya’s hips to pool on the floor. He knelt and pulled each of Ilya’s socks off. 

Shane turned and walked away a few steps. Ilya watched him curiously, staying perfectly still — until his mouth opened in a small gasp. Shane had grabbed an armchair from the corner and was dragging it to the end of the bed. 

When Shane had gotten it into a position he deemed satisfactory, he patted the back of the chair and locked eyes with Ilya, intoning, “Sit.” 

Ilya sat. 

Shane kept his eyes on Ilya’s as he reached up to his own chest, undoing each button of his flannel. He only broke eye contact to fold the flannel precisely, placing it on a low dresser. He followed this with his shirt and sweatpants, folding each and placing them in a tidy stack. 

Ilya could feel his chest rising and falling with how heavy he was breathing — panting like a dog, and they weren’t even touching. Maybe he would look pathetic to an outside observer, but something about the care Shane took with his belongings…it did something to him. 

Shane walked over to his suitcase, which was zipped neatly beside the bed, knelt, and opened it, digging through the contents until he produced a bulky, rolled up towel. He shot a warning look over his shoulder to Ilya before unrolling the towel and pulling out a paper bag, from which he produced a small bottle of lube and a long strip of condoms. He set them both on the bedside table. 

Ilya couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled out of his chest. “You think it will be enough?” 

Shane shot him a glare, and returned his eyes to his suitcase, stuffing the paper bag back in the towel and tucking it away, tidying the rest of the contents back into place. Ilya noticed Shane’s whole body pause for just a second, and then he looked back over his shoulder once more, as if assessing Ilya. Ilya was busy warring with himself internally over the fact that he was getting hard from watching Shane sort a suitcase, so all he did was raise his eyebrows as if to say Well?

Shane pulled something out of the bag, keeping it in front of himself so Ilya’s view was obscured. He zipped up his suitcase and crawled up onto the bed, adjusting a pillow behind him so he was propped up, his beautiful, toned legs pointing directly at Ilya in the armchair, one arm behind his back. When he was settled, he slowly pulled his arm out, opened his hand, and placed his gold medal around his neck.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed. 

It was a sexual fantasy and a nightmare rolled into one: the gold medal he had craved so badly for weeks, mere feet from him, around the neck of a man who was offering himself up like Ilya’s prize. His eyes jumped from Shane’s triumphant, mirthful face, to the medal glinting on his smooth, tanned chest, to the unmistakable bulge in his underwear, and he realized that this had been his fantasy, his first ever fantasy involving Shane, after taking silver at IFSC Juniors. He had imagined Shane on his knees, the gold medal around his neck, while photographers clamored for the best shot. Ilya moved forward, pressing on his good arm to stand up, but Shane’s eyes flashed and he enunciated the same word as before: 

“Sit.” 

Whoa. Ilya thumped back into the chair, surprised at Shane’s confident dominance. He was so damn coachable, Ilya mused — that surprise dynamic move at the comp this morning, and now this? Ilya was going to have to up his game once his shoulder was healed. 

Shane settled back against the pillows and began dragging his hand across his chest and up and down his legs, teasing himself slowly. There was still a little evidence of nerves, a tension in his shoulders and a tiny crease between his brows, but once he shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the pillows, his body relaxed and he began to respond naturally, sighing and wriggling just like he did when Ilya touched him. When he finally allowed his palm to brush over his hard cock, pressed up against the fabric of his underwear, he moaned lowly and his back arched into the contact. 

Shane opened his eyes, taking in Ilya’s reaction, and Ilya realized that he had unconsciously leaned forward and was gripping the chair’s arm so hard that his knuckles were white. Shane smiled a little smugly. 

“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya crooned, fighting for control. “Show me.” 

Shane shifted his hips and pulled off his underwear, his gaze communicating not obedience but rather the acceptance of a challenge. His eyes had gone even darker, like the glowing, smoldering embers of a fire.  

He balled up his underwear and threw it at Ilya, hitting him square in the chest. Ilya kept their eyes locked as he plucked the briefs up with his good hand and pressed them over his mouth and nose, inhaling. 

“Gross,” Shane exclaimed with a laugh. 

He snapped back into focus and grasped his own cock, giving it a languid pull and pausing at the tip to swipe a thumb over the precum beaded there. He spent a few long minutes stroking himself, his head tipped back on the pillow again, trailing his other hand over his body sensually. At one point, he opened his eyes and locked them with Ilya’s, then picked up the gold medal that hung around his neck and gave it a slow, nasty lick as he pumped his fist faster. Ilya felt like he could nearly faint from the rush of blood to the center of his body. 

Ilya was thrumming with desire, still gripping the chair arm, when Shane let out a deep groan and slowed his hand, gripping at the base of his stiff cock. Then, he reached for the lube. 

“Can I…?” Ilya said quietly. 

Shane looked at him with playful pity and shook his head as he squirted lube over his fingers. He ran the pads of his fingers over his hole, then pressed one inside. He shifted his hips slightly, getting his arm into the best angle to push his fingers in deep, and started a rhythm, adding another finger, more lube, and finally a third finger. Soon he was grinding down on his own hand, his face screwed up in pain and pleasure, huffing out little moans with every thrust inward. Ilya didn’t know if Shane planned to come like this, before they even touched each other, but he wasn’t even sure he would mind. Without thinking about it, he’d been rubbing his hard dick through his pants, grinding back and forth against his immobilized right arm, and tension was beginning to build. 

Shane slowed his hand, breathing heavily. He raised up on an elbow and met Ilya’s eyes blearily, looking utterly debauched. 

“Shane, I...” Ilya choked out. 

“Mm?” Shane responded, pressing back into himself slowly, his hips canting upward slightly. 

“I need…” Ilya’s mind was barely functioning; he couldn’t even remember if what he’d just said had been in English or Russian. 

Shane’s hand stilled fully and he removed his fingers with a wet noise. His eyes looked sharper now, like he was looking directly into Ilya’s soul. 

“What do you need?”

“You,” Ilya breathed. “I need you. Please let me fuck you.” 

Shane nodded benevolently, like a king allowing a peasant to approach the throne, but no sooner had Ilya risen to his feet than Shane pushed himself up and onto his hands and knees, crawling down the bed to nuzzle his face into the space between Ilya’s hard cock and hip bone. The position forced his back into an incredible arch, and Ilya silently thanked God for Shane’s daily yoga practice. Shane mouthed against Ilya’s cock through the thin, straining material, but Ilya was suddenly seized by an intense desire to have Shane’s mouth on his. He got his good hand under Shane’s armpit and hauled him up to his knees on the bed, kissing him deep and sloppy, threading one hand through his hair and tugging until Shane whined. He moved his hand to Shane’s chest and pushed, keeping their mouths together but urging him onto his back, and Shane was pliant under his hands.

“So good, Shane,” Ilya murmured against his mouth, feeling comfortable and powerful as they fell into their usual roles. “So fucking sexy, opening yourself for me.” 

He stood and pulled down his underwear, letting his cock spring free, fully hard and an angry dark pink. He shifted forward to put his good hand on the bed next to Shane, to move over top of him, but Shane got his hand up first, planting it against Ilya’s chest, over his heart, pushing him back up. 

“Lay down,” Shane said. Ilya scrambled onto the bed and lay on his back. He was so intensely turned on, he would have barked if that was the next thing Shane asked. 

Luckily, it wasn’t. Shane pulled his gold medal off and placed it on the side table, then moved over top of Ilya, straddling his waist and fitting their cocks next to one another. He rutted gently in a way that made Ilya’s toes curl, then reached over for the strip of condoms and tore one off, ripping it open carefully and rolling it down over Ilya’s rigid cock. Grabbing the bottle of lube again, he squirted it into his hands and slicked Ilya up torturously slowly. Ilya tried to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. 

Shane rose up onto his knees, placing one hand on the bed’s headboard and the other at the base of Ilya’s dick, and doubt suddenly cut through the aroused haze of Ilya’s mind. 

“Shane,” Ilya murmured urgently, seeking eye contact. “You’re sure you want to do this? And…like this? I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Shane rubbed the tip of Ilya’s dick against the rim of his hole and moaned. 

“Yeah, s’good,” he said, smiling beatifically, “this is how I practiced anyway.”

“Practiced?” Ilya asked, and Shane froze, his eyes snapping open and a blush rising instantly to his cheeks. 

“Oh, I uh…I bought a…thing. While I was home.” 

Shane’s hand was still on Ilya’s dick, and Ilya’s shoulders jerked as Shane worried his thumb along the underside mindlessly, like he’d toyed with the pillow tag before while they talked. 

“A thing?” Ilya said, wrinkling his forehead in genuine confusion. 

“A…dildo,” Shane said, blushing even darker. “Don’t make fun of me!” he complained, giving Ilya’s dick an aggressive squeeze. 

Ilya shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, no, no, never. Shane, that is so…blyat. When you were not texting me back, and I thought you would maybe never talk to me again, you were home buying dildo? And practicing with dildo? This is hottest fucking thing ever.” 

Shane snorted and shifted forward, rubbing Ilya’s dick against his hole again, pressing a little harder this time. “Well, I’ve got the real thing now, so if you don’t mind…?”  

Ilya didn’t mind. He tensed his abs as Shane lined himself up and began pressing down. He was so tight and hot that it verged on painful as the head of Ilya’s cock disappeared. Shane groaned as he lowered himself centimeter by centimeter, tilting his hips experimentally. 

When he was halfway down Ilya’s shaft, he shuddered and rocked forward. “I didn’t…mmm,” he moaned plaintively, pulling up and then sinking back down a little further. “It feels…”

“Tell me,” Ilya said, desperately trying to hold himself back from bucking upward, deeper. The tightness was no longer painful, just heavenly, mind-numbing pressure from all sides. 

“You feel so good,” Shane whimpered. “I thought it would feel the same, but…ah—” he broke off as Ilya’s hips snapped forward, hilting in the rest of the way. A surprised moan shot out of Ilya as he tried frantically to pull back, but Shane moaned louder and ground down, rolling his hips. 

It was purely animal, the way they moved together. Kotik was no longer the right name for Shane. He was pantera, he was puma, he was lev — proud king of the savannah. Ilya was close sooner than he wanted, but how could he not be? Shane was riding him properly now, chasing his own release, and occasionally leaning down to crush his mouth against Ilya’s sloppily. Ilya’s shoulder was getting jostled, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. In fact, the rhythmic twinges of pain caused by Shane’s rolling thrusts were quite possibly intensifying the pleasure, which was building out of control now. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya bit out in warning, planting his feet against the bed and gripping Shane’s hip tight with his good hand. 

Shane only rode him harder, moaning as he chanted out pleas, “Yeah, please, want it, in me, please.” 

“Come for me,” Ilya begged, tearing his hand from Shane’s hip to grasp his cock, and Shane cried out and clenched down, cum spilling over Ilya’s hand and onto his chest. Ilya’s brain short circuited and he came hard, grunting through gritted teeth as his muscles tightened and his hips pulsed forward without rhythm, distantly feeling pain burning in his shoulder from the contortion of his body. He twitched forward again and again, until all of his muscles finally relaxed, heavy and noodle-like.

Shane had already hunkered down over him, face buried in Ilya’s neck, trembling a little. Ilya craned his head around with a sudden fear that he might be crying, but his face was blissful. Ilya brought his hand up to Shane’s head and pressed so that their cheeks smushed together. 

After a few minutes, when Shane’s tremors had died down and Ilya could string together a few English words, he murmured “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Shane breathed into Ilya’s neck, then grunted quietly as he pulled off of Ilya’s softening dick. 

Shane flopped over to his back with a huff, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m freakin’ pumped,” he groused, massaging the forearm that had been pressing against the headboard. Ilya snorted and pulled the condom off a little sloppily, working one handed. Intuiting that Shane would never tolerate a used condom anywhere but a trash can, he pushed himself up off the bed and shuffled to the bathroom. 

When he emerged from the bathroom, toting a wet hand towel for Shane, he barked out a laugh — Shane had slipped the gold medal back over his neck and was laying with his hands behind his head, looking as content as can be. Ilya tossed the hand towel at him, which landed on his stomach with a wet plop. 

“We got the bed dirty,” Shane complained, wiping his chest and then grimacing as he slid the towel down between his lube-slicked thighs.

“You can come sleep with me and Luca,” Ilya replied, waggling his eyebrows and clambering back into bed. “Also, you can not talk to me about dirty for at least 24 hours. You licked medal at me!” 

Shane scrunched his nose, “I did do that, didn’t I…”  

Chapter End Notes

Well, how did you like my little remix-of-a-remix ;)

Chapter 12: Brothers

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Returning to Vancouver.

See end notes for translations of Russian! I am still taking a sort of vibes-based approach for when I put things in Cyrillic vs. writing it out in English and putting it in italics, so...sorry for that if it bothers you.

And shout out to Change Your Win Conditions for one particular moment.

Chapter Notes

Ilya was grateful that Luca didn’t ask any questions when he got back to their hotel room that evening, just waved sleepily from where he was tucked into bed playing on his Switch. Ilya was less grateful when he got down to hotel breakfast at 8am and Cliff was waiting with two cups of black coffee in front of him and raised eyebrows, looking like he had questions that Ilya did not want to answer. 

Ilya dawdled as he picked over the selection of baked goods, finally selecting a blueberry muffin that looked relatively fresh. It was actually a good thing that Cliff got his coffee already, since he currently only had use of one hand. When he could delay no longer, he walked over and plopped down across from Cliff. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said innocently, putting his muffin aside and sliding one of the mugs of coffee to himself. 

Cliff grunted skeptically. “We going to talk about yesterday?”  

“What do we need to talk about? I win silver, very impressive for guy with fucked up shoulder.” He took a sip of the coffee just for something to do and burned the hell out of his mouth. “Ay, ебать, they brew this coffee in fucking volcano?” 

“Mhm,” Cliff grunted, unamused. He waited a beat, and when Ilya didn’t offer anything more, said, “So you and Hollander are close?” 

“Not really,” Ilya hedged, scrambling for an excuse. “I think he felt bad for beating me, maybe knows I could have used the prize money.” 

Actually, Ilya had made absolutely sure not to mention his money issues to Shane. No need to stress him out with something he wouldn’t understand.  

“So that private locker room time had nothing to do with —”

“Cliff,” Ilya warned, not liking where this was going. 

“—with Luca Haas telling everyone at breakfast earlier that you showered before you left your hotel room, and then again as soon as you came back?”

“I was…working out.” Ilya offered meekly, not even really trying to be convincing at this point. 

“After a competition. With your arm in a sling.” 

Ilya shrugged, then winced as his shoulder protested. 

“You know,” said Cliff, “my sister is gay. Has a girlfriend and everything, back in Toronto.” 

“Thank you for sharing. It is good thing she is not from Russia, where they are not so nice to gay people.” 

Ilya took another sip of his coffee — still scalding hot but at this point he desperately needed the caffeine — and gave Cliff a look that he hoped communicated please do not make me be any clearer than this in a hotel dining room at 8am.  

Thankfully, Cliff took the hint and dropped it, changing the subject to a shoulder injury he had gotten years before while on a multi-day climbing trip in Niagara. They finished out breakfast and the ride to the airport in easy chatter, and only once Ilya was buckled into his seat on the plane did he finally let his hackles down enough to appreciate that Cliff, the closest thing he had to a brother in Canada, seemed to genuinely not care about his sexual preferences. He leaned his head against the cool window and slept for the entire plane ride. 

Ilya was reminded just how different his relationship with his actual brother was the next afternoon, after a terrible meeting with the team doctor and physical therapist. The doctor had said that surgery was likely to be necessary due to the severity of the tear, and the physical therapist had scolded Ilya for continuing to climb on it when it was hurting so badly. Ilya had pressed his lips tight together and nodded repeatedly, when what he really wanted to do was scream at both of them that the only chance he’d had to make anywhere near enough money to pay for a surgery would have been winning the comp, so what did any of it fucking matter? 

That scream was still held in Ilya’s chest, crowding his lungs and making his breaths come fast and shallow, when Alexei’s name appeared on his phone. Ilya declined the call, and a text came through almost immediately. 

Alexei Rozanov:

2000 dollars

Ilya Rozanov:

I don’t have it

And I sent $500 already 

Alexei Rozanov:

I’ve seen the posts on Instagram with your new clothing and nice apartment. You have it. 

Ilya Rozanov:

What did you do with the $500 I sent? Snort it up your nose already? 

Alexei Rozanov:

Maybe I should tell your sponsor just how much you’ve snorted up yours

Ilya Rozanov:

I will send $500 

How is Papa

Alexei Rozanov:

What is it with you and Papa? 

He’s fine. 

We are fine without you. 

Хватит тебе вести себя как сука

Ilya sent the $500 through the payment portal, not even looking at how much was remaining in his account, and then quickly clicked into a different chat. The pressure in his chest was threatening to choke him now, and he could think of one thing that always gave him some relief.

Ilya Rozanov:

Howdy 

Shane Hollander:

? 

Ilya Rozanov:

Is what you say to cowboy, no? 

Shane Hollander:

I mean, yeah? 

Ilya Rozanov:

You ride me so well 

Твоему жеребцу нужен ты 

Afterwards, sweaty and spent with Shane’s fancy white sheets wrinkled beneath him, Ilya’s breathing had steadied. So he wasn’t even looking for trouble when Shane re-entered the bedroom, scrubbing at his wet hair with a fluffy towel, and Ilya asked, “So, what are you going to do with five thousand dollars?” 

“What?” Shane asked, opening a drawer and pulling out a fresh pair of boxer briefs, identical to the ones he’d been wearing before (except for the pre-cum on the ones crumpled at the foot of the bed).

“The prize money, from the comp,” Ilya clarified, watching the muscles in Shane’s back flex as he bent to step into the underwear. 

“Oh,” Shane replied lightly, hopping back into bed and snuggling under Ilya’s good arm, “I hadn’t really thought about it. It’s not that much, but I guess my mom’ll invest it for me. Why?” 

Ilya knew he shouldn’t say more, that he was pushing on a bruise, but he couldn’t help himself, “Not that much? And what would be that much to you? Fifty thousand? Five hundred thousand?” 

“I mean, yeah,” Shane said, craning his neck to look at Ilya oddly. “Those would be enough to, like, put a down payment on a house. Five thousand is kind of a drop in the bucket.”

Ilya didn’t know the idiom, but he got it well enough for it to piss him off. The pressure in his chest was back, just as oppressive as it had been after texting with Alexei. He struggled to push himself to a sitting position, using his right elbow because Shane’s head was on his left arm, which sent a bolt of pain through his shoulder so quick and searing that he gasped. 

Shane scrambled off of him. “Careful of your shoulder!” he said, voice shrill with concern. 

“Yes, I know. I may speak English like idiot, but I am actually not,” Ilya snapped back. 

“You don’t—”

“I need to go,” Ilya said, getting up from the bed. What he really needed was to hit something, or maybe cry, but he wasn’t going to do either of those things in front of Shane. 

“I know your shoulder hurts, Rozanov, but you don’t have to be an asshole,” Shane grumbled. 

“FUCKING CALL ME ILYA OR DON’T CALL ME ANYTHING AT ALL,” Ilya shouted, louder than he meant to, loud enough that Shane startled and went quiet.

The silence stretched while Ilya struggled back into his underwear and pants one handed. He pointed to his shirt, which was over on Shane’s side of the bed; they had taken the time to get it out from under his sling while still in the dry-humping stage an hour or so ago. Ilya yanked it over his head and got his left arm in a sleeve, pulling the other side down over top of his sling. It looked odd, but Shane’s apartment was feeling more claustrophobic by the moment. 

Shane walked with Ilya to the door, and Ilya groaned when he saw his next challenge. He had toed out of his shoes while they were still laced in his haste to get his mouth on Shane’s when he arrived to the apartment, and now he was seriously contemplating walking out into the chilly November drizzle without them to avoid the embarrassment of having to get them unlaced, on, and laced back up again. 

Wordlessly, Shane got down on one knee and untied the laces of one shoe, sliding it over to Ilya to step into. When Ilya had done so, Shane tightened and tied the laces neatly, then repeated the process with the other shoe. Finally, he looked up from the floor at Ilya, his expression cautious. 

Ilya didn’t know what emotions could be read on his face right now, but what he felt the strongest was shame. Shame, for yelling like his father yelled all throughout his childhood, and even greater shame that Shane could experience that outburst and still kneel before him. That Shane would be gentle to him when he didn’t deserve it, like his mother had been gentle to his father, until she had given him everything. Until it killed her. 

Ilya looked away, put his hand on the doorknob. 

“I’m sorry,” he said miserably, speaking to the door. Shane stood slowly and placed a hand on Ilya’s chest, over his heart.

“Ilya,” he whispered, and the stress wasn’t quite how it would be said in Russian, but it sounded more perfect on his tongue than on anyone else’s. 

Ilya kissed him, tasting his name, and then pressed their foreheads together to whisper back, “Shane.” 

Feeling suddenly wrung out by the ups and downs of the day, he let Shane help him back out of his shirt so they could get his sling arranged correctly over it. He felt like a child, or maybe a doll, as Shane tucked him into his coat as well, and then retrieved a scarf and wrapped it around his neck, nodding to himself in satisfaction at the complete effect. The disappointment and anger and shame of the day weren’t gone, but another feeling had crept in quietly — one Ilya wasn’t brave enough to put a name to just yet. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday evening, five days post-comp, Shane was in his kitchen portioning out meal prep containers — brown rice, salmon, and spinach, with furikake sprinkled on top for crunch — when he got the call. 

Ilya Rozanov

They never really called each other. Flirty texts, yes. Suggestive pictures, sometimes, but only from Ilya to Shane, never the other way around…yet. But a phone call — Shane figured it must be something bad. He picked up before the phone had even vibrated a second time. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. No time for a greeting. 

“Shane,” Ilya said, his voice quiet and tired. “Yes, I’m okay. Well, I don’t know. Not good. Probably bad. But safe, I’m not hurt.”

He paused, and Shane held off as long as he could (about 2.5 seconds) before prompting further.

“Are you sick? Or like, is it something with your family?”

“Sort of. I… I’m going home in three days.” 

Shane’s barrage of questions was effectively stopped short. He pushed away the glass container he’d been spooning rice into so he could lean heavily on the kitchen island. 

“I had a meeting with Coach and the team doctor,” Ilya continued. “I got checked out today, by specialist, and he said I do need surgery for my shoulder. After surgery, it will be 6 weeks of rest, maybe 6 more of rehab before I can climb hard. If I want to compete in World Cup, I need to do surgery soon, and there’s no way I can pay for it here.”

“But Canada has universal health care,” Shane protested. 

“Not when you are on visa,” Ilya replied, his voice calm and sure. Resigned. 

“The doctors in Canada are really good though,” Shane tried again, knowing he sounded like a petulant child. “We’ll figure out a way for you to pay.” 

Ilya sighed. “It’s not just my shoulder. I need to be there for my family. My father.” 

“But—” 

“Shane,” Ilya said, his voice harder now, bitterness licking his words like a flame. “I was never going to stay here. You knew that. Please don’t make this harder than it already is.” 

Shane jabbed the mute button and gasped in a shaky inhale. He sank down to sit against the kitchen cabinets, pressing fists against his closed eyes as he choked out a few more stuttering breaths. He was glad that they weren’t having this conversation in person, since what he was doing would definitely count as making things harder. He could hear Ilya’s voice coming out of the phone where it lay on the countertop, saying his name — it sounded tinny and distant, like he was already an ocean away. 

They were supposed to have more time. Months. Until the World Cup started, at least, and Shane had thought that after that…well, there had to be ways to extend a visa. Shane had wasted so much of the time they’d had, running off to Ottawa — Ilya couldn’t just leave now, when they’d fixed things. 

Besides, Shane thought angrily, it wasn’t safe for people like them in Russia, — Ilya had said that himself. It didn’t even seem like Ilya liked Russia. There had to be a way…asylum, adoption? But even as his mind spun through options, plans, he knew that Ilya wouldn’t agree to any of them. He had said three days, and that meant he had probably booked plane tickets already. It would waste even more of their little remaining time to argue about courses of action Ilya was never going to take. 

Shane stood slowly and picked up his phone. It was dark now — Ilya had ended the call. That made sense; Shane didn’t even know how long he’d been on the floor counting his breaths. He opened up their chat. 

Shane Hollander:

Sorry, my phone died. 

Can I see you tonight? Or tomorrow? 

Ilya Rozanov:

I don’t think is good idea 

Cliff is thinking to do goodbye party on Sunday

I’ll send info 

Shane Hollander:

Okay. 

Shane knocked on Cliff’s door with a pit in his stomach, thinking of the two other times he’d been here. The Thanksgiving party, when they’d kissed in the kitchen, and the next day, when…well, when Ilya’s romantic dinner had burned. 

The door opened, but it wasn’t Ilya at the door — it was Cliff. To Shane’s surprise, Cliff pulled him into a bear hug, slapping his back a few times, just about knocking the wind out of Shane. 

“Thanks for coming, man,” Cliff said, pulling back and walking into the apartment. 

“Yeah, um, of course,” Shane stammered, a bit bewildered, toeing off his shoes and following Cliff to the dining room. 

Shane had been a bit delayed on his way to the party, so a handful of people were already sitting at the dining room table and in the living room, chatting with beers in hand. They turned and greeted him, but Shane barely saw them; he was like a heat seeking missile programmed with a very specific, Russian target. 

Ilya was laughing at something someone had said, but when he turned and locked eyes with Shane, the grin on his face faded to a smaller, private smile. Shane couldn’t help but smile back, his mind quieting; he knew they were surrounded by people, friends from the gym and the crag, and yet he felt like they were completely alone, together. 

That is, until Wyatt spotted the bulky plastic bag dangling forgotten in Shane’s hand and crowed “Nice, dude!” 

Shane pulled his eyes away from Ilya’s and regained use of his limbs, hoisting the bag onto the table and pulling out the contents: a liter bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and a box of assorted donuts from Tim Horton’s. 

The climbers around the table descended on the box of donuts like wolves, bickering and slicing them up with a butter knife, even as Ilya yelped out “Hey, whoa, chocolate one is for me! Tell them, Hollander!” Shane put both hands up in front of him in the universal sign of I-have-no-power-here, laughing as Ilya yanked half of a chocolate donut out of Luca’s hand and stuffed it into his mouth. 

“Shots!” someone yelled, just as Cliff emerged from the kitchen with a handful of shot glasses, followed by Scott who held a few jam jars and a camping mug. 

Ilya stood and poured a generous shot into each glass, frowning with focus since he had to do it left-handed. 

“For my final night, I will teach you to drink like Russians. Repeat me: “За здоровье”.

The group chorused back with horrible pronunciation and Ilya groaned dramatically. He repeated “Zaaaa zda-rooo-vye” drawing out the vowels and rolling his eyes like it was the simplest thing in the world. Shane whispered it under his breath a few times, trying to shape his lips and trill his ‘r’ like Ilya, but probably sounding more French than Russian. 

When he decided their efforts were good enough, Ilya counted down and they called out the toast together, downing their shots. Shane’s eyes found Ilya’s again, and, feeling emboldened by the sharp heat of the vodka in his chest, he smirked and stuck out his tongue briefly, just as he had in their room in the Olympic Village. He was quite satisfied to see Ilya’s eyes go wide before he whipped around into the kitchen, grabbing the bottle and calling behind him, “Rest is for me because I pronounce the best!” 

An hour or so later, Shane had moved to a couch in the living room and was deep in conversation with Luca about IFSC regulations and disciplinary procedures, when Ilya appeared beside them. 

“Need your help with something, Hollander,” he said seriously, and then to Luca, “I will have him back to you as soon as possible.” 

“Oh, it’s fine!” Luca squeaked, “I can pull up the rule book on my phone!” 

Ilya gave Shane an odd look before leading the way down a short hallway where Shane had never been before. 

“You are lecturing little Luca Haas at my party?” 

He pushed open a door and let Shane pass through before closing it quietly behind them. 

“He was asking about what branded clothing we could wear at —!” Shane protested, falling quiet when he realized where they were. 

Ilya’s bedroom — a tight space, mostly taken up by shelves and stacked, labeled boxes of Cliff’s climbing and camping gear, with a double bed and side table squeezed in. There was a suitcase open on the bed, most of the way full of clothes, with a comic book laying on top. 

“Is from Wyatt,” Ilya said, following Shane’s line of sight. “Black Widow. She is Russian lady, Natalya Romanova, trained as Soviet spy but saved by helpful American heroes. Nice of him, but I am not sure I should take it back home. Might get me put on list.” 

Shane wasn’t sure if Ilya was joking or not, so he didn’t say anything. 

Ilya held up the bottle of Stolichnaya, which Shane hadn’t realized he was carrying. 

“I wanted to have private toast with you…since you brought this nice bottle.”

“Right,” said Shane with a wry smile, “the only reason is because I brought the bottle.” 

“Is one reason,” Ilya said, shrugging, a smile tugging at his lips as well. “Did you remember this brand?”

Shane’s smile faltered. “Oh, no, sorry. I just got what they had at the store that sounded Russian. Is it okay?”

“It is my father’s favorite brand,” Ilya said, “and same we had in Paris. Ah, and I forgot cup, so we will have to drink out of bottle.” 

Shane shook his head at Ilya’s antics, accepting the bottle as it was handed to him and uncapping it. 

“Do you remember the magic words?” Ilya prompted.

Shane blushed, having already forgotten the phrase Ilya taught less than two hours before. 

“Za…um. Drovya?” 

Ilya’s eyes sparkled, icy blue in the bedroom’s dim lighting. He tipped his head to the side, as if thinking carefully. 

“I will teach you better one. After me, за любовь.”

“Za loobuv.” 

“You have to make ‘yuh’ sound. Lyubov.” 

“Lyubov.”

Ilya smiled, and bittersweet sadness crossed over his face for just a moment. 

“Молодец. Okay. Drink.” 

Shane drank, tipping the bottle back and taking a mouthful, letting it burn his tongue before swallowing it down. He shook his head at the taste, but he didn’t gag. When had he gotten good at drinking vodka? 

Ilya kept his eyes on Shane’s as he took back the bottle and took a swig. Then he carefully set the bottle behind him before snaking his good arm around Shane’s lower back and tugging him in close. 

“Za lyubov.”

They leaned in simultaneously, their bodies and mouths knowing well by now how to fit together.

Chapter End Notes

ебать - fuck

Хватит тебе вести себя как сука - Stop acting like a bitch

Твоему жеребцу нужен ты - Your stallion needs you (if you are a Russian speaker, I know this is a little bit of a strange translation/the word order may be strange, pls comment if you have thoughts)

За здоровье - to health (don't let people fool you into saying na instead of za - though that is how they say it in Polish. Some people also say vasha zdarovye - your (plural) health, or budem zdarovye - something like let’s be healthy/to our health)

за любовь - to love

Молодец - well done/good job

Y'alls comments are still making my day/week/life, so please let me know what you think at this point! And leave a kudos, if you don't mind :) There should be about 5, maybe 10 max, chapters to go <3

Chapter 13: Skol'ko dney

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Protein shake before wine, you'll be fine...?

Ilya cums twice and isn't happy about it.

CW: Shane's food issues are back and worse in this chapter

Chapter Notes

Hello! This is a quite interactive chapter.

First of all, there is a trivia game at a point in the chapter. If you want to play along, I've put the answers in the end notes :)

Second, there are three songs right at the outset which I will provide links to here. Give them a listen if you like! I had fun imagining Ilya skipping through all these different genres and time periods of music and still not being able to escape his feelings.

Ya soshla s uma - TATU. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-F-JfWqMG6g&list=RD-F-JfWqMG6g&start_radio=1
The Russian version of All the Things She Said

Romans - Pizza. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JVtbmaqiz4A&list=RDJVtbmaqiz4A&start_radio=1
This came on all the time on a Russian radio station in 2016/17, so I like to imagine that it was one of Ilya's favorite songs in middle school (in this time-shifted AU).

Ochi Chornye - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsNdQ6MmZ80&list=RDGsNdQ6MmZ80&start_radio=1
A very famous song based on a poem by a Ukrainian poet, there's lots of versions out there but here's one to try!

Ilya shuffled through his music on the plane ride, trying to distract himself, but every song reminded him of what he was leaving behind. 

Выключается свет 

Я куда-то лечу

Без тебя меня нет

Ничего не хочу

Это медленный яд

Это сводит с ума

А они говорят - виновата сама

Я сошла с ума

The light is shutting down

I am flying somewhere

Without you there is no me

I don't want anything

It is the slow poison

It is making me crazy

But they say it is all my fault.

I've lost my mind

————

Без тебя жизни нет - 

я не могу найти.

Сколько не жмись к стене, 

сквозь неё не пройти.

Без тебя смысла нет; 

без тебя жизни нет

жизни нет

Without you, there's no life - 

I can't find it.

No matter how much you press against the wall, you won't pass through.

Without you, there’s no meaning;

Without you, there’s no life

There’s no life 

————

Очи чёрные, очи страстные,

Очи жгучие и прекрасные!

Как люблю я вас, как боюсь я вас!

Знать, увидел вас я в недобрый час!

Black eyes, passionate eyes,

Burning and beautiful eyes!

How I love you, how I fear you,

It seems I met you in an unlucky hour!

Ilya gave up and yanked off his headphones. If even Russian ballads from the 19th century made him think of Shane, he was better off listening to the whooshing of pressurized air through the tiny overhead vent and the snoring of the large Romanian man beside him, who had fallen asleep with his book open before turning a single page. 

Shane had left the party shortly after their private toast. The next morning, Cliff had driven Ilya to the airport with the same two beat up suitcases he’d arrived with less than three months prior and had hugged him hard enough at the Departures door that Ilya had yelped out, “Shoulder! Careful!” 

Now Ilya was all alone, settling in for a grueling nearly 40 hours of travel, since even the cheapest combination of flights between Vancouver and Moscow cost over $1000. A part of him wished that he had bought some kind of sleeping pill, but he had a hard rule not to mess with those. Ilya swiped through his apps, seeking a new distraction. 

His fingers navigated as if by muscle memory, pulling up his chat with Shane. He dragged his thumb down the screen, but the only chats remaining were from this morning. 

Shane Hollander:

Have a safe flight.  

Ilya Rozanov:

Thank you. Dont forget to eat, Hollander 🍆🍩

Ilya had deleted their entire chat history last night after the party. He wasn’t sure what level of scrutiny his device might be under by the Russian government as an international athlete, and besides, he wouldn’t put it past his father or brother to put their ugly noses where they shouldn’t be. He’d told Shane that for now, they could only text about climbing, and maybe some pleasantries here and there. Ilya was already pushing it with the emojis, he knew, but he really couldn’t help himself. 

Sighing in dismay, Ilya clicked his phone screen off. The snoring Romanian shifted in his sleep, managing to simultaneously drop his book with a clatter and bump Ilya’s bad shoulder. As Ilya rubbed at the pain in his neck, he looked down at the floor where the book had fallen and noticed with surprise that it was for children. Anne de la Green Gables. Ilya reached down to pick it up, contorting his body in the cramped space, and placed the book in the seat-back pocket in front of the large man. 

Rummaging in the backpack at his own feet, Ilya pulled out a scarf. He felt a little guilty for stealing it, but not guilty enough to give it back before leaving. He tucked it carefully between his cheek and the tiny excuse for a pillow that Air Canada provided and shut his eyes, breathing in the warm, familiar smell. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane let himself crash out for two days. For two days, he didn’t leave his apartment, didn’t climb, didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t even answer the phone when his mom called. 

On the first day, he tried to eat his meal prep, but it reminded him of getting the phone call that Ilya was leaving, so he methodically scraped that container into the trash, and then did the same for each of the other containers too. He washed the glass containers, dried them, and put them away neatly, then cleaned the sink and threw out the sponge he had used for good measure. He felt a bit better then, but he didn’t really have anything else to eat. He settled on a protein shake, his old standby, and while he drank it he opened YouTube on his laptop and pulled up the livestream of the comp in Montreal. 

He skipped through all the climbers until it was Ilya’s turn on the first boulder, and then he had an idea. He grabbed a notebook and pen from his bedroom, and then settled back onto the couch to write down every time stamp where his and Ilya’s beta differed. He swapped back and forth between them, diligently cataloguing. When he got to the fourth boulder problem, he put Ilya’s climb in slow motion. He watched the moments before the fall at the slowest speed YouTube allowed, searching for the moment when Ilya’s shoulder gave out. It seemed like, after falling, Ilya had finished the climb on sheer willpower alone — now that he knew to look for it, Shane could see how the joint seemed to grind loosely as Ilya pushed off of his right arm between the zone and finish. 

When Shane had gotten his fill of that comp, he went back further. He watched clips from the Olympics, from Juniors, from the Youth comps they competed in before they’d ever spoken to one another. He filled up page after page of the notebook. 

By the time he finished, it was dark out. He was hungry, but it was perversely satisfying how the ache in his stomach matched the one in his chest. He showered, even though he had barely moved all day, let alone broken a sweat, and went to bed. 

The second day was worse. He knew that Ilya would be arriving in Russia at some point, and he found himself checking his phone every few minutes from the moment he woke up. There was a crawling agitation in his limbs, and he paced his apartment in circles like a tiger patrolling the bars of its cage, his breaths coming quicker and quicker. 

Every time he opened their chat, he saw Ilya’s last text to him. Don’t forget to eat. He knew Ilya would be upset if he was here now, but it would be so much easier if Ilya was present — choosing the right food, putting it in front of Shane, watching over him to make sure he finished it all, smiling when he did. Shane opened the fridge, then closed it. Circled the apartment, once, twice. Opened the refrigerator again and stared at the protein shakes, the sugar-free ginger ales, the mostly-full condiment bottles. He took out a protein shake and put it on the kitchen island. Circled the apartment three times. He was getting dizzy now, nauseated, and when he paused in front of the protein shake on his third lap, he had a sudden fear that he would start drinking it and throw up. His rapid breathing got worse, combined this time with prickling heat on the back of his neck. He needed to drink it, Ilya wanted him to drink it, but if he did vomit it would make a big mess… 

This is how Shane came to be standing in the shower, fully clothed, chugging a protein shake. When he was done, he tipped his head back, breathing slowly through his nose, willing his heart rate to slow and his stomach not to rebel. At some point he felt water droplets hit his neck — he hadn’t realized the shower head was leaky, he would have to contact building management about that. He kept his breathing steady, in and out of his nose. His nose started running a little, and he wiped it on his hoodie sleeve. Maybe he was feeling so bad because he was getting sick? 

When he finally stepped out of the shower, he glanced in the mirror and was shocked by his appearance. His face was pink and tear-stained, he had snot on his face and his sleeve, and he was gripping the empty protein shake bottle in a shaking fist like it was a lifeline. He stared at himself, searching his own red-rimmed eyes, and quietly mouthed What are you doing, dude? 

A text from Ilya came in that evening, and it was all Shane could do to not sob in relief. He didn’t know why it meant so much to him. He wasn’t actually afraid Ilya had died or something, but something about the text made Ilya solid again. 

Ilya Rozanov:

In Moscow

Bag was inspected because they think chalk is maybe cocaine

It is okay because drug smelling dog is very sweet girl

Shane Hollander:

I’m glad you made it there safely. 

Shane typed out “I miss you” and then deleted it, watching each letter disappear. What could he say that at all captured his feelings without being incriminating if it was found on Ilya’s phone? Finally he settled on,

Shane Hollander:

155 days until World Cup. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were on a speed climbing wall, him and Shane, and it was so tall he couldn’t even see the top. They were going so fast, pushing off and off and off the holds, and he didn’t even feel tired. Shane was pulling ahead, and Ilya was desperate to catch him. He leapt from his side of the speed wall to Shane’s, scrambling after him, trying to grab his leg, but Shane kept going, just out of reach. The speed wall ended, and Shane was standing on top, naked and angelically beautiful, haloed in sunlight, a gold medal around his neck. He crawled up Shane’s body, kissing everywhere he could reach. Shane was so warm, and as they pressed their bodies together that warmth coursed through Ilya, building, surging–

Ilya had been back in his father’s home for less than a week when it happened for the first time. Being back in Moscow made Ilya feel like an angst-filled teenager again, and it looked like that included cumming in his sleep. Fucking embarrassing.

He felt unmoored and volatile, and it didn’t help that simple tasks like taking the cap off of his father’s pill bottles were incredibly frustrating to do one-handed. Polina was certainly taking full advantage of someone else being there to take care of her increasingly decrepit husband – on Ilya’s second day home she had scrawled out a list of medications for morning and night and left to visit her sister in Yaroslavl. 

Ilya researched each medication, and through them, learned which parts of his father were beginning to fail. Lisinopril, for high blood pressure. Simvastatin, for high cholesterol. Ketorolak, for joint pain. And a surprising one — sertraline, for depression. Ilya texted Polina about it, asking how long he had been taking it and what the doctor had prescribed it for, but she was tight-lipped, saying only that Alexei ordered all the medications and made sure they got a good price. 

Grigori Rozanov spent most of his day on the couch in the living room, watching the news and sometimes, when Ilya couldn’t stand the vitriolic nonsense of Россия Сегодня any longer, hockey. In Ilya’s childhood, his father had been part of the Moscow police, or as they were known at that time, militsiya. He had been a terror inside and outside the home; blatantly corrupt in his work, cold and at times cruel to his wife and children. After his wife’s death, he had wasted no time in finding a new one, even younger than his first — on the day of their marriage, Grigori was 65, his sons 12 and 16, and Polina was 20. Ilya’s age, now. He couldn’t imagine spending his early 20’s attempting to corral two teenage boys who had more bad days than good, cleaning the dark, oppressive apartment on Prospekt Mira, and sleeping next to his father. 

Alexei came to dinner once, after Ilya had been alone with their father for a few days. He didn’t bring his wife or child, which was probably for the best, because he and Ilya came nearly to blows before the food was off the stove. Alexei left without eating and hadn’t returned since. 

Ilya’s saving grace those first few weeks was texts from Shane. With the time difference, their nights and days were completely opposite, but their hours awake overlapped in the morning and late at night. Many nights, after Ilya had made dinner for his father and himself and doled out evening medications, he would stay by his phone for hours — typing, waiting, smiling. The self-imposed ban on talking about sex led to conversations that Ilya, surprisingly, found even more intimate. 

Shane Hollander:

Where do you feel the most safe? 

Ilya Rozanov:

I’m not sure

Not at my father’s house

In Canada a little, but they can make me leave any time, so I don’t know 

Where do you feel safe? 

Shane Hollander:

My family has a cottage we go to in the summer. It’s super private and it’s beautiful there. We didn’t get to go very long last summer because of the Olympics, but hopefully this summer we’ll stay there for a few weeks.

I’m sorry that your father’s house doesn’t feel safe to you. 

Why do you call it that? Is it a Russian thing? 

Ilya Rozanov: 

No, not Russian thing

It has always felt like not my home, not since I was little 

Now only my father and his wife live here

And me I guess for now 

Shane Hollander:

Is his wife not your mother? 

Ilya Rozanov: 

No

Is second wife 

Shane Hollander:

I see. 

Ilya Rozanov: 

Yes 

I need to sleep now 

Tell me how many days 

Shane Hollander

141 days. 

Ilya got his shoulder surgery. It was easy enough to be worked into a hospital’s schedule when you’re a national athlete, not to mention the son of a retired policeman who had given as many bribes as he got. They had him on strong pain meds for a few days, despite his reluctance, which led to even more nonsensical and disturbing dreams. 

His mother, free soloing up the side of the Kremlin, glancing back to make sure Ilya was watching, and then falling, falling, lying crumpled on the ground with her arm outstretched toward him. 

Walking through the labyrinth of halls at the Olympic Oval, trying to find his father, who was calling out to him, lost, his voice terrified and growing fainter. 

Alexei, shaving Ilya’s head down to almost nothing in the bathroom down the hall, while his father watched. He begged to keep the hair, trying to grab it as it fell to the floor, but his arms were sluggish and his screams were silent. 

Shane, in his bedroom in Vancouver, folding clothes and putting them away in tidy drawers. He walked over to Ilya and folded him too. Ilya could feel himself becoming compact and neat in Shane’s skillful hands. Shane carried Ilya to a drawer and placed him in it, dark and pleasantly confining. Shane stroked him, telling him he was safe, that he belonged there, that he would always take care of him, that he would never throw him away—

He texted Shane after that one, after cleaning himself up and deciding he was done with the strong meds, pain be damned. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Сколько дней

This means how many days 

Shane Hollander: 

129 дней

Ilya Rozanov: 

Did you download Russian keyboard???????????

Shane Hollander:

Да

Ilya Rozanov:

💀

I am dead 

I will teach you about numbers in Russian

You are right this time but only accident 😅

Around this time, texts began to turn into phone calls. Ilya was often the one to call, speaking in a hushed voice while his father slept down the hall. He knew it was needy, but he craved a few moments of existing in Shane’s sweet, familiar routine. They kept it to relatively neutral conversation topics — climbing, weather, food. Sometimes Ilya taught Shane little Russian phrases. As always, Ilya slipped innuendos into every topic possible. Was he really supposed to listen to Shane talk about hand-jamming a crack and say nothing dirty? They ended every phone call with Shane reminding them both how many days were left until they’d see each other again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November turned into December, and Shane was doing better. He had gotten back into his training routine, was eating his meal prep down to the gram as laid out by the nutritionist, and he hung out with Rose and her friends frequently. He hadn’t come out to Rose’s friends, exactly, but they seemed to enjoy treating him as “one of the girls”. He accepted their invitations when it was a movie night or happy hour, but he drew the line at going with them for mani/pedis. He might frequently fantasize about having Rozanov’s cock in his mouth, but he wasn’t, like, gay gay, he told himself. 

Before everyone left for the holidays, Rose decided to have a wine night. Well, it wasn’t just any wine night…it was the Franzia-lympics. Rose had invited the usual group — Madison, Babette, Elise, and Shane — along with Miles, her friend from home whose university was already on break. 

They split into teams, Red vs. White, and each team was given a box of Franzia (the cheapest boxed wine around). Shane volunteered to captain Team White, since he was nothing if not competitive, and it guaranteed him a spot on the team whose wine wouldn’t stain clothing. Rose captained Team Red, which she insisted on calling team Rosé. 

There were four events: pong, flip cup, climbing trivia, and slap the bag. Pong was Madison versus Babette, and both players fought valiantly, but Madison won it for team Rosé by a two cup margin. Flip cup was even closer — Miles and Elise were both working on their final cup at the same time, but Rose had been recording the event on her phone and was able to prove that Miles’ cup was upside down on the table a second before Elise’s was. 

Shane and Rose faced off in trivia, and Shane was not pulling any punches. If he won his event, his team still had a chance to win the night. He thought to himself with amusement that he was quite possibly more stressed about the outcome of this trivia game than he had been about his lead climbing score in the actual Olympics. The questions went back and forth, with the competitors taking a “shot” of wine after every correct answer:

1. What year was rock climbing added to the Olympics? 

2. At what height is an outdoor boulder problem generally considered a “highball”? 

3. What is the chemical composition of the chalk climbers often use? 

4. What grading system is being used when you say a climb is a “5.11d”?

5. What grading system is being used when you say a climb is a 7a+?

6. In what year was the first climbing World Cup held? 

7. Who invented the campus board? 

“How the fuck do you know that!?” Rose screeched, jumping to her feet in disbelief and nearly toppling over sideways. Shane crossed his arms smugly over his chest as Babette and Elise cheered and jostled him by the shoulders, both properly tipsy from their previous events. 

In their various levels of inebriation, they argued for a full ten minutes about the rules for slap the bag. They eventually settled for the simplest option they could agree on: each team had an hour to drink as much of their remaining bag of wine as possible, without anyone throwing up. If Team Rosé won this event, they won the whole thing. If White won, it was a tie, and they’d have a rematch after the holidays. 

Team White had a strategy, and that strategy was Shane. He was bigger than either of his other teammates, and he’d had less to drink so far, so Elise and Babette each took a large mouthful directly from the bag’s spigot, and then Shane got to work. 

25 minutes later, Rose had curled up on the couch and fallen asleep, Babette was making ominous noises while hovering near the kitchen sink, and Shane had gotten Team White’s wine bag halfway empty single-handedly. Shane felt okay, except that when he closed his eyes it felt like the room was spinning backwards really fast, he was probably screwing up his diet with how many tortilla chips he was cramming into his mouth in between gulps of wine, and he missed Ilya really fucking bad. 

Shane pulled out his phone and there was already a text from Ilya. It felt like a sign. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered. 

“What?” Madison asked groggily, picking her head up from where it was cushioned against Miles’ shoulder. They were both sprawled on the carpet, and Madison was cradling the bag of red wine against her chest like a baby.

“I was thinking about texting my…um…this guy? And then he texted me. Like, right now. Do you think he really likes me?”

Madison giggled and craned her neck to peek at Shane’s phone, clearly not used to him being this open about his dating life. 

“Who’s the guy?” 

“It’s a secret!” Shane whisper-shouted, yanking his phone away. He sighed longingly. “He’s so beautiful. I’m going to text him that. If he says I’m beautiful too, then I’ll know he really likes me.” 

Madison snorted and put her head back on Miles. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Привет котик

Shane Hollander:

Ilyaaaaaaa 

Youi ar soooo beautiful

Ilya Rozanov:

😂

Are you drunk??? 

Shane Hollander:

Noooo just a littleewine

Ilya Rozanov:

How many glasses of wine котик?

Shane Hollander:

4 shots anf bag

Can I call yoU?

Ilya Rozanov:

Is everything ok?

Shane hit the call button rather than answer Ilya’s question. Ilya picked up, his voice hushed and worried.  

“Shane, are you okay? Are you safe?” 

“Yep!” Shane slurred cheerfully. “Super safe. Climb on!” 

“Котик, I can’t really talk right now. I’m with my father.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, his jovial mood plummeting fast. 

He oddly felt hot tears pricking at his eyes, and he reached up to tug the wetness off his lashes. 

“I just miss you is all. It was too slow to type. And then you didn’t say it back…”

“Say what back? That I miss you?” Ilya asked, sounding irritable. Shane didn’t know what he’d done wrong. “I miss you a lot, Shane. Probably more than you miss me.” 

“No, you didn’t say I’m beautiful!” Shane said petulantly. 

Ilya breathed out slowly, and when he spoke again his voice was steadier, placating. “You are beautiful. One of the most beautiful people I have ever met. Is why they put you on all those posters.”

“Thank you,” Shane murmured, his spirits lifting again, his mind floating on alcohol and praise. “I wish I could tell people about you. I told Madison that it’s a secret.” 

“You told Madison?” Ilya asked sharply. It was strange, Ilya didn’t usually talk to him like that. 

“Why do you sound so mad?” 

“Shane, who are you with right now? Who did you tell?”

“Um, I’m with, just, everyone usual. And Miles. That’s Rose’s friend. He’s really nice though, and I think he’s gay.”

Shane loudly whispered the last words, which caused Madison and Miles to start giggling on the carpet. 

“I’m definitely gay!” Miles shouted, which made Madison laugh harder and squeeze a bit of red wine on the carpet. 

“Shit!” yelled Madison, stumbling to her feet and squeezing more wine out in the process. 

“Ilya, I gotta go!” Shane said quickly, hanging up the phone and running to grab paper towels from the kitchen. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of Ilya’s day was hazy. He helped his father to the couch and turned on the television, and then he just sat and stared at the wall, watching the shadows move across it as time passed. 

He could only hope that whoever Shane had been with was as drunk as him and wouldn’t remember hearing Ilya’s name. Rose knowing was one thing — she was Shane’s best friend, and if she hadn’t told anyone by now, she probably wasn’t going to. But if the rest of the team found out, there was no way it wouldn’t become gossip throughout the entire competitive climbing world. Ilya had seen the comments on social media. People were obsessed with the fact that their climbing styles were becoming more similar — Shane dynoing and taking more risks, Ilya improving on slab and route-reading. If people found that interesting, imagine if they learned that their “cultural exchange” had gone far beyond the wall. 

The stakes were even higher now that Ilya was back in Russia. He didn’t want to find out what the government’s response would be to an Olympic athlete, the face of Russian climbing, coming out. There was a very real possibility of years in prison for “extremism”. At the very least, they could keep him from going to the World Cup, or ever going to the Olympics again. And then what? He certainly wasn’t going to get a job with the police, like his father and brother. He’d never have a chance to see Shane in person again. 

That evening, not long after Grigori had gone to bed, Shane texted.

Shane Hollander:

Omg I feel like shit. 

Never drinking again. 

Definitely not white wine. 

Did we talk on the phone? 

Ilya Rozanov:

Yes

Are you with other people now? 

Shane Hollander:

Yeah, I’m still at Rose’s. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Okay

Call me when you’re alone

Ilya stared at his phone, barely blinking as he watched the minutes go by. There was a hollowness and a sense of impending doom in his chest that he hadn’t felt in many years. It was the feeling of losing someone you love. This time, he was directly causing the loss, but it was all the same really. He wasn’t enough. Too lazy to take care of someone else when they needed it. Too selfish to be what they deserved. Even if Shane felt hurt in the short term, Ilya was protecting him from greater pain in the future. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane had woken up on Rose’s couch at 10am with a dry, horrible-tasting mouth, a crick in his neck, and only vague recollections of the previous night after winning the trivia event. 

It looked like a tornado full of wine had hit Rose’s living room, and their drunken efforts to clean up the spill on the carpet seemed to have only made the situation worse. He made coffee in Rose’s machine and dug some eggs out of the fridge to make simple omelets, which perked a few of the others up, and they did as good a cleaning job as they could. Shane threw what was left of the wine bags in the trash; just looking at them made him feel nauseated.  

It was a little over an hour later when Shane left Rose’s. He decided that walking home in the brisk air and talking to Ilya would be the perfect combination to pull him the rest of the way out of his hangover. 

“Hey,” he said brightly, a bit out of breath, “Sorry it took so long. How are you?” 

“I have been better,” Ilya said. His voice sounded tired and pained.  

“Why? Your father?” Shane said with concern. He knew that Ilya’s father had been having bad days at times: confusion, yelling, refusing his medications. He didn’t remember Ilya mentioning anything like that on the phone last night, but something could have happened while Shane was asleep. 

“No, he is okay. Shane...I think we should… stop.” 

Shane went still, right in the middle of the sidewalk, so suddenly that a woman with a stroller almost ran him over. She let out a surprised yelp, but Shane didn’t even look up.

“Stop?”

“Yes, stop…this. What we are doing.” 

“Wh— what are we doing?” Shane’s voice squeaked as he pressed the phone hard into his ear, like maybe he wasn’t hearing correctly. 

“You know, Shane. The texting. Talking on phone. Little names…”

Shane walked over to a bus stop and sat down heavily on the bench. 

“It is my fault. I did all these things first. It’s just…very complicated now I am home.” 

“I thought it was your father’s home,” Shane spat out spitefully, not even sure what he was arguing about at this point. 

“Shane,” Ilya scoffed. 

“Ilya!” Shane mimicked. 

There was silence for a beat. 

“I looked up a word,” Ilya said quietly. “Compatible. I don’t think our lives right now…are compatible.” 

Shane was at a loss. Sure, he was gay and Ilya was whatever he was — bisexual, pansexual, or something else with no set label. And they were different, as people— different as night and day. Different as a skittish black cat and an energetic golden retriever. But night and day couldn’t exist without each other, and unlikely animals becoming friends was, like, a whole genre of content online. What was so incompatible that they couldn’t work through it together? 

“Maybe at World Cup,” Ilya said gently, filling Shane’s silence. “We see each other then. We talk.”

”You want me to wait around until then? What am I, a toy you can unplug and plug back in when you’re ready to play with me? Fuck you, Ilya.”  

Shane’s pulse was pounding in his head. Ilya was speaking again, his voice pleading, something about Russia, about social media, but Shane wasn’t listening anymore. He pulled on a hangnail until it peeled off and blood welled up into the nail bed. 

“Shane?” Ilya was saying, “Are you there? Please make sure no one knows about us. I know it’s hard, but it’s very important. Can you make sure Rose’s friends don’t tell anyone?” 

“Yeah,” Shane said, his voice flat, pushing on his thumb until a drop of blood fell to the ground like a tear. “It’s not hard, I’ve been doing it this whole time.” 

He hung up and trudged back toward Rose’s apartment.

Chapter End Notes

Trivia answers:
1. 2020
2. Above 15 feet/4.6 meters
3. Magnesium carbonate
4. Yosemite Decimal System
5. French/Fontainebleau Scale
6. 1989 (by the Union internationale des associations d'alpinisme) or 2007 (by the IFSC) 
7. Wolfgang Güllich. In fact, many in Germany, France, and Italy call a campus board a pan Güllich. The term campus board and campusing come from the Campus Center in Nuremberg where Güllich invented it.

Let me know how you did!

Also, what Ilya means when he says he'll teach Shane about numbers is that you use different declensions for the things you're counting, depending on the number of them. So the word for "day" would be different if you're saying 1 day, 2 days, or 4 days, for example.

Thank you for reading and apologies if you were hoping to stay in happy fluff for a while! Unfortunately I am in favor of a cycle of yearning, sex, and angst <3

Chapter 14: Moscow

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Ilya seeks distractions and dreamless sleep.

CW: drug use, also Ilya fucks people who aren't Shane in this chapter, so if that's something you don't like in your fan fic, you have been warned...

Chapter Notes

Ilya was so bored and so fucking lonely. He went through the same daily motions he had for the first few weeks in Moscow — made food, counted out pills for his father, left the apartment only briefly during the day for errands. Polina came back, and they split the responsibilities, learning to move around each other. They had nothing in common besides Grigori, so they only talked about him, and there really wasn’t much to say. 

He texted with Cliff a few times, but without proximity their relationship wasn’t deep enough to sustain. Besides, every time Cliff texted, Ilya told himself that he wouldn’t ask about Shane, and then did, and then hated himself. The answer was never satisfying anyway — Shane was training, hanging out with Rose, maybe more subdued than usual, but it was hard to tell since he had always been quiet. Soon enough, Cliff went home to Toronto for the holidays, and the contact petered off.  

Ilya felt like he’d been holding on to Shane so tightly that to stop communicating was less like letting go and more like cutting his hand off. Now the wound was festering, he was bleeding out, and no one knew or cared. 

When his mother died, Ilya’d had climbing, and it probably saved his life. It was the perfect sport to distract him. A hard climb required constant physical exertion and mental focus; if it lapsed, you fell, and then tried again until you succeeded. There was danger — adrenaline — but very little actual risk of bodily harm. He hadn’t gone this long without climbing at any point in the past 8 years. 

He was two weeks post-surgery now, so really he should be back in the gym doing gentle workouts, keeping his legs and core strong. He should find a physical therapist, and in a few more weeks he could start integrating his right arm back into his training. He could see himself losing weight and muscle tone day by day. 

Ilya found another solution to that problem — he stopped looking in the mirror. 

Ilya took to walking around the city once his father was in bed for the evening. It was freezing, snow heaped in dirty piles everywhere, but he would walk 10, sometimes 15 kilometers, hoping to tire himself out enough for a dreamless (Shaneless) sleep. A few things had changed in their district — a Thai restaurant where an Armenian one had been, an art studio replaced by luxury apartments. Most were the same — the dull yellow rectangle of his primary school; his climbing gym, which had looked so sleek and modern 10 years ago; the statue of a worker holding the Sputnik satellite, covered in pigeon shit. 

One Saturday, his nightly wandering took him in a slightly different direction than usual, and he spotted a figure he was intimately familiar with leaning against a wall outside a club. A group of girls smoking cigarettes and wearing far too little clothing for December in Moscow gave Ilya a glance before turning back to their conversation. The door between them and the figure didn’t have a sign; the source of the muffled thumping bass was affectionately known as Club No Name.  

“Давненько, Sasha,” Ilya said when he reached the figure, taking in the skunky sweet smell of weed. He didn’t move in for a handshake or a hug, keeping his hand that was not in a sling stuffed deep in the pocket of his wool coat.  

“What the fuck…” Sasha replied, looking up and letting out a mouthful of smoke. “You’re back? I thought you were in America.”

“Canada.” Ilya corrected, “It didn’t work out. And my father is…sick.”

“I’d say I’m sorry to hear that, but he was always a cunt.” Sasha said blithely. “Want some?”

He proffered his vape to Ilya, who took it but didn’t immediately bring it to his mouth. He hadn’t smoked at all in Vancouver, even though Cliff had offered it freely and often — he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize his visa or his training schedule. Now, back in Russia, with his father’s health declining by the day and the threat of being outed looming over his head, it seemed like the least trouble he could get himself into. 

“Is the Olympian too good for my drugs now?” Sasha purred with a provocative smile. 

“Maybe I was wondering if you had something stronger,” Ilya retorted, taking a drag from the vape and letting the harsh vapor linger in his lungs for a few seconds before breathing it out. He handed it back to Sasha and they were quiet for a moment, sizing each other up, listening to the muffled music, the girls’ chatter, faint honking from deeper in the city. 

“Not tonight, no,” Sasha replied with another cloudy exhale. He offered the vape back to Ilya, who took a second, longer drag. He was starting to feel it already. The group of girls seemed farther away than before, blurry and beautiful like an Impressionist painting. He wondered distantly if any of them would want to sleep with him, and then realized he hadn’t even thought about fucking someone besides Shane in months. This weed must be magic, he mused, a small, goofy smile pulling at his lips as he tried to focus his eyes enough to assess the array of asses.

“So, are you here to find someone to fuck?” Sasha asked silkily, like he’d read Ilya’s mind. Maybe the weed really was magic. “I wouldn’t mind sucking your dick if you return the favor. Weed always makes me horny.” 

Ilya snapped his eyes back to Sasha. “Господи, don’t be so fucking loud.”

Sasha snorted and rolled his eyes. “What, you think one of those whores is an undercover cop? I’ve blown you at this club before.”

“It’s dangerous,” Ilya hissed, taking a step closer to Sasha so he could be heard. Sasha smiled at him and plucked the vape out of his hand, pocketing it as he closed the space in between them even further, crowding Ilya against the wall. Ilya was taller than Sasha, but not by much. He darted his eyes over to the girls again when he heard a peal of laughter, but none seemed to be looking their way. 

“Danger used to get you going, if memory serves,” Sasha murmured, playing with a button on Ilya’s coat. He leaned in and bit Ilya’s lower lip — not so much a kiss as a provocation. 

“Fine, let’s go somewhere,” Ilya said. It was painfully cold, especially just standing around, and he wasn’t particularly interested in wasting his high jacking off down the hall from his father, now that his dick had been alerted to the possibility of sex. 

They went to Sasha’s tiny studio apartment a few blocks away. Sasha got Ilya off first, quickly and skillfully, and Ilya took another long drag of the vape before he sucked Sasha off. He swallowed, to be polite, and kissed Sasha once before he left. He didn’t dream of Shane or his mother that night. 

Ilya’s daily routine changed after that. If drugs were what he needed to move on, so be it. He took care of his father during the day, napping fitfully with the news droning in the background. After dinner, he left the apartment, staying out until 2 or 3am. 

He only had sex when he was high, but he was high almost every night, so he had a lot of sex. 

Mostly he smoked weed, with Sasha, or people he met at Club No Name, or his friend Svetlana who lived in America now but had come back for the holidays. It loosened him up, made his constant thrum of anxiety and loneliness secondary to the immediate sensations around him. It helped with his shoulder, too — he hadn’t realized how much physical pain he was still carrying until he got a reprieve. 

He drank. Vodka, of course. Cheap beer. Expensive beer when Sveta was buying. Cognac on New Years and Orthodox Christmas. 

Sometimes he did coke and danced for hours. He fingered a girl on the dance floor and made her cum twice while her friends watched. He did a bump off his mother’s necklace and then cried in the bathroom. 

Once or twice he tried dissociatives. They weren’t for him. He didn’t remember very well what happened those nights, he just prayed to god he’d worn a condom for it. 

He could tell Polina was worried about him. She told him as much, after one particularly long night in late January when he stumbled in around 5am. She was already awake, drinking tea and watching trashy TV with the sound turned down. 

“Good morning,” Polina said, raising her eyebrows at Ilya’s sorry state. His golden curls were plastered to his head with sweat, his coat and shirt open to his bare chest despite the cold, and his pupils almost swallowed his glossy gray-blue irises.

“Good morning, princess,” Ilya said with a wink, hanging his coat and flopping onto the couch next to Polina with unusual friendliness. “How is the ogre who keeps you here?”

“Asleep,” she replied, eying him warily, “Be quiet so he stays that way.”

“Mm, yes, тише воды, ниже травы.” Ilya murmured, putting his head on her shoulder. 

“You can’t keep doing this every night, Ilyusha. You’ll get hurt.”

No, Ilya thought sardonically, this was actually keeping him from hurting. His mind drifted, both exhausted and wired from the cocktail of substances in his system. Polina reached a hand up and gently pushed a damp curl off his forehead, then let her hand rest in his hair. 

Ilya had begun to feel quite fond of Polina lately. She was only 28, younger than Cliff and a number of other Team Canada climbers he’d hung out with in Vancouver. She had told him recently about her alcoholic father who left her mother with two daughters and no money; she’d gotten a job waitressing at a nice restaurant in Moscow at age 16, where she met Grigori shortly before Ilya’s mother died. 

Ilya turned his head more fully into Polina’s neck, breathing in the strawberry-scented lotion she used, which he always found a bit childish. He lost track of time a bit, thinking about other scents from his childhood: white honey from the mountains used in medovik frosting, the aroma of wood and spicy incense in his mother’s church, the foreign cigars his father had smoked on special occasions. 

Ilya was brought back to reality by the feeling of a warm hand on his thigh, placed lightly but purposefully. He pulled back from Polina’s shoulder and squinted at her face. She was looking at him already, with a clear question in her eyes. She didn’t move her hand, either upward or away. 

It would have been easy to lean in and kiss her. She had nice lips, full and soft, and nice breasts as well — he couldn’t lie to himself that he hadn’t noticed. Fortunately, some part of his brain was still online to blare the alarm of wrongness. Ilya stumbled to his feet, pulled his coat back on, and went to the door. “I will be back in a few days,” he said, and walked the 3 kilometers to Svetlana’s home as birds chirped their morning melodies. 

Ilya had met Svetlana through climbing, around age 11. She had been a youth climber like him, and at the time was an even better prospect for international competitions. She had been tall and lanky for her age, but she had incredible control of her body, like a ballet dancer on the wall. In secondary school, though, she’d developed hips and breasts, and the combination of the physical impact on her climbing and the inappropriate advances by older men at the gym effectively killed her interest. She’d moved to the States for university, which was easy enough with US citizenship through her mother, and had recently dropped out to work as a model. 

Svetlana’s father had always liked Ilya, and he was kind enough to let him stay for the last week of Sveta’s holiday visit. Ilya was an easy guest to host because without his responsibilities to his father, he slept all day and stayed out all night. He was running out of money — Arc’teryx had quietly dropped him as a brand ambassador after he missed multiple social media post deadlines — so he just ate whatever food Sveta had for dinner as his breakfast, and occasionally he got free food at Club No Name since he’d slept with more than one of the bartenders. 

Ilya was sprawled on Svetlana’s plush bed on her last Friday in town, scrolling on Instagram while she did her makeup. Shane had been tagged in some cutesie post by Rose’s friend Miles; Ilya flicked through the carousel of selfies and wholesome candid shots and tried to ignore the pit of nausea that grew bigger with each photo. 

“You could come back to America with me,” she said, overly casually, which let Ilya know that she’d been thinking about saying it for a while. 

“Oh yeah? And what about my father?” asked Ilya, blithely, tapping on Miles’ profile to investigate further. 

“Your father would be fine, Ilyusha. You’re not here because of your father.”

Ilya looked up at that, locking eyes with her in the mirror. She held his gaze, meeting his indignation with cool appraisal. 

“You’re partially here because of your shoulder, but if that was the whole problem, you’d be doing all the rehab you could. But you’re not — you’re getting high every night, sleeping with anything that moves, and turning into a fucking skeleton. I watched your comps, you know. You were doing well, climbing better than ever. What happened?” 

Ilya laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eye as he lied. 

“Nothing that you don’t know. My shoulder still hurts. The weed helps.”

“Does the cocaine help too?”

“Пошла на хуй.”

“Fine, don’t come to America. I’m only worried you’re going to kill yourself if you stay here.” 

They let that sit in the air. Svetlana was one of the only people outside of Ilya’s family who knew how his mother had really died. To use that knowledge now, like this, was either carelessly callous or precisely calculated to get through to him. 

Svetlana got up from her vanity and walked over to the bed, laying down partially on top of Ilya and tangling their feet together. She put a hand on his face and didn’t let him turn away into the pillow to hide the wetness on his lower lashes. 

“You may think this is very American of me, but I think you need to talk to someone, Ilyusha. A therapist, a psychiatrist. Someone professional. Will you go if I help you find one?”

Ilya wanted to tell her he was fine — that he was just having some fun while he wasn’t in such a grueling athletic routine as usual. Or he could try the father angle again, say he didn’t have enough time right now but would think about it. 

Ilya went for a third option and ran his hand up her side to cup her breast, gently brushing his thumb over the nipple that was covered only by a well-worn band T-shirt. She gave him an unimpressed look, but didn’t pull away. 

“Tell me you’ll see a therapist for one appointment and I’ll fuck you however you want,” she said. 

“You’ll fuck me, huh? That’s how it is?” Ilya smirked, rubbing her nipple again, rougher this time, feeling it harden to a peak. 

Now she did pull away, grabbing his hand from her breast and pinning it to the bed as she settled more fully on his lap. 

“One appointment.”

Ilya thrust his hips up playfully, jostling her, but she kept his good hand pinned and looked at him seriously. 

“Okaaay, ладно,” he groaned. 

Sveta leaned down and kissed his cheek, and Ilya could feel her smiling, pleased with herself. 

“This is a dirty trick,” Ilya murmured, “You know I would do anything if it would make you touch my dick right now.” 

Ilya’s arm was still in a sling, but he had started taking it off for longer stretches of time, so he pulled it over his head and followed it with his sweater. 

“Don’t mess with my makeup,” Svetlana warned as she shifted up to her knees to pull off her baggy shirt and underwear, then pull down Ilya’s athletic shorts and boxers and toss all the clothing to the floor. “No cum on my face, and only kissing on the mouth.” 

“Only on the mouth, you say?” Ilya questioned, bringing both hands to her ribs and grasping her nipple with his mouth. They didn’t usually kiss anyway, him and Sveta. At one point they had tried the couple thing, but they were much better off as friends who sometimes fucked, and the not-kissing helped keep that boundary clear. 

Svetlana laughed as Ilya moved to nip at her other breast, and she ground against him, pressing his shaft up into his stomach. Ilya growled and bit down harder, not letting up until she gasped. Sveta leaned down over him, changing the angle of her grind, but she pushed his hands away when he tried to sink his fingers into her hair. 

“Keep your hands at your sides,” she whispered, “or I’ll have to tie you up.” 

Ilya’s cock kicked against her at that, and she rolled her hips against him, smiling. Her labia were silky and just slick enough to glide smoothly along his shaft. She stayed like that a little while longer, letting him buck his hips a little in search of more friction, before reaching down between them and grabbing his dick. Ilya’s heart raced in anticipation, but instead of pressing it inside her, she rubbed the tip of his dick, which had a milky bead of precum at the top, directly onto her clit. 

Ilya groaned at the sensation, arching his back involuntarily. It was almost too much. He hadn’t had sex without being high in months, and while weed and coke always made sex intense in certain ways, it was overwhelming being so present in his body at this moment. He needed to be inside of her, needed more, but she just swiveled her hips in lazy circles and used him.

“Ah—Sveta, please,” he begged, “let me inside you.” 

She gripped his cock more firmly, dipping the head shallowly into the growing wetness at her entrance and then tracing it back up through her folds to grind into her clit again. 

“I don’t know…” she mused, “Maybe I will come like this. I think I could.” 

More precum beaded at Ilya’s slit, and Svetlana grinned down at him. 

“Please,” he tried again, “I need you so bad.”

“Mmm…need me to do what?” she asked coyly, pulling her hips away and replacing them with her hand, dragging his foreskin back and forth as she jacked him off slowly. 

“To let me fuck you,” Ilya gasped, bucking into her fist. It was a little dry, but after how much she’d teased his sensitive tip, the friction on his shaft felt amazing. 

“That’s not what we’re doing today, remember?” Svetlana replied. 

Ilya made a confused sound that turned into a groan when she roughly twisted her fist around the head of his cock and then let him go, swinging her leg over and stepping off the bed remarkably gracefully. 

Ilya pushed up onto his elbows but kept both hands flat on the bed. He didn’t want to provoke any further ire from her — not when his balls were practically pulsing with need. “What are we doing today?” he asked, his mind hazy with lust. 

Svetlana dug through his shorts and found his wallet, pulling out a condom. She clambered back onto the bed and rolled it onto him with a glint in her eye.

“I’m fucking you.”

Ilya barked out a laugh and flopped his head back, understanding her game. There was nothing for him to do at this point but play along. 

“Fine. Please fuck me, Sveta.” Ilya said, with an exasperated sigh. It was a bit emasculating, but then he felt stupid for thinking so. Mostly he was desperate for physical connection that would quiet his mind. 

After a beat of silence, he peeked down at Svetlana. She was on her knees, playing with herself with one hand and twisting a nipple with the other. She was purposefully putting on a show, closing her eyes and tossing her head around so her fluffy curls swayed alluringly, but her thighs were beginning to quiver which Ilya knew from experience meant she was well on her way to coming.  

Something inside Ilya trembled and broke. “Come here, Sveta, please. Please fuck me, don’t come without me. Don’t you need me?” Ilya begged mindlessly, suddenly feeling bereft and so far away. 

Svetlana’s eyes met his instantly. Her performative, coquettish expression fell away, replaced by one of understanding and deep care. 

“There you are, baby.” She crooned, crawling up over his body and positioning the head of his cock right at her entrance. “Yes, I need you,” she murmured into his ear as she sank down, taking his full length in one fluid motion. 

Ilya cried out, tears springing to his eyes at the feeling of her body letting him in, her warmth enveloping him. She laid her hands on his chest and fell into a rhythm,  rising up slowly and settling herself down again, grinding down each time she bottomed out. Flat on his back, hands frantically scrabbling to grip Svetlana’s silky sheets, all Ilya could do was take what she gave him. He felt the drag of his cock over every strong ridge inside her, and she clenched around him and shuddered when he thrust up to press the head of his cock right to the firm warmth of her cervix. 

Keeping him deep inside, Svetlana began to gently rock, rutting against him to get herself off. Truthfully, Ilya always loved this part — loved to watch someone use him to take what they needed. Even in this submissive position, he felt powerful, purposeful. It was why he loved having a big dick — not to affirm his masculinity, but because it helped him provide others pleasure and satisfaction. 

Ilya kept his eyes on Svetlana’s face — her open mouth letting out short, high pitched pants; her eyes squeezed closed in focus. Her pace sped, pressing and grinding down against the muscles just above Ilya’s dick, until she let out a long, almost pained moan and shuddered as she came, rolling her hips slowly a few more times to draw out the sensation. 

Svetlana opened her eyes and snorted when she saw Ilya’s face. 

“What are you smiling at? You haven’t even come.”

“I can’t be happy for you?” Ilya shot back, and then thrust up into her hard, making her shriek. 

She pinched his nipple in retribution before pulling off his cock and flipping around to face his feet.

She took him in again and picked right up with a brutal pace, then reached beneath her to grasp Ilya’s balls. She squeezed gently, in time with the rolling of her hips, and Ilya’s toes curled at the intensity. 

“Fuck, Sveta, like that,” he groaned as he thrust up into her, drawing low moans out of her as well. 

Suddenly, her hand left his balls, the cool air around them a shock. He let out an involuntary whine that transformed into something almost feral when he felt a spit-slick finger press and rub firmly at his asshole. 

He came hard, before Svetlana could even press inside. He panted as his hips jerked out of control, and he distantly realized that Sveta was shaking and clenching around him again, but it was hard to focus on anything but the spots blooming in his vision. 

After a few moments of heavy breathing, Svetlana lifted up off of him and settled back against the plush pillows. 

“I’ll give you a week to make the therapy appointment,” she said authoritatively. 

Ilya closed his eyes and hummed his assent, his ears still ringing from the strength of his orgasm. He felt a little lingering shame for his pitiful begging, but he knew it made Sveta happy to take on a more dominant role. She was probably the only person he would allow to do so — well, and he had let Shane… 

Just like that, his post-orgasm glow disappeared, replaced by total exhaustion. 

Ilya felt Sveta get up and start moving around the room, putting together an outfit. 

“You can come to the party if you want,” Sveta said, holding up two pairs of heels and then setting one pair back decisively. 

Ilya just grunted in response. He peeled the condom off his soft cock, always an unpleasant sensation, and dropped it into the waste basket by the vanity before shrugging his sling and athletic shorts back on. He flopped back onto the bed, grimacing at the throbbing from his right shoulder to his elbow, and pulled out his phone. When he unlocked it, it was still open to Miles’ Instagram page. Shane’s shy smile taunted him from the most recent post. 

Sveta came over to the bed, glanced at the phone screen, and kissed Ilya lightly on the brow before leaving him to brood in the dark.

Chapter End Notes

Full Shane POV chapter next...any predictions on his situation?

Chapter 15: Miles

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Shane's POV of December 2024 and January 2025.

Similar warning to last time: Shane is going to hook up with someone who is not Ilya. This fic will still have a happily ever after for them, eventually, but these are trials they must pass through.

Chapter Notes

Shane was grateful to escape to Ottawa for the holidays. Though he’d just been back home in November, he needed the grounding forces of his routine and his parents’ unconditional love more than ever. 

Last time Shane had gone home, he’d been sad and confused — focused on proving that he could be good enough sexually to satisfy Rozanov and chill enough to accept that they couldn't be exclusive. And he’d done all of that. He’d told Ilya his bullet points and then practically sucked his soul out through his dick. He’d let Ilya fuck him, with no promises that they would be anything more. He’d tolerated Ilya’s moodiness and kept his own panic private. He’d been social and kept a smile on his face at the going away party, even though all he’d wanted to do was get Ilya alone and tell him he’d pay whatever amount would make him stay. 

Then, once Ilya was back in Russia, Shane had created all these mental rules to keep him safe and comfortable. Never call Ilya — let him be the one to reach out when he wasn’t busy with his father. Don’t talk about sex — even when he was horny and desperate to be in that fuzzy brain place only Ilya could take him; even when Ilya prodded him with little jokes and innuendos that only served to sexually frustrate him further. Don’t talk to Ilya when anyone was around — even if it meant stepping out of the gym or cutting a conversation with someone else short, because there was only a little window of time each day that Ilya could talk, and when Shane missed it he felt like his brain was full of bees for the next 24 hours. 

He’d broken one of those unspoken rules one single time, and Ilya had ended things without letting him apologize or explain. So this time he went home, Shane wasn’t sad or confused. He was fucking pissed. 

Shane stayed with his parents through the end of December. He trained as hard as ever, spending hours each day at his old climbing gym, mostly grinding the hardest problems on the new Moonboard they had installed. In the evenings he watched cooking shows with his parents (once she’d had a glass of wine, his mom’s take-downs of contestants rivaled Gordon Ramsay’s). 

Shane agreed to ease up on his training for the few days around Christmas so that they could enjoy their usual traditions of walking through downtown Ottawa on Christmas Eve to see the lights and approximating the Japanese tradition of eating strawberry cake by having huge stacks of pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream on Christmas Day. Shane gave his mom a bottle of her favorite perfume and his dad a coffee table book — Birds of Western Canada. Shane’s parents got him a smart watch and throw pillow that said “Beta Male”. Shane looked at his mom for a long beat after she handed the pillow to him, then decided not to ask if she understood the pun. 

Usually Shane didn’t mind spending New Years with his parents, but he could feel himself getting irritable and snappy the longer he went without a single text from Ilya. Really, not a word? On Christmas? So when Rose invited him to Québec, Shane decided that he’d been moping long enough. People his age partied on New Years. Rozanov surely would be. He switched his plane tickets and packed his bags. 

Rose’s parents had a huge house just outside Québec City, on the winding, snowy road toward the Parc National de la Jacques-Cartier. Shane had stayed with Rose once before, back in high school when they were “dating,” and it was comforting that her house still looked almost exactly the same. It wasn’t quite a mansion, but it was certainly close; Rose and her three younger brothers each had their own rooms, and there were enough guest bedrooms and couches in the finished basement for them to each invite friends to stay. Rose’s dad had been a C-list movie star back in the early 2000’s, with his most famous role being a handsome but villainous kidnapper in the movie Under Dark, so along with a home gym, the basement had a decked-out TV room with built-in shelving that held hundreds of DVDs, organized alphabetically within genre. 

Shane and Rose were flopped on a huge L-shaped couch on the afternoon of December 31st, half-watching Love Actually. Rose had a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach and was scrolling Instagram, while Shane picked at a bowl of watermelon-mint salad with a fork and tried to not think about his own fucked up love life. 

“Miles vient à la fête ce soir,” Rose said to him without looking up from her phone. 

Shane looked over, trying to read Rose’s face for what his response was supposed to be. Unfortunately, her expression was completely neutral; she appeared to be watching a video of increasingly dangerous-looking snowboard tricks. 

“That’s nice,” Shane said. 

Rose paused her video and turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Il t'aime bien, tu sais.”

Shane blanched. “Wh—he doesn’t even know me!” 

“Parle français, mon cher, ton accent se dégrade.”

Shane huffed and then slowly enunciated in French, “Il ne me connaît pas.” 

“Ouias, il te connaît! Il t'a rencontré à Franzia-lympics! Il m'a dit qu'il te trouve fin et ben chix.” 

“Fine and…what?” 

“Nice and hot, Shane. Sacrament!” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Okay, que dois-je faire de ces informations?” 

“Je ne sais pas, peut-être l'Frencher? Sortir de ta Rozanov mauvaise humeur?”

Shane dropped his fork noisily into his salad bowl, splashing flecks of watermelon juice onto his shirt. He swore under his breath and got up to retrieve his Tide pen. He secretly hoped that Rose would forget what they were discussing by the time he came back in a new top, but she was patiently waiting for him with her video still paused. 

Rose looked at him appraisingly and then seemed to pick the battle of making Shane talk about his emotions over that of making him practice French. 

“You were smiling at your phone 24/7 for a few weeks and then you just…stopped. Did you guys break up or something?” 

Shane settled back onto the couch and pulled a pillow onto his lap, picking at a loose thread. It took effort to keep his face neutral, to hold back the angry tears he’d already shed too many of over the past few weeks. 

“He’s an asshole,” Shane said simply, not meeting Rose’s eyes. 

Rose hummed in acknowledgement and waited for him to go on. 

“We didn’t break up because we weren’t anything. Not officially anyway. But yeah, he…ended things. Said we shouldn’t talk any more, but that he’d see me at the World Cup. And when we’re there, he’ll probably want to fuck me, and I’ll probably be dumb enough to let him.” 

As the words tumbled out of Shane’s mouth, he knew they were true, which made him furious at both Rozanov and himself. 

“Did you…?” Rose asked carefully, trailing off like she was scared to put a more polite word to what Shane had said. 

He cut her off. “Yeah.” 

Shane’s cheeks were flushed red and his eyes were fixed angrily on his thumb, where he was picking at a scab. Rose shifted toward Shane on the couch like she intended to hug him, but she noticed when he stiffened and held herself back. 

“Wow,” she breathed. “Ouais, c’est un connard.” 

By 11:30 PM, the Landry house was full to the brim with tipsy, excited bodies. On the upper floor, men and women in their 50’s decked out in sparkly formalwear danced to Celine Dion and Shania Twain, while the basement was dark and noisy and packed with the Landry children’s friends. The only people who Shane knew at the party were Rose and Miles, who both knew a majority of the other kids there from high school. Shane was dealing with this by pretending to be fascinated with the gin and ginger ale Rose had made him and going to the bathroom every half hour to hyperventilate in private. 

On his way out of the bathroom for possibly the 8th time, Miles spotted him and beelined over, two drinks in his hands. 

“There you are!” he shouted over the music, as if Shane hadn’t been standing in one place for most of the night. 

Miles handed Shane one of the cups and put a hand on his bicep, giving a little squeeze. 

“That was for Rose, but I think she’s had plenty, and you seem like you haven’t had enough,” Miles said, slurring slightly. 

Shane laughed politely and took a sip. It tasted like fruit punch and vodka. 

“It’s fruit punch and vodka,” Miles said, leaning close enough that Shane could feel his breath on his ear. It made the hairs on his neck stand up. 

“Come dance with us!” Miles exclaimed, tugging on Shane’s shirt and walking backwards into the crowd of bodies. Shane took a deep sip of the sugary drink and followed. 

When they reached Rose, she whooped and threw her arms around Shane like she hadn’t seen him in months rather than hours. Keeping her hold around his neck, she swayed with him chest to chest, and Miles mirrored her on Shane’s other side, sliding one hand around his stomach and grinding lightly into him from behind. Shane felt oddly comfortable between them, cocooned from the rest of the bodies on the makeshift dance floor. He was usually an awkward dancer, but this time he didn’t have to think about anything — Rose and Miles easily fell into the same rhythm and moved his body for him.  

When the up-tempo Drake song that had been playing ended and a slow R&B track came on, Rose stepped back and pulled out her phone. 

“Vous êtes trop mignons tous les deux!” she shouted, “Laissez-moi prendre une photo!”

Rose snapped a series of photos as they continued dancing. Shane was used to this by now — she was a bit of an Instagram addict — so he just closed his eyes, leaning into his pleasant tipsiness and the feeling of warm, masculine hands on his waist. His mind drifted to his conversation with Rose earlier that day, about Miles liking him, about Ilya… Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to try things with another man, he thought. It would put his sexual experience with Rozanov to some use, and he had been sort of gnawing at the bars of his enclosure going back to just his hand and his embarrassingly purple dildo. Miles was friendly, he was Rose-approved, and he was objectively attractive. Plus, he was out — no need for secrecy or confusion. 

Rose was still taking photos, crouching down and calling out for different angles like a paparazzi. Shifting in even closer, Miles kissed Shane on the cheek, hamming it up for the camera. Feeling a bit reckless, Shane blindly reached an arm up behind him, turned his head, and pulled Miles in for a real kiss. 

It was a brief kiss, probably only a few seconds, and a bit awkward because of the angle. Still, Miles had plush, soft lips with a lingering sweetness on them. Shane turned around to face Miles and took in his surprised but delighted expression, giving him a coy smile in return as he tipped his cup back and finished his drink. The vodka was so muted by the fruit punch that it barely burned. 

Rose pounced on them both a moment later, squealing and shaking Shane by the shoulder, speaking in rapid French. Miles responded to her, laughing loudly at something Shane missed. Miles’ French was perfect, though Shane noticed that his accent was neither Québécois nor Parisian. The song changed again, this time to some new Justin Bieber song, and Miles pulled Shane’s arms around him from behind, reversing their previous dancing position. Rose seemed to take a cue from this, giving Miles and Shane each a kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

Miles kept his hands over Shane’s on his stomach as he wound his hips back and forth. Shane felt a bit awkward again all of a sudden. He and Miles were the same height, so he had to turn his head to the side to not have a face full of hair. Shane tried to match what other people around them were doing, but he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to grind his hips the same direction as Miles, or maybe the opposite way to create friction. Speaking of friction, whatever direction Shane swayed his hips, Miles’ ass was brushing over Shane’s dick lightly but repeatedly, and Shane realized with some embarrassment that he was getting hard. He tried to pull back to adjust himself, but Miles tightened his hands on Shane’s forearms and pulled him in even tighter. 

“Let me feel you, baby,” Miles purred. 

Shane felt himself blush all the way from his neck to his ears, and he was glad he was behind Miles so he didn’t see it. He tried to focus on listening to the song’s lyrics, hoping the distraction might calm his body down a little.

The way you got me all in my head

I think I’d rather you in my bed 

Whatever it is, you know I can take it

I’m counting the days, how many days til I can see you again 

“Do you want to, um, get some air?” Shane asked, suddenly feeling a bit claustrophobic. Miles smiled and took his hand, leading him through the crowd to a door that led out to a small back patio. 

There was a fire pit going, and a cluster of what appeared to be teenage hockey boys were joking and jostling each other around it. Shane recognized Rose’s younger brother Peter and gave him a small wave. 

There was a crust of frozen snow on the ground, and Shane wasn’t wearing a coat, but the cold felt amazing on his overheated skin. He and Miles leaned against the house, putting some distance between themselves and the group of teens. Miles fished in his pocket and pulled out a vape. He offered it to Shane with a raise of his eyebrows. 

“Oh, no thanks. Thank you though.” Shane gave a small smile and waved his hand toward the vape in a way that he hoped looked cool and casual, and not like he had never done a drug stronger than ibuprofen.

“You’re so cute,” Miles said, with a broad, easy smile. He tucked the vape back into his pocket without taking a drag himself. He really was very good looking. His skin was a deep, chocolate brown, smooth and unblemished. He had strong cheekbones and piercing brown eyes and his body was slight but strong, like a runner. 

“Thank you. Um, you are too,” Shane replied. He felt a bit dumb for saying ‘thank you’ so many times, but he wasn’t really sure what else to say. 

They smiled at each other for a moment, and then Miles leaned in. Shane darted a look at the teenage hockey bros, but none of them were paying any mind. Shane closed the rest of the distance, and they were kissing. 

It was nice. A better angle this time, at least. Shane wasn’t completely stiff and awkward, like back when he’d kissed Rose or other girls, but he didn’t really feel relaxed either. He felt like he was manually moving his mouth, deciding when to tilt his head — like inside, when he’d been overthinking how to sway on the dance floor. Shane thought about how when Ilya kissed him, he usually ended up hard and moaning into his mouth after about thirty seconds. But maybe that wasn’t normal — kissing feeling that intense. Maybe that was part of the problem with them. 

When they pulled back, Miles was breathing a bit heavily. Shane racked his brain for something to say. 

“Are you excited for next semester?” 

Miles’ laughed lightly, shifting back to lean against the wall, facing Shane. “Oh, did Rose not tell you? I’m actually — you know how Lucasfilm has a studio in Vancouver? I’m doing an externship there this semester, in film production.” 

“Externship?” 

“It’s like an internship but…external I guess. I dunno, it’s what McGill calls them,” Miles said with another big smile. He had nice teeth, straight and white, like a toothpaste advertisement. “You can’t tell anyone, but they’re starting production on the new X Squad movie. I’m sure I’ll just be, like, getting coffee for people, but I’ve always wanted to be around famous actors.”

“They’re making a new X-Squad movie?” Shane choked out while trying to process everything Miles had just said. 

“Yeah, I know, it’s like the 10th one,” Miles said, rolling his eyes. “I think they’re bringing back some of the characters that died in, like, the 7th or 8th movie.” 

“And you’ll be in Vancouver the whole semester?” Shane asked dumbly. 

“Yep! I’m so excited.” 

Shane felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. He hadn’t really thought through kissing Miles, beyond forgetting about Rozanov for the night. Now that they would be living in the same city for a bit, maybe Miles would want to hang out together again, or even date. Which would be good, right? Shane wanted to date a gay man, and Miles was a gay man — so why did he feel like he had just realized he was in quicksand, and it was already up to his hips? 

From inside the house, Shane heard muffled exuberant shouting, counting down to the new year. 

“We should go inside,” he said, pushing off the wall. He walked inside quickly, not looking back, but feeling that Miles was following behind. 

Their first date was at the Oval. Well, Shane wasn’t sure if it was a date, at first. Miles arrived in Vancouver the second week of January, and a few days later he texted Shane saying he was thinking of learning to boulder. They agreed to meet during public hours at the training center that Friday evening. 

Shane waited at the front doors of the Oval, trying not to think about a morning in September when he had stood in the same spot waiting for Rozanov to arrive. It was totally different, anyway, once Miles arrived. He immediately kissed Shane on the cheek, and he chattered happily about his externship for more or less the next 2 hours — while they walked through the winding white halls, while they found rental shoes that fit him, while Shane taught him about only using holds that were tagged with the same color and finishing with two hands. Shane got the sense about a half hour in that Miles wasn’t actually that interested in learning to climb — he actually seemed a bit afraid of heights, which Shane had forgotten was even a part of bouldering. 

After attempting the few easy boulders that were set for members of the public, Miles took off his rental shoes and asked Shane to show him some harder problems. Shane had already done his usual training for the day, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like showing off a bit. Miles seemed a bit bored watching Shane climb some tricky slab problems, but he was effusive when Shane topped a flashy dynamic problem. Shane tried not to think about the fact that before September he probably wouldn’t have even attempted it. 

After climbing, they went out for dinner at the sushi place down the street. Shane got what he usually did, tuna sashimi, and Miles got a complicated roll with shrimp tempura and jalapeños. Miles seemed to have finally exhausted the stories from his first week at the externship, so Shane asked about his family (he had thought of this conversation prompt ahead of time) and Miles filled the rest of their meal with stories of his mother emigrating from Haiti to Québec and raising five children, of which Miles was the youngest. 

Shane’s social battery was already running low at that point, but when Miles invited him back to his place, he made himself go. He would get fucked by someone who wasn’t Ilya Rozanov, and that chapter of his life would be officially closed. Simple. 

It started out fine. They got back to the apartment Miles was subletting in the Financial District, and Miles told Shane to get comfortable while he cleaned up in the bathroom. Shane didn’t think anything of it; he had taken a quick shower at the gym before heading to dinner, but Miles hadn’t, so it made sense that he would want to rinse off. Shane sat on the couch and pulled up Instagram on his phone. Miles had posted a picture of them at dinner to his story; Shane tapped the heart. He swiped out of Instagram into WhatsApp with the sudden impulse to text Ilya something — I hate you or maybe I miss you — then clicked his phone off and stuffed it under his thigh. 

Miles came out with just a towel around his waist, and Shane took in his body as they walked together to the bedroom. Miles’ chest and stomach were flat, strong but not heavily muscled, and from the faint stubble it seemed like he shaved his body. He had a great ass, enviable really, and Miles grinned when he looked over his shoulder and caught Shane staring at it. 

Once they got in bed together, things were…confusing. It was sort of like when they danced or when they kissed — instead of Shane’s mind shutting off, he felt like he was driving his body on manual. They were kissing, their mouths moving, licking, nibbling a little, but every time they moved there was a certain jockeying to figure out whose legs went where. When he and Ilya had hooked up those first few times, there had been a competitive edge to some of it — who was getting to their knees first, who could pin the other harder against the wall or the bed. But with Miles, it seemed like their legs were getting tangled accidentally — like when you’re trying to pass someone on the street but both step out of the way in the same direction. 

And Miles was saying things that were making the confusion even worse. As he undressed Shane, he murmured a sultry narration about each of Shane’s muscles, how strong and sexy he was. And when he pulled off Shane’s boxer briefs, he brought his mouth right next to his ear and breathed, “I’m gonna need three fingers before I take that.”

That was finally clear enough to click things into place for Shane. He pulled back, his eyes wide. 

“Before you—” he choked out. 

Miles scanned his face, his expression going from sultry to concerned. 

“You don’t want to?” he asked. 

“No, I mean yes! I’ve just never—”

“Topped? You’ve never topped?” Miles said, with what sounded like genuine disbelief. 

Shane shrugged and pulled his knees up, feeling a bit exposed now that they were naked but not touching. Miles did not seem bothered by the nudity; he reached out and placed a warm hand on Shane’s forearm where it wrapped around his calf. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have assumed. I did ask Rose, but she said that the guy you were with before — that you were probably vers.”

He seemed to notice Shane tensing up even more, or possibly the look in his eyes going from skittish to near-panic. 

“Don’t worry, she said she couldn’t tell me much about him! Just that you guys were like, both masc, both athletes. But she’s not gay, so I’m not really sure why I listened to her.” 

Shane was having that quicksand feeling again, but now it was up to his chest, constricting his breathing, threatening to swallow him completely. He felt like, for all the sexual studying he had done at home in November, he had failed. He had embarrassed himself again. 

“Have you?” Shane’s voice came out smaller than he would have liked. He forced himself to meet Miles’ gaze and hoped the moisture he felt in his eyes wasn’t noticeable. 

“Have I topped?” Miles smiled kindly. “Yeah, a few times. It’s not my favorite thing, but, yeah. We can do that.” 

It was simpler after that. Not as natural as with Ilya, and certainly not rough or degrading, like Shane had sometimes enjoyed but would have been humiliated to ask for. But Miles kept up his dirty praise of Shane’s body and they moved through familiar body positions until they both got off — it was sort of like working on a group project. 

They lay next to each other afterwards in amicable silence, until Shane cleared his throat and said,  “Well…thanks.”

Miles laughed, bright and open, and twisted to push Shane’s shoulder. 

“You have to stop saying that all the time.” 

There were more dates and more sex in the following weeks. Miles topped a few more times, but mostly they blew each other or used toys. In any case, they were both busy during the week, and on the weekends they spent most of their time watching movies with Rose and trying new restaurants in the West End. 

Around the end of the month, Miles posted what he called a “hard launch on the grid” to Instagram, which garnered a surprising number of likes and hyperbolic comments from his friends and followers. Miles been growing a bit of a following on Instagram and TikTok by posting about his externship (or, as he liked to call it, "X-ternship") at Lucasfilm, and in fact, since he’d been tagged in the post, Shane started gaining followers too. His mom, who usually managed his page, was overjoyed — she even reached out to Red Bull to negotiate a higher rate for his social media posts, since now they would get more of something she called “impressions.” 

Shane didn’t exactly know how he felt about it all. Miles and Rose and his mom were happy, and he was glad for that. He was keeping up with his training and eating three healthy meals a day. His new fitness watch said he was sleeping enough, if a bit restlessly. But some part of him sort of felt offline — in hibernation. 

His therapist said it might be Seasonal Affective Disorder, so he bought a special, expensive lamp and stared at it in the evenings and didn’t feel any better. Then, usually, he would think about Ilya, jack off in the shower, and go to bed feeling even worse. It wasn’t an ideal routine, but he thought it might get him through to the World Cup.

Chapter End Notes

Hi friends :) It's my birthday on the 22nd, and as a birthday present I would looove some comments (and maybe send the fic to a friend!) ❤️❤️❤️

How are we feeling about my unhinged metaphors? Did you catch the vodka symbolism? How about my Wolfbird reference 😜

Chapter 16: Progress

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

February and March 2025, in Moscow and Vancouver

CW: drug use, mentions of passive suicidal ideation, also Shane still being in a relationship with not-Ilya

Chapter Notes

I always wonder about the jobs of the authors of fics, and I'm putting mine to use in this chapter! I'm a social worker, not currently practicing as a therapist, but I have previously. The progress note format (SOAP notes) and the type of language used to describe the sessions is accurate, at least in my experience! The notes would obviously be written in Russian, so just suspend your disbelief about that part please. I didn't want to put the whole thing in italics and make it hard to read.

Hello Ilya, you have been matched with the following psychologist:

Galina M. 

City: Moscow

Speaks: Russian, English

Specialties: Complex trauma, Self-esteem, Romantic and family relationships, Decision-making and motivation

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 1

February 10, 2025

Subjective: 

Client reports reason for coming to therapy is that a friend told him he had to. 

Client does not currently have any psychological diagnoses and is not taking any psychotropic medication; reports taking occasional pain medicine following recent surgery. 

Client endorses frequent alcohol and substance use, regarding which he appears to be in the contemplative stage of change.

Session focused on identifying presenting problems in client’s life. Client is partially responsible for caring for his father, who has dementia. Client has one brother with whom he has a negative relationship. Client was unwilling to speak about his mother, beyond stating that she died a long time ago. Client had recent surgery and is not currently connected to outpatient physical and occupational therapy. Client reports having distressing dreams, however declined to share about them. 

Client endorsed passive suicidal ideation; denied intent and plan. 

Objective: 

Client logged on to session on time. Client was well-groomed and dressed in clothing appropriate for the season. Client’s right arm is in a sling, which client reports is due to recent shoulder surgery. Client’s speech is organized and thoughtful. 

Client appears conflicted regarding participating in therapy, as evidenced by his statement that he is only attending due to his friend’s insistence. 

Client appears distressed by his father’s condition and family relationships, as evidenced by raised volume and speed of speech when discussing these topics.  

Assessment: 

Client presents with symptoms of depression, with a differential diagnosis of PTSD. Client appears hesitant to share openly, however has self-awareness regarding harmful coping strategies (alcohol/substance use). 

Plan: 

Client commits to continuing therapy on a weekly basis. Therapist will continue to assess client for symptoms of depression and PTSD. Therapist will revisit the topic of client’s mother and family relationships in future sessions, once rapport has been built. 

February 16, 2025

Miles Allen:

Heyyy 

My place tonight after movie? 

Shane Hollander:

Sorry, I can’t do tonight.

I need to meal prep for the week. 

Miles Allen:

Booooo 🍅🍅

Still coming to movie tho?

Shane Hollander:

Yep, wouldn’t miss it. 

I know you need to do all the research possible on horrible superhero movies. 

Miles Allen:

It’s a good thing ur cute 

Because you are not funny 

😂

Shane Hollander:

See you later.

 ❤️

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 2

February 17, 2025

Subjective: 

Client began session by apologizing for being late, stating that it was a difficult week and he is currently hung over. When asked why it was a difficult week, client stated that he has been “having dreams again”. Client stated he is still not ready to discuss the content of his dreams. 

When asked about his alcohol and drug use over the past week, client stated that he drank almost every day and used marijuana on 3-4 occasions. Client reported using alcohol and marijuana outside of the home while his father is asleep. Client stated that his primary reasons for use of alcohol and substances is to relax and to sleep without bad dreams.  

Objective: 

Client logged on to session ten minutes late, which client stated was related to being hung over. Client was relatively well-groomed, however hair appeared messier than last session and had visible bags under his eyes. Client continues to show a lack of comfort in the therapeutic relationship, as evidenced by resistance to sharing content of dreams. 

Assessment: 

Diagnosis for client is still tentative — depression with ddx of PTSD. Client’s insomnia and nightmares may be symptoms of PTSD.  

Plan: 

Client will keep a log for the following week of alcohol and substance use, and its impact on his physical and mental health. Therapist and client will revisit this topic in next session, with a goal of moving client to preparation stage of change.

February 20, 2025

Yuna Hollander:

Did you receive the contract from Black Diamond? Once you sign and email back they will mail the gear directly to you. Love you!  

Shane Hollander:

Mom. 

I told you I didn’t want to do that one!!

You know I only wear Skwamas. I literally have three backup pairs in my closet already.

Even for outdoors I wear Mandalas.

Yuna Hollander:

I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt you to explore outside of La Sportiva, honey. 

It would be leaving money on the table to turn down Black Diamond. I understand that you are used to your current shoes, but this could be like Asakusas. 

Shane Hollander:

I only stopped wearing Asakusa because they literally went out of business!! 

And I was distracted every time I climbed for the next 6 months.

I like not having to think about how my feet feel in my shoes. I have enough to worry about when I’m climbing. 

—

Yuna Hollander:

I will ask Black Diamond to take out the clause regarding wearing their shoes at comps. We can just do the social posts. 

Good? 

Shane Hollander:

Fine.

Love you.

David Hollander:

Love you, son! 👨‍❤️‍👨

Shane Hollander:

Dad…🤦‍♂️

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 3

February 24, 2025

Subjective: 

Client presented log of alcohol and substance use over the past week. Client noted a reduction in alcohol and substance use when utilizing log because he knew he would be accountable for it. Client stated that he also sent a picture of his log to the friend who recommended he try therapy, who was happy for him. 

Client states that without using alcohol and illicit substances, he has more frequent and distressing dreams. Client was willing to share one recent dream, in which he was smoking and a “black dog with freckles” took the cigarette and ran away. 

Client stated that his friend is now encouraging him to see a physical therapist. Client and therapist collaboratively created a plan for client to contact former coach for physical therapist recommendations. 

Objective: 

Client logged in for session on time. Client was well-groomed. Client appeared more comfortable with therapist this session, as evidenced by relaxed posture and smiling. Client is showing increased commitment to therapeutic process, as evidenced by completing homework and stating that his friend “recommended” rather than “made him” pursue therapy. Client’s log showed use of alcohol on 4 occasions and marijuana on 2 occasions in the past week. The client abstained from other illicit substances.  

Assessment: 

Formal diagnosis is still pending — depression ddx PTSD. Client is showing significant progress in openness to therapist. 

Plan: 

Client will attempt to cut back alcohol use to 3x per week and use of illicit substances to 1x per week and will continue using tracker. Client will make contact with former coach regarding referral to physical therapist. 

February 27, 2025

Rose Landry: 

You okay? Where did you go? 

Shane Hollander:

Yeah, sorry.

Just panicking.

Heard coach talking about World Cup schedule.

I’m okay now.

Rose Landry:

I’ll come find you 

—

Shane Hollander: 

Thanks for earlier. 

Sorry again. I’m doing better now that I ate.

Rose Landry:

It’s okay, mon chéri

Remember, I’ll be there at the World Cup. We’ll get through it together. Et je tuerai Rozanov s'il s'en prend à toi.

Shane Hollander:

You can’t say things like that. What if someone is spying on our phones? 

Rose Landry:

That’s why I wrote it in French 😂

We can tell them it’s a translation issue 

Shane Hollander:

🙄

❤️

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 4

March 3, 2025

Subjective:

Session began with a review of client’s objectives/homework from last session. Client reported alcohol use 4x in past week and marijuana use 2x. Client and therapist discussed that this is higher alcohol/substance use than the goal that was set, however is an improvement from the client’s pre-therapy rate of usage. Client reported meeting with former coach in person, who recommended a physical therapist and offered client a job at the climbing gym, coaching youth climbers. Client stated he accepted the job and was excited to begin. Therapist praised client for his progress and asked client to acknowledge how far he has come in 4 weeks. Client became dysregulated and used negative self-talk, comparing current life circumstances and abilities to those before his injury. Client ended session early. 

Objective:

Client was on time to appointment, however ended session early. Client began session with a relaxed, open posture, however showed physical signs of distress later in conversation (tense body language; fidgeting with fingers, nose, and ear; raised voice) after therapist attempted to acknowledge/celebrate client’s successes. 

Assessment:

Formal diagnosis pending — depression ddx PTSD. 

Plan:

Client appears to struggle with receiving and giving self praise, which caused a rupture of the therapeutic relationship. Therapist will revisit utilizing praise and positive self-talk in later sessions, once greater rapport has been built. Client will continue using alcohol/substance use tracker. 

March 5, 2025

Shane Hollander:

My therapist said I should try writing a letter to you with all the things I wish I could say and then not send it. So I’m typing this out, even though it feels really dumb. I wish I could ask you how your father is doing and tell you how impressed I am that you’re able to take care of him. I still need my parents to take care of me. I can’t imagine the roles being reversed. I wish I knew if you were sleeping with other people and if you like them more than me. I have a boyfriend named Miles and I’m happy when I’m with him, but it’s different than it was with you. I feel okay with who I am when I’m around Miles, but with you, I always wanted to be an even better version of myself. I don’t know if that makes sense. I guess it doesn’t matter since you won’t read this anyway. I was really angry at you, but I’m not anymore. When I look at our old texts, I see how scared and tired you were. I think I was falling in love with you. 

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 5

March 10, 2025

Subjective:

Session began with check-in regarding substance use. Client reported using alcohol 2x in past week and marijuana 5x in the past week, which he attributed to pain management. Client acknowledged that this is higher than agreed-upon goal. Therapist noted that alcohol use is within therapy goal; client reluctantly agreed that this is a success. 

Client reported that he has begun physical therapy for his shoulder, with a goal of being able to participate in the IFSC Climbing World Cup in mid-April. Client states that he is much weaker than he was pre-injury and has pain/soreness following physical therapy sessions. Therapist normalized this as part of body’s healing process. Client stated feelings of embarrassment and shame regarding how his body currently looks and how he may perform in the World Cup. Therapist gently acknowledged these feelings and thanked client for his openness. Client stated he will begin coaching youth climbers in the next week. 

Objective:

Client was well-groomed and no longer wearing sling. 

Client was tearful when discussing emotions of embarrassment and shame. Client showed embarrassment toward crying, as evidenced by turning away from camera and apologizing. Client stayed for entire session, even when experiencing strong emotions, which is evidence of continued rapport-building and engagement with the therapeutic process. 

Assessment:

Formal diagnosis pending — depression ddx PTSD. 

Plan: 

Client will continue utilizing alcohol/substance tracker with goal of alcohol use 3x or less per week and other substances 1x per week or less. Client will discuss pain with physical therapist and utilize pain management techniques (anti-inflammatory medications, heat, stretching). 

March 12, 2025

Shane Hollander:

Sorry if that was weird tonight!!

Miles Allen:

Omg no don’t worry 

It was hot 

I’m glad you told me what you wanted 😘

Shane Hollander:

Yeah, it was really hot.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you have good acting skills.

Miles Allen:

Yeah, this is exactly why I’m studying film

I’ll need to learn some other accents too 

To keep things spicy 🌶️😅

Shane Hollander:

🥵

—

Sorry if that emoji was weird

Miles Allen:

STOP SAYING SORRY!!! 

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 6

March 17, 2025

Subjective:

Session began with check-in regarding alcohol/substance use. Client reported using alcohol 2x in the week and marijuana 3x. Therapist and client acknowledged that marijuana use is still above goal, however a reduction from last week. Client reported that using pain medication and heat were helpful in reducing physical therapy pain, however marijuana was used to address sadness and distressing dreams. 

Client disclosed that his mother died by suicide (overdose — “sleeping pills”) when he was 12 years old, and he was the one who found her. Client stated that some of the youth he is coaching are around 12 years old, and they seem very young to him — younger than he felt at that age. Client reported recent dream of climbing a tree and wanting to jump to his mother; in the dream, his mother walked away without catching him, and as a result he fell and hurt his shoulder. Client stated that he had increased shoulder pain the following day. Client reported also dreaming about a former romantic partner on two occasions this week, however refused to give details about the dreams or partner.  

Therapist opened discussion with client regarding diagnosis. Therapist provided psychoeducation on depression and PTSD. Client became dysregulated regarding receiving a psychiatric diagnosis. Therapist reassured client that no formal diagnosis has to be assigned at this time. 

Objective:

Client was on time and stayed for entire session, despite some dysregulation at the end of the session. Significant rapport has been built with the client, as evidenced by client sharing about his mother’s death and the content of a distressing dream. Additional evidence of rapport-building is that client brought up a former romantic partner. Client did not use gendered pronouns or verb conjugations when discussing partner. 

Client appeared distressed by the prospect of receiving a psychiatric diagnosis, as evidenced by physical agitation, raised voice, and attempts to dismiss his previous statements.  

Assessment:

Formal diagnoses of MDD and PTSD are likely, however further assessment and discussion with client is needed. 

Plan: 

Client will continue using alcohol/substance use tracker and continue attempts to use alternative pain management (pain medication, heat). Therapist will return to topics of client’s disrupted childhood in future sessions. Therapist will use gender neutral language regarding client’s former partner until client specifies. Therapist will re-visit discussion of psychiatric diagnosis in future sessions. 

March 20, 2025

Yuna Hollander:

Good morning, honey! Please remember to send me your flight details for the World Cup competitions. 

Shane Hollander:

[image: round trip flight from Vancouver, Canada to Keqiao, China, leaving April 17 and returning April 21]

[image: flight from Vancouver, Canada to Curitiba, Brazil on May 15]

[image: flight from Curitiba, Brazil to Salt Lake City, USA on May 20]

[image: flight from Salt Lake City, USA to Vancouver, Canada on May 26]

This is the first set. 

I’ll get the Europe ones later once we see the standings.  

Yuna Hollander: 

Great! Should we join you for any of them?

David Hollander:

Maybe we can join you in Brazil! 

Your mom could use a caipirinha or 5

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 7

March 24, 2025

Subjective:

Session began with check-in regarding substance use. Client stated 1x alcohol use this week and 5x marijuana use. Client again reported use related to dealing with negative emotions and insomnia/distressing dreams. Client expressed frustration with self for not meeting goals regarding substance use. 

Client disclosed continuing dreams about his mother. Client stated that his father has been asking questions about client’s mother recently, frequently does not recognize/remember his current wife, and has been attempting to elope from the home at night. Client stated that his brother spoke with father’s doctor, who recommended medication for sedation/sleep, but the client does not want to have that in the home. When asked why, client disclosed worrying about having access to pills. 

Therapist assessed client’s current suicidal ideation. Client stated continuing passive suicidal ideation, without intent or plan, however acknowledged that he is fearful that if he had access to sleeping pills, there could be an “accident”. Client clarified that this is what his father called his mother’s suicide. Therapist noted that check-ins regarding suicidal ideation will be added to every session and client was provided phone numbers/resources to contact if suicidal ideation becomes active and therapist can not be reached. Therapist recommended that client’s father’s medications be given by step-mother or brother and kept in a locked area. 

Objective:

Client continues to make progress in trusting therapeutic relationship, as evidenced by sharing more about his family stressors and suicidal ideation. Client appears to have complex feelings regarding his mother’s suicide, as evidenced by using his father’s word, “accident”, in reference to his own potential for self-harm. 

Assessment:

Formal diagnoses of MDD and PTSD likely, further assessment and discussion with client is needed. 

Plan: 

Client will continue to log alcohol/substance use. Client will make a plan with his brother and step-mother regarding father’s medication. Therapist will address client’s social support system in next session. 

March 28, 2025

Shane Hollander:

Hey babe.

Do you mind taking that post down?

Miles Allen:

Why???? 

We look so cute! 

Shane Hollander:

Maybe you could put it on your private story instead?

Miles Allen:

What’s wrong with it?

I posted it like 15 mins ago and it already has 80 likes

If I take it down now it’ll be weird 

Shane Hollander:

I don’t want pictures like that being reposted on climbing blogs and stuff.

Miles Allen:

Pics like what? 

Where you’re happy???? with your boyfriend???

I thought we were done with this  

Shane Hollander:

It’s not a big deal for you in the film industry.

It’s still a thing for athletes.

Miles Allen:

Come on, Shane 🙄

It’s not like you play football  

Shane Hollander:

Fine, leave the post up.

I’m busy training for World Cup this weekend, won’t be able to hang out.

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 8

March 31, 2025

Subjective: 

Session began with check-ins regarding alcohol/substance use and suicidal ideation. Client reported 2x alcohol use and 1x marijuana use. Therapist affirmed client for meeting his goal regarding both alcohol and substance use for the first time. Client downplayed the accomplishment, however did not become dysregulated as in previous sessions. Client expressed ongoing passive suicidal ideation without plan or intent, however noted a reduction in suicidal ideation on days when he coaches youth climbers. 

Client stated that his step-mother now gives his father all medications, however stated that he did not tell step-mother why he wanted this. Client stated that nobody knows he is doing therapy besides one friend. 

Therapist asked regarding progress of physical therapy. Client stated that coaching has been a motivation to make progress in physical therapy because he wants to demonstrate moves for youth. Client stated that he is now able to do exercises using both arms and has seen an increase in muscle tone throughout his body. Client reported wanting to look attractive to others. Therapist asked whether he specifically wants to look attractive to women or men. Client stated “both”. Client stated he would like to talk about a different topic.  

Therapist re-introduced topic of psychiatric diagnoses: depression and PTSD. Client responded that he “thought [he] was doing better.” Therapist affirmed client’s successes. Therapist provided psychoeducation/reassurance that diagnoses are not a sign of failure. Therapist noted symptoms that patient experiences which align with a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder (depressed mood, weight loss, feelings of worthlessness, recurrent suicidal ideation) and PTSD (intrusive distressing memories/dreams relating to traumatic event, avoidance of reminders of traumatic event such as pills, negative beliefs about self — “I am not strong/good enough”). Therapist noted the genetic component of depression. Client was interested in this concept and stated he will do research and think more about the potential diagnoses. 

Objective: 

Client arrived on time and stayed for the duration of session. Client was well-groomed and was wearing tighter-fitting clothing than in previous sessions. Client appears to have improved mood, as evidenced by positive statements about coaching and regarding his body. Client appears to center his self-worth on his body, both physical abilities and physical attractiveness. 

Client appeared uncomfortable/unwilling to discuss questions of sexuality, as evidenced by asking to change the topic. 

Client responded with less dysregulation and increased acceptance compared to previously when discussing topic of psychiatric diagnoses, as evidenced by nodding while therapist described symptoms of MDD and PTSD. Client became tearful when therapist noted client’s belief that he is “not strong/good enough”. Client did not turn away from camera while crying, showing increased trust in therapeutic relationship. 

Assessment:

MDD and PTSD. Client is showing reduction in alcohol/substance use. Client reports reduced suicidal ideation this week. 

Plan: 

Client will continue to track alcohol/substance use. Client will do further research regarding MDD and PTSD diagnoses. Therapist will not re-visit subject of client’s sexuality unless initiated by client. 

April 1, 2025

David Hollander:

Did you hear they’re moving the 2028 Olympics to Ottawa? 

Shane Hollander:

???????????

David Hollander:

April Fools! 

Shane Hollander:

🙄🙄🙄🙄

David Hollander:

Got you good, kiddo 

[gif: dog with sunglasses on a skateboard]

Progress Note - Ilya R Session 9

April 7, 2025

Subjective:

Client began session by asking if there is a genetic component to dementia. Therapist noted that this is outside therapist’s scope of practice and recommended speaking with a medical doctor. At client’s insistence, therapist stated there is a hereditary component to dementia. 

Client reported using alcohol 2x this week, using marijuana 1x, and using cocaine 1x. Client stated that he has used cocaine in some prior weeks as well, but did not tell therapist. When questioned why he did not tell therapist previously, he stated that he did not know. Therapist affirmed client for sharing and stated that it is better for therapist to know the full extent of client’s substance use. Client stated that he uses cocaine in social settings only and has difficulty declining when offered. Therapist challenged client to try declining on one occasion and noticing what feelings come up. 

Client stated ongoing passive suicidal ideation, with no plan or intent, and stated that it is not very frequent now. Client stated that he agrees with therapist’s diagnoses of depression and PTSD, but he does not want to take pills. Therapist noted that while medication can be helpful, talk therapy is sufficient treatment for some. 

When asked about his goal of competing in the climbing World Cup, client stated that he will not be strong enough in time to participate in the competition in mid-April. The client stated that he should be able to compete in future competitions in May and June. Client stated that he is thinking of still attending the competition in April as a spectator. When asked how he feels about this, client expressed some embarrassment and hesitation, however also stated that it would be good motivation to continue physical therapy. 

Objective: 

Client was on time for session and stayed for entire session length. 

Client appears to be concerned about himself or other family members developing dementia, as evidenced by starting the session on this topic, rather than following the usual session format, and distress (fidgeting with ear and hair, raised voice) when therapist confirmed a genetic component. 

Client is demonstrating increased trust in the therapeutic relationship, as evidenced by disclosure of cocaine use and acceptance of diagnoses. 

Assessment:

Formal diagnosis of MDD and PTSD has been entered for client. 

Plan:

Client will continue to track alcohol/substance use. Client will communicate with organizers of climbing competition regarding attending as a spectator due to injury. 

April 10, 2025

Rose Landry:

Are you and Miles fighting again? 

He’s asking if you’re at the gym 

Shane Hollander:

Obviously I’m at the gym.

We leave for Keqiao in 7 days.

I told him these next few weeks would be crazy but he doesn’t get it. 

I’m always either home or at the gym. I don’t even know why he cares.

Rose Landry:

Can you just text him back? 

Shane. 

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter: The World Cup series begins, and the boys are back in person at long last. There will be spice...

Btw, I tried to make this clear in one of the texts, but the IFSC World Cup is multiple events spread over months (April through June), and not every climber attends all of them. There are medals awarded at each event and then an overall score/medals at the end of the whole series.

Speaking of World Cups, who's watching??? I'm usually not a sports person, but I've been keeping it on in the background while I write lol. Anyone have a prediction on who'll make the semifinals?

Chapter 17: Keqiao

Chapter Summary

The first event of the World Cup series. Shane and Ilya meet face to face in Keqiao.

Chapter Notes

Hello all! Apologies for the long hiatus! I assure you that the rest of the fic will be coming out by the end of July - the next chapter and a half are pretty much ready to go :)

Just a quick note - the IFSC has been going through a rebrand to "World Climbing" in 2025 and 2026, but we'll just be keeping it as IFSC for the purpose of this fic to minimize confusion.

CW for Shane's food issues and (spoiler alert) cheating

It was possible that Miles had been trying to break up with Shane for the past week. It would be more than warranted, the way Shane had been behaving. He was at the Vancouver Airport, on his way to the comp in Keqiao, and he hadn’t even said goodbye to his supposed boyfriend. 

Shane had been ignoring most of Miles’ increasingly desperate texts for days: “What are you up to?”, “FaceTime tonight?”, “Want to grab dinner near your apartment? We can make it quick!” Shane tried to justify it to himself with the knowledge that they had never technically defined their relationship—Miles had just started saying “boyfriend” at some point and Shane didn’t push back—but he knew that wasn’t a good excuse to ghost someone who had been nothing but kind and understanding to him. 

Maybe Shane should have just broken things off himself, but he really had been preoccupied. Besides rigorous training for the first World Cup event, his “food stuff” had been bad and getting worse for a few weeks. He was still doing the meal prep planned out by his nutritionist, but he was rapidly spawning new habits that he knew were becoming a problem. He had to wash his glass containers on the sterilize setting of the dishwasher or they weren’t really clean. He had to chew each bite at least 5 times or he could choke. He had to brush his teeth after eating anything or he would disgust people with his breath. So he really couldn’t meet up with Miles at some restaurant, even if Miles was making an effort to choose a place between Shane’s apartment and the gym, because he would probably freak Miles out with his chewing and/or choke to death, and he couldn’t die before seeing Rozanov at least one more time.

Shane slept fitfully in his Business Class seat, declining all the in-flight food and eating his cold, depressing meal prep during the layover in Hong Kong. Rose kept studying him, looking like she wanted to ask him something or maybe tell him off, but she never did. She sat next to him at their gate and patted his leg occasionally while DMing people from previous comps, telling Shane in a careful voice when she got confirmation that so-and-so would be getting in at whatever time. Shane nodded in silent acknowledgement and counted his bites. 

After nearly 24 hours of travel, Shane and Rose were in a taxi nearing Keqiao. Though the mountainous terrain was beautiful, Shane was annoyed that the IFSC had chosen to host a World Cup event somewhere so remote that it required multiple flights and over an hour drive just to get to the accommodations. The climate in southern China was warm and muggy, and the taxi’s air conditioning was weak or maybe completely non-functioning — Shane felt like peeling his skin off and letting it flap out the window like a flag of surrender. He knew that his sour mood was in large part because he was hungry, but that thought only served to make him irritated at himself as well as the IFSC. He’d packed a box of protein bars in his suitcase, which was currently inaccessible in the trunk of the taxi, so he just closed his eyes and let his temple thunk violently against the car’s hard plastic interior. 

The competitor accommodations were at a nearby hotel, which Shane found remarkably grand for how far they were from a major city — all cold, shiny marble and huge windows overlooking rolling mountains. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but the Japanese side of his family was always a bit weird about China, so he’d never actually been before. The rapid, tonal language was completely unfamiliar to his ears, but he recognized a couple characters on signs that were similar to the scant Japanese he’d learned as a kid, and he actually smiled as he took some pictures to send to his mom once he got on the Wifi. 

Each competitor had their own small room at the hotel, and Shane was glad to have a bit of space to freak out privately, after all the freaking out publicly he’d done in the past day. Ilya was somewhere in the hotel — Shane could feel it like birds sense magnetic fields in the air. Also, Shane had asked Cliff as casually as possible if Rozanov was coming to the comp, and Cliff had said yes. 

If Rozanov was here, that meant his shoulder was healed enough to climb again, and Shane truly was happy for him. Having him as a competitor had always made Shane a stronger climber, even back in Juniors when Rozanov was just a foreign-sounding name and a rival for the podium. It would be a relief in itself to just see him back on the wall, but what Shane really wanted was to talk to Ilya in private and get some closure. He hoped that if he could just see Ilya’s face when he said it was over, it would finally feel real. He was planning to do it tonight, at the competitor welcome gathering in the hotel’s small ballroom, so his mind would be clear for the qualification round the next day.

Only Ilya didn’t show. Shane stayed at the welcome party for over an hour, longer than he usually would tolerate that type of event, especially before a long weekend of competitive climbing. Ilya wasn’t at the check-in for the qualification round the next morning either — Shane had made sure to get there before the check-in even started, and he lingered as long as he could, asking an organizer every question he could think of about arcane, highly specific IFSC protocols, until he was pretty sure they would discipline him for event interference. 

Shane warmed up distractedly, moving by rote through yoga poses and finger stretches while trying to keep up his end of a conversation with Hotimir Pike, the (perhaps overly) friendly Slovenian climber he hadn’t seen since Juniors. They were given the usual few minutes to look over the climbs, and Shane was glad to see that nothing looked much more difficult than the problems he’d been training on recently, since the qualification round only needed to narrow the pack from 60 down to 24. As he made his way back through the curtain into the humid, crowded call zone, he admonished himself for letting Rozanov take his mind off of climbing again and resolved not to think about him until he had secured his place in the semi-final. 

That resolution went out the window when he stepped onto the mat for the first boulder problem, facing out toward the judges and small audience, and saw him. 

He’d never seen Ilya in anything but workout or party clothes, so it took him a moment to realize who he was seeing. But it was him, sitting in the front row, clad in a competition staff shirt and jeans. He was nodding politely as the coach of some European team murmured in his ear, but his piercing blue-gray eyes were locked on Shane. Shane felt his face flush and his neck prickle at the awareness of being watched as he turned away, toward the problem. Why the hell was Rozanov in the audience? Why wouldn’t he be back in the call zone, waiting for his own turn on the wall?

Shane flashed the climb easily — nothing more than a few crimps and careful footwork — showing off a little by skipping the second-to-last hold and leaping dynamically to the finish. He couldn’t help turning his gaze toward Ilya again when he grabbed his chalk bag from the mat behind him, embarrassingly hopeful that he’d be impressed, but Rozanov’s expression was closed, and even from meters away Shane could see his cheekbones jutting out as he clenched his jaw. 

Before and after each of the remaining boulder problems, Shane catalogued everything he could tell about Rozanov from a distance. He had an IFSC-branded baseball cap on, tamping down blonde curls that were longer than Shane had seen them before (Shane nearly slipped off a dual-tex volume imagining pulling the hat off and running his fingers through the dense hair). He had lost muscle mass; Shane could tell that even from a distance. He still looked every bit an athlete, but without the bulky shoulders and bulging biceps he’d had before his injury. If anything, he looked even more like a European model now, with his sinewy arms crossed tight over his chest and his jawline sharp as a knife. He met Shane’s eyes every time Shane looked toward him, but he never smiled. 

The comp stretched on for hours, and as soon as it ended Shane darted out into the audience, but Rozanov’s seat was already empty. Okay, fine, he wanted Shane to chase him? He’d do it — he’d do whatever Ilya wanted, just to get some answers and move on. He pulled out his phone and opened his messages, scrolling down, down, back to their last texts almost 5 months before. 

Shane Hollander:

Where did you go? 

The response was almost immediate. 

Ilya Rozanov: 

Room 81  

Shane was at Rozanov’s hotel room door less than an hour later. He’d gone back to his own room first, put his gear away neatly, and tried to shut off his mind while taking a shower that was undeniably more thorough than would be needed to just rinse off the comp’s sweat and chalk. 

Rozanov’s room was on the ground floor of the hotel, which Shane assumed was because he was event staff — a fact he still found baffling. Shane glanced both ways down the hall; if Rozanov was event staff, then it was probably even less appropriate for Shane to be going to his room. Just add that to the pile of lines he was crossing today. 

He knocked quietly, and his heart raced faster than it had in his whole morning of climbing as he heard footsteps approach. Then the door opened and…there he was. Flesh and blood; those beautiful full lips and wary blue eyes. A single, burning moment of eye contact was all Shane could handle before his gaze skittered away to take in everything else. Ilya had changed into a light linen shirt and removed the baseball cap; his curls fell freely to frame his face, softening his sharp features. He looked older, mature, like they’d been apart for years instead of months.

He didn’t open the door the whole way to welcome Shane in. His 6 foot frame blocked the doorway, and he looked uncomfortable, holding a bundle in front of him like a shield. When Shane stayed stock still but for his roaming eyes, Ilya reached out for his hand, turning it upward and depositing the item there. A scarf — and now that Shane had it in hand he saw a second item on top: a small, folded piece of paper. 

The scarf, Shane remembered. He’d wrapped it around Ilya’s neck the last time they’d been in his apartment together. He’d wondered about it for a while — if Ilya had taken it with him or left it at Cliff’s or lost it. The scarf had seen quite a lot of the world now, Shane mused, traveling from Canada to Russia to China. He tucked it under his arm and, meeting Ilya’s eyes briefly again with a questioning look, opened the folded paper. 

He’d expected Ilya’s messy, boyish handwriting, but instead he saw his own neat block letters: See you at the World Cup - Shane Hollander, written on Olympic stationary. His eyes snapped up to Ilya’s. 

“Why are you showing this to me?” 

Ilya sighed, running a hand roughly through his hair and then shoving a lock behind his ear. “I’m not showing to you, I’m giving back.” His voice was low, and his accent was heavier than when they last talked. 

“Yeah, you’re giving back the scarf, but what even is this?” 

“You wrote for me at Olympics. When you left without saying goodbye.” 

“I didn’t…” Shane trailed off. He guessed that he had left Paris without saying goodbye, just like he’d done to Miles a few days ago. He’d justified it at the time by telling himself it had been just one of many casual Olympic hookups to Rozanov, but obviously it hadn’t been if he’d kept this stupid nothing of a note.

“You could have just thrown it out,” Shane said. 

“I couldn’t. You can. You can do whatever with it, I don’t care.” 

“Well obviously you do!” Shane said, his voice rising embarrassingly. He darted a look left and right again, remembering he was still standing in a hotel hallway.

“Can you just let me in?” he hissed. 

Ilya paused, then sighed and stepped back, holding the door open. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya would swear before a court that he had intended to keep the conversation with Shane brief. He’d thought about bringing the scarf and the note to the qualification round — handing them to Shane out in public where he wouldn’t be able to ask questions or draw Ilya in with those dark, serious eyes — but he knew that would be a dirty move even for him. So he’d retreated to his hotel room and made a new deal with himself: they’d talk in the doorway, he’d give Shane his stuff back, and he wouldn’t let Shane into the room. 

But here they were, alone in a hotel room again. Shane stalked into the room with his terrifying feline grace and put the scarf and the note on the dresser, the only piece of furniture in the small, windowless room save for the bed and side table. When he had deposited the items, he wheeled around to face Ilya, who hadn’t moved except to close the door. 

“Why aren’t you competing?” Shane demanded, his eyes flashing angrily.

Ilya hadn’t been expecting that as his first question, but at least it was an easy one to answer. 

“My shoulder isn’t strong enough yet. I will compete in Brazil next month, if physical therapist says I can. But flight was already booked, and Russia will not pay fees if I don’t compete, so IFSC lets me come here and work. Clean up after party last night, set up chairs for audience this morning...” Ilya shrugged, gesturing vaguely. 

Shane stared at the floor pensively for a long moment and then nodded, apparently satisfied enough with the explanation to move on. He walked toward Ilya, who felt his whole body tense — was he going to leave? Kiss him? Hit him? But Shane just took his shoes off, lined them up neatly near the door, and then padded back barefoot to sit on the edge of the bed. He squeezed his hands between his knees like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice small, eyes glued to the floor. “You look…” he trailed off, but Ilya could guess what he meant. He’d lost weight and muscle; his face was paler and more angular. Ilya sighed again, then joined Shane on the edge of the bed, leaving a bit of distance between them. He carefully weighed how truthfully to answer. 

“I was not okay for a few months. I am doing better now. Are you okay?” 

He turned his head, but Shane kept his eyes down. He was looking a little pale himself, his freckles faint like he’d been staying cooped up indoors. 

“Not really,” Shane said, even quieter than before. He didn’t go on, and Ilya didn’t know what to say to that, so they sat in silence for a long moment as the air conditioner buzzed and rattled. 

When Shane spoke again, his voice was a little louder, with a forced steadiness. 

“I wanted to talk to you in person to get some closure. I know we were never actually dating, or whatever, but that kind of made it even harder when you ended things. And fuck you, by the way,” he laughed angrily, “for thinking that was your decision to make alone. You said you liked me, but if you actually did — if you even respected me as a person — you would have told me what I did wrong and let me try to fix it.”

“Hollander, you didn’t—” Ilya attempted to interject, but Shane barreled on. 

“And I did fix it, by the way! Nobody remembered that it was you I was talking to on the phone that night, and if they had I would have sworn them to secrecy. It would have been fine.”

Shane’s voice cracked, and he took a deep breath before turning to meet Ilya’s eyes. 

“Anyway. Just…say it to my face and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Hollander—”

Shane rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated huff. 

“Don’t fucking ‘Hollander’ me after you freaked out about me calling you Rozanov! For once, follow your own damn rules!”

“Fine. Shane. I did not know you even think about me anymore. You — I see you on Instagram, and you look very happy. Are you not with that guy?” 

Shane let out a humorless laugh. “Please do not talk to me about Instagram right now.” 

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” He threw his arms out in frustration. 

“Say you don’t want me,” Shane said, his eye contact brutally direct now. His chest was rising and falling heavily and his eyes held a dare. “Say it and I’ll go.” 

“Shane,” Ilya said, his voice choked with raw emotion. He should say it. He couldn’t say it. How could he say it, when what he wanted to say was 

я хочу только тебя. Всегда только тебя. Я так сильно тебя люблю и не знаю, что с этим делать. 

I want only you. Always only you. I love you so much and I don’t know what to do with it.  

He saw the moment when his silence registered with Shane, and the challenge in those big brown eyes was replaced with a look of barely contained desire. Ilya knew that look. He’d seen that look in Paris and Montreal and, most recently, over and over in his dreams. He watched Shane’s eyes flick down to his mouth, then back up to lock onto his, and he leaned forward almost unconsciously. 

The moment broke when Shane pulled back and shook his head, like he was snapping out of a trance. 

“Sorry, I just —” Shane whispered roughly. 

The humiliation was immediate, sharp as a slap. Ilya felt his face burning. There was no denying what his body had just revealed — that for all the defenses he attempted to put up, for all the times he ran away into other people’s beds, this was who he was drawn to like a moth to a flame. 

Shane was right to pull away. No matter the look Ilya thought he saw in his eyes, he had come asking for closure, and here was Ilya making everything more confusing. Besides, he hadn’t denied being with the guy from those wholesome, lovey-dovey social media posts. 

Ilya could recognize his own negative self-talk now, after many sessions with Galina, but recognizing it did nothing to extinguish the disgust and self-hatred that flared to life in his chest. Shane wasn’t even looking him in the eye anymore — his gaze was fixed on Ilya’s hands, twining together anxiously in his lap. Shane seemed to pick up his sentence from where he’d left off at least 30 seconds before.

“— I just need to —”

And then he was turning and sinking to his knees, hands reaching for the button of Ilya’s jeans. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane felt blood pounding in his ears as he unzipped Ilya’s jeans and palmed his cock. His body was screaming for Ilya, his own dick already half hard in his thin shorts. He felt absurdly as though he were watching himself from above, his body moving through a series of motions on pure instinct. Didn’t he have a boyfriend? Did he have a boyfriend? What would Miles think if he saw Shane here, kneeling between Ilya’s legs, about to —

Shane stopped thinking and lowered his head. Ilya’s beautiful cock was flushed and lifted to attention. Shane drew his tongue along the shaft of Ilya’s cock in one long stripe from base to head, as if in greeting. Shane flicked his eyes up and saw Ilya looking down at him, lips pursed and brow a little furrowed — whether with concern or admiration, Shane didn’t know. Then he leaned down and took his cock into his mouth, feeling the head press against the back of his throat as he swirled his tongue back and forth along the shaft, sighing happily at the familiar girth stretching his lips. God, he had missed this. A part of him wanted to prove something to Ilya, to show him what he had given up — but another part had just been aching to bridge the distance that had come between them. They had always been more comfortable communicating with their bodies.

But now Ilya reached for his chin and pulled him off. He looked like he was fighting to maintain control, his eyes gentle but his chest rising and falling with panting breaths. “Shane,” he said, quietly, insistently, “is — is okay for you? With…” his voice trailed off.

Shane’s lips were parted, his mouth wet. He knew Ilya was thinking about Miles, and he felt a brief twist of guilt in his gut. But what was done, was done. “Please,” he whispered roughly, “I need you.”

Ilya’s expression shifted — hesitation replaced by dark desire. He reached for Shane, pulling him off of his knees and pushing him to his back on the bed. Then he was on top of him, his hand trailing over Shane’s cock, stroking it so softly through his shorts that Shane spasmed at the touch, his body desperate for more, his cock already forming a telltale wet spot. Ilya hovered over him, the tips of his fingers trailing over Shane’s abs, his chest, the pulse point of his throat. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl. “You want something?”

Shane groaned, bucking up his hips, desperate to be touched. “You know I do,” he said angrily. There was a ringing in his ears, an insistent buzz. “Ilya, please.”

Ilya pulled his shirt over his head smoothly, tossing it to the floor. “Clothes off,” he murmured with authority.

Shane rushed to comply, pulling his T-shirt, shorts, and boxers off so eagerly it was almost embarrassing — not even bothering to fold them — until he was lying back on his elbows in front of Ilya completely exposed, his cock curved up toward his stomach, body practically quivering with need. 

As Ilya pulled off his briefs and crawled back onto the bed, Shane took in each minor difference. The same moles and little scars he had mapped with his tongue, but wrapped around a leaner, tighter frame. A slight hesitation whenever Ilya put weight on his right arm. He felt like he was dreaming.

Ilya reached for him, swirling his tongue along Shane’s nipples and chest, then down all the way to the crease between his thigh and groin, ignoring his cock in a way that was teasing and agonizing and perfect. Shane jerked his hips up, begging silently, and Ilya grabbed a thigh and pushed him back down. Shane let out a muffled whine but stayed still, his legs trembling.

“Be good,” Ilya said, looking down at him, “and I will take care of you.” The arousal that shot through Shane at the order — and the accompanying promise — was so strong made his mind fuzz at the edges. 

Ilya reached into his duffel bag beside the bed and grabbed a small bottle of lube, uncapping it and spreading it over his fingers slowly — so slowly that Shane felt as though he might lose his mind without Ilya’s fingers or cock inside him soon. He swirled a finger around Shane’s entrance and pressed inside. Shane moaned, throwing an arm over his face to muffle the noise. Had it ever been like this with Miles? Had it even been half this good?

Ilya sank down on the pillow beside him, now two fingers scissoring into Shane’s asshole and dragging across that spot that made his vision white out, lips on the pulse speeding in his neck —

When Ilya nudged Shane’s arm out of the way and moved to kiss him, Shane pulled back jerkily. “Can we — no kissing,” he whispered, cringing inside. He knew it was an odd line to draw with Ilya’s fingers in his ass, the taste of his precum still in his mouth, but he had to do something. He had to maintain something that was just for Miles.

A shadow passed over Ilya’s face briefly, but he just said, “Of course, if you don’t want.” Almost as if in answer he began moving down Shane’s chest, his tongue swirling again on his nipples, on his abs, and then he ever so gently pulled the head of Shane’s cock into his mouth.

Shane arched upwards with a cry. Ilya’s mouth felt unbelievable, warm and wet and soft, and Ilya’s fingers were still working their way inside him. “If you keep doing that,” he choked out, “I’m gonna —”

Ilya’s mouth dropped off his cock and he straightened a little, looking up at Shane with a crooked grin. “Not yet, Hollander,” he said.

“Last time,” Ilya mused, dragging his fingers over Shane’s prostate and drawing out a moan, “My arm wasn’t working right.” He pulled his fingers out, and Shane gasped, feeling suddenly empty. “This time I will do what I want with you.”

He grabbed Shane by the hips, flipping him over and pulling him back onto his hands and knees. Then Ilya was spreading him open, and Shane felt the thick furl of Ilya’s tongue against his hole. He groaned, lurching forward into the pillows, but Ilya’s hands were tight on his ass and thigh and kept him there, squirming as his tongue pressed inside.

For several long moments they rocked together, Ilya’s tongue massaging Shane’s hole. Shane felt as though his entire world had narrowed to a single point and a single wish — he needed Ilya inside him. “Ilya,” he groaned, his face part way smashed into the hotel pillow. Tears of desire were beginning to fill his eyes, and he felt — he was sure — he couldn’t survive another moment without Ilya’s cock. “I need you in me, please, please.”

Ilya said something colorful-sounding in Russian and released him, and then he was scrabbling in the duffel bag again. Shane lay with his ass in the air, hopelessly exposed, knowing that he was being embarrassing and desperate but unable to stop. “Hurry,” he begged. He heard the sound of plastic being torn, the pop of the lube bottle as Ilya slicked himself up. 

A moment later, something blunt and hard was pressing at his entrance, just nudging there, and he pushed his hips backward eagerly, trying to force himself onto Ilya’s cock. But Ilya held still for a moment with an hand steady on his hip, and his voice, when he leaned to speak softly in Shane’s ear, was cautious and gentle again. “Kotik,” he said, and Shane’s heart somersaulted at the sound of the familiar Russian word he didn’t quite understand. “You are sure?”

Shane swallowed and nodded, turning his head to look Ilya in the eyes with lust and determination. His whole body, his whole nervous system, was alive with Ilya. His breath was punched out of him as Ilya slid his cock inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nobody felt like Shane. When Ilya bottomed out he felt months of misery in Russia fall away. The stupid hookups, losing himself in drinking and drugs, his frustration with his father and Alexei — nothing existed except the beautiful noises Shane was making into the pillow and the rocking motion of the two of them together. He wanted to kiss Shane so badly it was tearing him apart. He wanted to slap him and fuck him hard into the mattress. He wanted to do everything to Shane, be everything to Shane, but all he could do was have for this brief, stolen moment.

He rutted into Shane hard, his balls slapping against Shane’s ass, and he could hear Shane underneath him letting out little grunts with each thrust. Ilya leaned over him fully and kissed at Shane’s neck, sucked his earlobe, all while slamming into him again and again. Shane was writhing, as though he couldn’t decide whether he was trying to get away or get closer, trying to escape or push himself further onto Ilya’s cock.

“You needed this, didn’t you,” Ilya gritted out. He reached for Shane’s hair, tugging it, pulling Shane’s head up so his back made an arch so beautiful it almost made Ilya’s heart stop. “Your little boyfriend can’t fuck you like this, can he, moya lyubov? Only I can?”

“Mm-hm,” Shane groaned, barely able to get out words. “It’s you. Just you.”

Ilya wanted to capture those words, wanted to hold tight to them for as long as he could, treasure them while Shane was elsewhere, fucking his annoying boyfriend who lived in Canada and could be out and proud in a way that Ilya couldn’t. He drew his hips back slowly, torturously, watching in awe as Shane’s ass clung to him, as though Shane were willing Ilya’s cock to stay deep inside him, before thrusting in hard again. 

Shane’s was clutching the sheets, his mouth wide open and moaning, and then he was reaching for his cock, holding himself up on one elbow as Ilya fucked him mercilessly. Ilya didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Shane by the wrist, twisting his arm over his lower back and holding it tight. “Did I say you could touch your cock?” he spat. “You will come when I say, from my cock.”

Shane moaned, his face deep in the pillow. “Ilya,” he pleaded. “I need to — please, I’m going to —” His face was pink with strain, his hole fluttering.

“Come then,” said Ilya, plunging his shaft in deep at the angle he knew Shane needed.

Shane exploded. His dick spasmed and painted the sheets below him with cum, his asshole clenching rhythmically around Ilya. He collapsed onto his stomach, too fucked out to care about the wet spot beneath him. His body was limp and sweating, and his hands tapped feebly at Ilya’s thighs as though to push him off.

“Fuck, Ilya,” he moaned, wriggling, overstimulated by the cock still hard inside him. “That was — you’re so fucking good…”

Ilya grabbed Shane’s waist and rotated him, slipping out of him for one terrible moment before he had Shane on his back. His cock slid smoothly back into Shane’s softened hole. Shane groaned and pushed at him, “Ilya, it's too — too much —”

“You want me to stop?” Ilya said, dragging his hips back slowly. “Say stop and I’ll stop.”

But he knew the answer, and Shane stayed silent, looking up at him with eyes half lidded, his body and dick limp from his recent orgasm. Ilya felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, a need to take care of Shane, to make him feel better than anyone else could. He leaned over Shane, kissing his chest, his neck, his ear — ghosting his lips past Shane’s but not touching them. “Ty takoy khoroshyy. Take me so good,” he breathed.

Then he was fucking Shane again, gentle and then harder, hearing the breath fall out of him in short little gasps, watching as, despite his earlier protests, Shane’s cock twitched and started to get hard again. Ilya felt his own orgasm growing, balls tensing with each slap of his groin against Shane’s ass, but he wanted — needed — to hold on until Shane could come again. If this was their last time together, he needed to make it the best Shane ever had. 

He reached for Shane’s mouth, pushing two fingers in and gasping when Shane obediently latched his mouth around them, sucking them eagerly. He pulled his fingers out with a pop and reached down to grip Shane’s cock, slicking up and down in time with his rolling thrusts.

“I can’t — Ilya, I don’t think I can —” Shane sobbed out, his eyes wild, his hands pressing feebly at Ilya’s chest. Small tears ran down his cheeks as he fucked up into Ilya’s hand desperately. 

Ilya looked down at him — the smooth chest slick with sweat, the brown eyes thick with desire, the strong thighs wrapped around Ilya’s back. His Shane, who he had thought about for months.

"You can."

Ilya’s hips sped as he felt himself lose control, and he stroked Shane’s cock feverishly until Shane went rigid and arched his back with an ecstatic cry, cum spilling out of his spent cock. Ilya's orgasm hit with his eyes locked on Shane’s expression of divine pleasure, and he emptied himself with a deep thrust, babbling praise and desperately burying his face in Shane’s neck to keep from kissing him.

“You okay?” Ilya murmured a few minutes later, running a fingertip lazily over Shane’s freckles. He had pulled out and taken care of the condom before lying back in bed, leaving a few inches between their bodies. He had no idea what to expect from Shane emotionally. Ilya turned onto his side when there was no answer. Shane’s cheeks were flushed pink, but beneath that he was a bit too pale. His lips, a tad puffy from his eager ministrations on Ilya’s cock, had a tinge of blue to them. 

Shane nodded quickly, staring up at the ceiling, then paused with a look on his face that Ilya recognized as an internal argument. Finally, Shane said quietly, “I…feel a little faint. You didn’t do anything wrong though. I just get this static in my ears sometimes. I think…maybe I need to eat something.” 

Ilya bolted upright. Fuck, he’d forgotten this about Shane, how he would push his body until it gave out. Ilya had eaten breakfast while the competitors checked in and then had plenty of snacks available in the staff area during the qualification round, but Shane probably hadn’t stopped to eat between the comp and coming to Ilya’s room. 

“When did you eat last?” Ilya asked, getting to his feet and casting his eyes around the small room for something to wipe himself off with before he pulled his clothes back on. Shane was staring at the ceiling hazily, his chest rising and falling minutely with each breath. For all of his impressive muscles, he looked small, vulnerable. 

“I had a protein bar this morning, and I drank bottled water during the comp. Everything else…” he trailed off, waving a hand vaguely and then bringing it up to push a sweaty lock of hair off of his forehead. “I have more protein bars in my room. I can go get one. I’ll be okay if I just lay here for a sec.” 

“I will get them,” Ilya said authoritatively. “What is room number? I will take key card from your pants.” 

Shane carefully wriggled his naked body under the thin topsheet — definitely not in his right mind if he didn’t care about sullying them with the cum still smeared on his stomach — as Ilya pulled on his rumpled clothes and dug in the pocket of Shane’s discarded shorts for the card. Before leaving the room, Ilya went to his backpack and pulled out a half-full bottle of Coke. 

“Drink this. Has no bubbles now, and a little warm, but sugar will be good for you.” 

Shane opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again and accepted the bottle when Ilya gave him a stern look. Then Ilya was out the door, heading to the elevator. 

Ilya emerged from Shane’s room with two protein bars in hand a few minutes later, and as he hurried back to the elevator he heard a scoff of disbelief. He turned his head and saw Rose with her hand on the doorknob of a hotel room further down the hall. She was sweaty, her two long braids a little mussed; the women’s qualification round must have just ended.

She fixed Ilya with an icy glare that froze him in place for a moment; his eyes widened as they met Rose’s, then flicked to the door of Shane’s hotel room, the protein bars clutched in his hand, the elevator. He couldn’t exactly say This isn’t what it looks like, because, well, the reality wasn’t much better. It must look like he had fucked Shane, who probably had a boyfriend, in Shane’s hotel room, in the middle of the day, at a climbing competition where he was a staff member, and was skulking out now with the most boring post-sex care package ever. In reality, he had fucked Shane, who probably had a boyfriend, in his own hotel room, in the middle of the day, at a climbing competition where he was a staff member, and was skulking back now since he had done it so well that Shane nearly passed out. 

The elevator chimed and the doors opened. Ilya watched Rose shake her head and enter her hotel room, then got on and shakily pressed the button for the ground floor. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Ilya got back to the room, Shane had drained the remainder of the warm, flat Coke and pulled on his boxers and shorts. He wasn’t sure what enabled him to drink Coke now, when he’d only had water or sugar free ginger ale in the past few weeks, let alone drink it from a bottle that someone else’s mouth had touched. Then again, he hadn’t had any problem putting his mouth directly on Rozanov’s cock an hour ago, and he probably would have put it on his asshole if he’d asked, so maybe the whole germs thing was never going to follow a consistent logic. 

Ilya was silent until Shane had unwrapped a protein bar and swallowed his first bite. If Ilya noticed anything weird about Shane’s methodical chewing, he didn’t mention it. In fact, he was staring at the wall instead of looking at Shane. Shane took another bite. One chew, two chews, three chews…

“Rose saw me. Upstairs.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, almost losing count. Four chews, five chews. He swallowed, feeling relieved. He was halfway through the bar, and his lightheadedness was dissipating.

When Shane glanced over, Ilya was looking at him expectantly. Shane tried to rewind his brain and remember what Ilya had just said. 

“You saw Rose? Yeah, she was competing today too. Did she say how her qualification round went?” 

Ilya’s expression was hard to read — somewhere between frustrated and apologetic. 

“No, Shane, she saw me. Coming out of your room. We didn’t speak. She looked…angry.” 

Shane suddenly felt quite faint again, like he could physically feel the blood rushing out of his face. He had lost count of his chews on the chunk of protein bar in his mouth, and the texture and taste were suddenly repulsive, like wet sand. 

He skittered out of bed and into the small hotel bathroom, then spat the mouthful into the trash and rinsed his mouth multiple times in the sink. A worry about drinking the tap water crossed his mind, but it was drowned out by the panic already overwhelming his senses. He staggered back to the bed and sat down hard. Ilya was still standing in the same place, observing Shane with a furrowed brow. 

“Okay,” Shane said, trying to emulate the even, practical tone his mother used when problem-solving. “This is going to be fine. I’m going to go talk to Rose. I’ll tell her you were just bringing me some food to help me out because I felt faint.” Shane gave Ilya a fierce look. “This can’t happen again.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows with an offended look. “Oh, this is my fault?” 

“Well, sort of!” Shane said irritably. 

“Was me who barged into room and started sucking your dick in middle of conversation?” 

“It’s at least half your fault, asshole!” 

“Maybe one quarter,” Ilya retorted, a small, competitive smile tugging at his lips. 

Shane had half a mind to haggle Ilya up to a third, but he knew the longer this conversation went on, the more time Rose would have to make her own assumptions. He hastily pulled on his shirt and grabbed his room key from the dresser, then knelt to stuff his feet into his shoes by the door. 

When Shane stood, Ilya was just behind him, holding the scarf, note, and one and a half protein bars. He held them out silently, and Shane accepted them with a nod. They stood together for a moment, face to face and barely a foot apart, neither of them hiding the way they drank in one another’s faces, at once so familiar and so alien. Then Shane opened the door and left without another word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane Hollander:

Sorry for earlier. 

You were right, it was my fault. 

Won’t happen again. 

Ilya Rozanov:

No need to apologize to me

You talked to Rose? 

Shane Hollander:

Yeah. She called me selfish, which is true I guess. 

I’ll break things off with Miles when I get home. 

She’s not mad at you btw. She also thinks it was my fault, so I guess you guys agree on something for once. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Lol 

—

Ilya Rozanov:

So when you say won’t happen again 

🤔

Shane Hollander:

Well, not this weekend for sure. 

Maybe we can try talking again in Brazil. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Right right <<talking>>

Shane Hollander:

I’ll try to keep my hands to myself. 

Ilya Rozanov:

I can tie up your hands if you need

Have been practicing some knots in physical therapy 

Shane Hollander:

Wow

Um 

Ilya Rozanov:

You are blushing? 

Shane Hollander:

Fuck off 

Chapter End Notes

Well, the boys are back together - sort of! How we feeling?

Chapter 18: Curitiba, Part 1

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya reunite again, in Brazil.

Chapter Notes

Another airport. Another World Cup event. And yet, everything felt different from a month before. Shane had a text on his phone from Ilya saying he’d been cleared to compete in Curitiba. See you at the World Cup - Shane Hollander, Shane had texted back. 

The Keqiao comp had finished up fine. Shane hadn’t made it to the finals, finishing 10th in semis, which he was proud of considering it was his first World Cup competing against greats he had watched enviously during his youth and Junior climbing days. Still, he was determined to make finals in Brazil, especially with Rozanov back in the lineup. 

He’d trained hard over the past month, and he felt like he was quite possibly in the best shape of his life. He was eating better, too — he’d talked to his therapist about his food fears and they were working through a series of “exposures” that he found stupid at first and then, annoyingly, very helpful. His exposure today was to eat or drink something given to him on the plane. He really hoped they had ginger ale — even if it was the full sugar kind. 

Miles had been as gracious about breaking up as he had been throughout their short-lived relationship. He didn’t make Shane go into details; it was enough to hear that feelings had been rekindled with the mystery man who Shane hadn’t been ready to let go of in the first place. He’d gone back to McGill in early May to finish out the semester, and he had already posted what Shane was pretty sure was a “soft launch” of a new guy, an aspiring actor named Adrian with golden skin and blindingly white teeth. Shane had smiled when he saw the post, double tapping to like it before scrolling on. 

Things with Ilya weren’t exactly back to how they had been when he’d left Vancouver for Moscow, but Shane didn’t expect them to be. They texted once in a while — a climbing meme, a gym selfie, an update on Rozanov’s physical therapy progress. It felt like a détente of sorts; their problems hadn’t been solved, but the wounds they’d inflicted on one another were slowly healing. He’d see Ilya in less than 24 hours, and hopefully they’d both make finals. Then, Shane had a few days scheduled for relaxing with his parents on the beach, drinking caipirinhas (or maybe a Moscow Mule for Shane) before heading directly to the next comp in Salt Lake City. And if he got fucked within an inch of his life a few times, he certainly wouldn’t mind that. 

The air was warm and almost chokingly humid as soon as Shane stepped from the plane onto the jet bridge. He stripped off his hoodie on his way to baggage claim, hating the way his skin felt damp and tacky already. He was alone for this leg of the trip; Rose had chosen to skip the comp to rest a mild finger injury, and his parents were flying in from Ottawa in another two days, in time to catch the semi-finals. 

Shane pulled out his phone to call a rideshare and saw a text waiting for him from Ilya. He tapped into it and was greeted by a photo of a hotel bed with an open duffel bag, a few lengths of colorful rope next to it. Shane’s eyes flew wide and he swiped out of the messaging app, glancing around and behind him like he’d accidentally opened hardcore porn. Of course, nobody was looking at him; nearly everyone was staring at their own phones as they waited for the baggage carousel to spit out their luggage. With a shaky huff, Shane reopened the message. He was a professional climber — why would there be a problem with another professional climber sending him a picture of what appeared to be new, and (he couldn’t help but notice) quite neatly coiled, cordage? 

Shane Hollander:

Planning on doing some outdoor climbing after the comp, Rozanov? 

Ilya Rozanov:

Planning to climb something

Before and after comp I hope 

Maybe during if you wear those slutty little shorts again

Shane Hollander:

Jesus 

There was no immediate response, which gave Shane a chance to notice his roller bag already passing him on the carousel. He dashed forward, feeling a bit embarrassed at both his inattentiveness and his rush, and managed to yank the bag toward him. He helped two older women hoist their bags off the conveyor belt as well, and by the time he was finished he had a notification — not a text or a photo this time, but a video. 

A man, bare chested, was shown only from the neck to mid-thigh — it seemed like the phone taking the video was propped on something on a bed. Black athletic shorts rode low on his hips, displaying a chiseled V of lower abdominal muscles and a trail of sandy hair from his belly button down into the elastic waistband. The man picked up a length of purple rope and methodically tied a knot, then tugged on both ends, hard, to tighten it. The man held up the knot, letting it dangle hypnotically for a moment, then reached toward the phone and ended the video. 

Great, now Shane was half hard in the damn arrivals terminal, and he hadn’t even called a car yet. He retreated to a bench, shifting his backpack to his lap, and swiped quickly into the Uber app to summon a ride. Then he swiped back and watched the video again, twice.  

Shane Hollander:

Alpine butterfly? 

Ilya Rozanov: 

Yes 

Of course that is what you notice 

🙄

Shane Hollander:

I’m in public, asshole 

Dynamic or static rope? 

Ilya Rozanov:

Static rope

Shane Hollander:

Good. Don’t want it to have any give. 

Be there soon. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya smiled to himself, laying back on his hotel bed with his legs crossed just next to the small pile of rope. He tossed his phone onto the plush comforter beside him and ran a hand lightly over the bulge in his shorts, contemplating whether it was better to take the edge off now or save it for later. They were being hosted in a nice hotel, and he was hoping that after the competitor welcome party on the pool deck, Shane would come back to his room to do the “talking” they had been waiting for since Keqiao. 

His hand drifted downward, and he let himself fantasize for a moment. Shane’s lips. Though he’d agreed to it, it had killed him to not kiss Shane the last time they were together. The sex had been great — insanely hot, really — but it had felt a bit like what he’d been doing all winter with Sasha, Sveta, and some of his other regulars in Moscow. A familiar body, some dirty talk, an orgasm — but never that feeling of connectedness, that overwhelming intimacy that pushed away the entire outside world. That was what he felt with Shane, even when they did nothing more than kiss. He squeezed his cock firmly, definitively, and then dropped his hand to his side. He would wait for Hollander’s pretty mouth. 

He hauled himself up to get dressed for the party. What did one wear to an evening event at a pool? Surely not a bathing suit…right? He opted for a floral patterned shirt, festive for the beachy locale, unbuttoned almost completely. He pulled on a pair of linen pants that hugged his thighs nicely and pushed his pair of knockoff Ray-Bans (Rag-Bams, actually, if you looked hard enough at the tiny logo on the side) into his hair to hold it out of his face. He’d let it grow out even more in the past month, and the summer sun had turned it a light honey shade, so he thought he had a bit of a surfer vibe going — at least as much as was possible for a city boy from Russia. 

Looking at his body in the mirror, he allowed himself a moment of pride. He still wasn’t as built as he had been in Vancouver, but he was well on his way. His cross necklace nestled into place between shapely pecs again, and his shoulders were strong and even, which had been quite a feat given the amount of atrophy in his right shoulder and bicep muscles. He’d known he was truly back to full strength when the youth team climbers began complaining that he should let them win sometimes, despite the fact that they had the unfair weight to muscle ratio. 

Ilya spotted Shane as soon as he stepped out onto the pool deck, dressed about as opposite from Ilya as possible in a white sport coat over a dark, tight T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Either his mother or Rose must have planned the outfit for him, because if Ilya knew anything about Shane, it was that he would be feeling sweaty and claustrophobic after about thirty seconds. He decided on a whim not to head straight to Shane, though that was what his heart was screaming to do, and he instead strolled over to snag a drink at the volunteer-staffed open bar. 

Ilya was just charming the older lady tending the bar into giving him a heavy pour of spicy margarita when he felt someone step up beside him. 

“Corona, please,” a polite Canadian voice said. 

The volunteer passed Ilya his full-to-the-brim glass with a wink before grabbing the bottled beer from a cooler and popping the cap off. Ilya let his gaze drift over to his right. Inky black hair with tiny beads of sweat at the nape. Deep brown eyes and plush, pink lips that were quirked into a small smile. Their eyes met, and they stepped a few paces from the bar, in sync, before Shane broke the silence. 

“Are you a new climber? I didn’t see you competing in Keqiao.”

Ilya darted his eyes to Shane’s with raised eyebrows — oh, this was the game tonight, then. He quickly schooled his face into a classic “Slavic stare”, cool and impassive. 

“Ah, yes. I am new climber. Maybe you can help me this weekend. Sorry if my English is not good, I am from Russia.” 

“Shane Hollander, Canada,” Shane said, sticking out a hand, his eyes glittering under the string lights lining the deck. 

“Ilya Rozanov,” Ilya intoned, grasping Shane’s hand and giving it a firm squeeze. He gave the salt rim of his margarita glass a slow lick and watched Shane’s eyes drop down instinctively to follow the motion, a slight blush appearing beneath his sun-darkened freckles. 

It only made sense, if Ilya was a new climber, for Shane to introduce him to a friend. Though they’d competed together before, Ilya had never been particularly motivated to meet Hotimir Pike. Pike seemed none the wiser that Ilya and Shane had met, even though it was widely known that Ilya had trained in Canada for three months; Ilya was unclear if the Slovenian didn’t keep up with climbing news or was just an idiot. He tried his best to keep up with the conversation, but he mostly watched Shane’s mouth move as he chattered with great focus about the new Dean Potter documentary. When Ilya had drained his drink, he clapped Pike on the shoulder (perhaps a little harder than necessary, if his wince was anything to go by) and told them both that he needed to head back inside for an early night. 

“It was very nice to meet you, Shane Hollander,” Ilya said, turning slightly away from Pike and holding out his hand with a flicker of mischief in his eye. Shane looked at him questioningly — and only startled a little when he felt a room key slip into his palm. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane forced himself to schmooze for fifteen whole minutes before he headed to meet Ilya, stopping by his own room first to drop off his horrible sport coat. He was going to give his mother a piece of his mind about the “stylist” she’d hired for him as an early birthday present — someone who recommended long sleeves for a party in the tropics was not worth whatever exorbitant amount they were being paid. He’d already showered after the plane ride, but he freshened up just a little before leaving for the room number embossed on the key card.  

Ilya let him in promptly, practically dragging him through the door and pressing him back into the wall just next to it, hands firm and warm on Shane’s hips. He leaned in hungrily, and Shane’s senses lit up in anticipation —  however, he’d thought it over in the time after Ilya left the party, and he’d decided he wasn’t done playing. He put a hand up to Ilya’s chest, who stopped short with a look of genuine surprise and concern. Shane gave him a shy smile. 

“I’ve…never done this before.” 

Ilya paused, then huffed out a small laugh as his eyes darkened in understanding. He hummed thoughtfully and brought his mouth to Shane’s jaw, nuzzling upward to press his lips just behind his ear. 

“I see. We will have to take it slow then. I will have to show you, like you show me around competition.”

Shane felt his body list toward Ilya’s at the sound of his low voice purring right in his ear, but he knew he couldn’t give it all up yet. He put a hand to Ilya’s cheek, guiding him back so they were face to face. 

“Have you?” he asked innocently. They were so close that their lips almost brushed, and he looked up at Ilya through his eyelashes the way he knew drove him crazy. 

“Mm, yes,” Ilya replied, just as cocky and self-assured as he had been in Paris at age nineteen. 

“With who? Another climber?” Shane asked. 

“Yes,” Ilya replied seriously, “But did not go so good. We did not communicate well. I think this time, I will do better.” 

Shane smiled, not performing anymore. He couldn’t help it — not when Ilya’s expression was so earnest and his hands were so grounding as they dug into Shane’s hip bones, caging him firmly against the wall, safe and still. There was nothing to do but surge forward the remaining centimeters and kiss him. 

He brought his hands up to grasp Ilya’s jaw possessively, moaning softly when Ilya licked into his mouth like he’d been starving since Shane entered the room. They were both hard already, had been even during their little acting exercise, and Shane had to break their mouths apart to whimper when Ilya rolled his hips, feeling how they slotted together as perfectly as every time before. 

Ilya brought a thumb to Shane’s bottom lip, and Shane sucked it in without hesitation, swirling his tongue and shuddering at the hint of salty sweat. Ilya kissed him, slightly awkward around the thumb but devastatingly hot in how torn he was between his desires to touch and taste every part of Shane. 

“Do you want the ropes tonight?” he asked, right in Shane’s ear again. Shane shook his head, sucking harder at Ilya’s thumb, biting down until Ilya gasped and pulled it back. 

“Hey, look at me, kotik. You don’t want to?” Ilya asked. 

Shane’s expression was wrecked when he met Ilya’s eyes. “Mm-mm,” he murmured, snaking his fingers into the back of Ilya’s hair and tugging, “I can’t wait tonight. Want you too bad. Y-you gotta show me how.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Soon, Ilya was having much more fun with the scene than Shane. He had two fingers inside Shane, who had been wriggling and pleading for minutes already. 

“Shh,” Ilya hushed him, rotating his wrist before pulling back to add in a third finger, pushing in as slowly as possible. “You have not done this before. Need to make sure you are ready for me.” 

“I can take it, Ilya, please, fuck — ah” Shane moaned, his eyes squeezed shut as he bucked into the air. 

Ilya snaked his way up Shane’s body, snagging a nipple between his teeth and then soothing it with a broad swipe of his tongue as he kept his hand moving. Shane’s panting was getting higher, nearly hysterical now, and Ilya was trying not to hump his leg like a dog despite the fact that he was hard as granite, or maybe some even harder rock that Shane could probably identify. 

“Oh god, baby, please, I need you,” Shane begged, a single tear dripping from the corner of his eye, and fuck if all of that combined didn’t knock the wind out of Ilya like slipping off a highball down onto a hard crash pad. 

“You are ready,” Ilya announced frantically, pulling his fingers out and scrabbling for the condom he had tossed somewhere on the bed. 

With the torturous amount of prep he had done, Ilya slid all the way home in one firm press. He forced himself still with his hips flush to Shane’s. 

“You are okay?” he choked out, no longer playing a role, just needing to hear it from Shane, his Shane. 

“Yes, more, give me more” Shane breathed, twitching his hips in an attempt to take Ilya even deeper, opening his eyes to stare down at where they were connected. Ilya didn’t have to be told twice. He pulled back and thrust in hard, pushing Shane back into the fluffy hotel pillows. A few more deep thrusts, reacquainting himself with the contours of Shane’s body, and then he was pulling out and hitching both of Shane’s legs up and over his good shoulder. 

The noise Shane made when he pressed back inside him would be indelibly recorded in his brain. In fact, if he’d been able to spell it out, he might have asked for it to be inscribed on his gravestone. Shane was so perfectly tight like this that Ilya lost himself in it — he couldn’t tell if he had been sinking in and rocking back out for a minute or an hour, zero thoughts in his head except for how beautiful Shane’s body was as he tensed and flexed with every push. It was a tiring position, hoisting a good portion of Shane’s weight in the air, but it was a satisfying, controlled burn, like climbing a long, overhung cave problem. 

Feeling his control start to slip, Ilya reached down a hand, still lube-slick, and jerked Shane’s cock hard and fast, murmuring praise in a jumble of English and Russian. If he’d had any blood still devoted to his brain at that point, he might have realized the situation he had put Shane in, but he instead watched in a daze as Shane clenched around him, his expression a mix of tension and exquisite pleasure, and came directly onto his own face. 

The sight was so unexpected that all Ilya could do was drop Shane’s limp legs to either side of his waist and dive in to kiss the streak of cum off of his mouth, hoping this communicated enough of an apology before his own orgasm crashed over him. He kept their mouths together, sharing the flavor he recognized as uniquely Shane, as his thrusts sped, faltered, and stilled with a shudder and a muffled groan, and he smiled the entire time at the thought — Shane is going to complain about this for the rest of our lives. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Shane sat between Ilya and Hotimir in the call zone at the semi-finals, all of them having made it through the qualification round. Pike’s score had been right on the edge, just making it into the semi-finals as the 24th ranked climber, so he had finished the fourth boulder problem nearly an hour and a half ago. He seemed to be regretting even making it into the semi-finals since Ilya, who had placed 11th in quals, had been entertaining himself all morning by teasing Pike relentlessly. Shane had tried half-heartedly to tell him to stop, but he unfortunately found the jabs funny and often quite apt. 

Shane had surprised even himself by placing fourth in the qualification round. It was about to be his turn on the final boulder, so he stepped away from Ilya and Hotimir to clear his mind and shake out his forearms. He received a nod from a man with a headset, and he headed out, shooting a last look behind him and hoping he wouldn’t come back to find one or both of his closest friends killed or maimed. 

Shane stepped through the curtain as his name rang out over the loudspeakers, and his eyes went straight to the middle of the crowd where his parents were already cheering. His mom was wearing a Red Bull baseball cap and had her hands cupped around her mouth to amplify her shouts, and his dad was waving a small Canadian flag. Shane felt a little choked up, just for a moment, at how much his parents loved him.

A thought had been floating around the back of his mind that he would really like to introduce Ilya to them, even just as a friend. All the previous times that his parents had been in the same vicinity as Ilya, he and Shane either hadn’t known each other well yet or had been actively fighting. Now, with their relationship back on a better track, he’d been fantasizing just about them all having dinner before leaving Brazil. It would be nerve-wracking — his mother could be a lot, and she knew Shane well enough that she might not actually buy the “just friends” act — but when would he have another chance like this? 

He turned around to face the final boulder problem of the semi-finals. He’d considered the intended beta during the allotted five minutes this morning and had been chewing over possibilities for the past hour in the call zone. It was a type of problem he used to hate — a traverse that required the climber to swing back on the start hold to gather momentum and then all but run across a series of volumes. The Shane of a year ago probably would have tried to do it statically — arms outstretched for balance, stepping carefully as the clock ticked down. Now, Shane took a breath, pulled back, and leapt. 

“So, Rozanov—”

“Ilya,” 

“Ilya. What does your physical therapist say about the long-term impact of your shoulder injury? Do you think you’ll be back to full strength by the Olympics?” 

“Mom!” Shane whined, though not loudly enough to draw the attention of any other patrons at the fancy fusion restaurant. “He literally just climbed in a World Cup! And the Olympics aren't for like two more years!”

“Honey, I think Rozanov — sorry, Ilya — knows better than anyone that he is not performing at his full potential right now.” Yuna Hollander took a sip of red wine, looking at Ilya steadily over the rim of the glass. 

“Sorry about my mom,” Shane said peevishly, turning to face Ilya beside him. “She cares a little too much about comp rankings.” 

Ilya snorted, chewing a piece of well-seasoned steak while replying, “Mm, now I see where you get it from.”

Shane promptly went pink, opened his mouth as if to retort, then closed it again when the only things that came to mind included swearing. 

“I have actually been thinking about this,” Ilya went on, addressing Yuna directly. “I am thinking maybe I will not compete much longer. I will do one more Olympics, I think, I am not sure. My shoulder was hurting today, and I have been enjoying coaching youth climbers in Russia.” 

“I didn’t know your shoulder was hurting,” Shane said, a bit abashed. Ilya tapped his shoe against Shane’s under the table in quiet reassurance. 

“Well, we think you looked great out there, Ilya,” David Hollander said diplomatically. “And we would love for you to sit with us tomorrow to watch Shane in the finals. Unless you already have plans to watch with your other climber friends, of course.” 

Shane tapped Ilya back with his shoe and shot him a look that he hoped communicated You really don’t have to, but Ilya was already nodding and accepting. 

“I would love to. I was going to sit with Pike, but I think he will have anyevrisma if I tease him one more time this weekend.” 

“It’s settled then,” Yuna said with a satisfied smile and another sip of wine. “Should we all try the passion fruit pastel? I think Shane can break his performance diet for one night to celebrate!” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, in bed, after exchanging slow, lazy blow jobs, Shane and Ilya lay cuddled together under the fluffy hotel comforter. Shane had protested that anything more sexually creative could mess him up for finals the next day, and Ilya was secretly grateful. His emotional energy had been tapped dry by dinner with the Hollanders. 

It had been strange witnessing their dynamic up close, so different from what he had with his father and brother. Ilya had prickled with nervousness at the beginning of dinner, keeping his mouth shut the way he had been lectured to do since childhood, and he’d felt his hackles rise when Yuna began questioning him about his climbing prospects going forward. When his father spoke about his climbing, it was always with an intention to criticize him for past or future failings, but when he had looked into Shane’s mother’s laser-focused deep brown eyes, he realized that he had already learned how to lower his defenses and take a Hollander’s questions for what they were — a show of attention, concern, even love. 

Shane’s breathing was slow on Ilya’s chest now, his head tucked securely just under Ilya’s chin as Ilya traced little swirls in the short, spiky hair at the nape of his neck. Shane had gone back to his own room the past two nights, concerned that someone would notice if he and Ilya emerged together in the morning, but he seemed too exhausted to worry about that now. Ilya stayed very, very still, like any movement would startle Shane into leaving. 

“What do I get if I medal tomorrow?” Shane asked sleepily. Ilya could feel the smile against his skin. 

“Mmm, I think I will tie you up like present,” Ilya murmured, rubbing his lips into Shane’s hair. 

“Sounds like a present for you,” Shane grumbled playfully. 

“I will make it very rewarding for you,” Ilya promised. 

Shane was quiet for a long moment — so quiet Ilya thought he had already fallen asleep. 

“And if I don’t place top three?” he asked. 

“Then I will have to tie you up and punish you,” Ilya replied easily, tugging lightly at the back of Shane’s hair. “Quiet now, malysh. Big day tomorrow.”

Chapter End Notes

Curitiba part 2 should be out in less than a week! Comp finals and Ilya giving Shane some "top rope" experience ;)

Btw, for Ilya’s hair length at this point in the story, I’m thinking *almost* Connor Storrie in the short film Twenty-Two. Sorry not sorry to those of you who hate the concept of long hair Shane and would probably hate long hair Ilya.

Anything else you would like to see explored before the end of this fic?

Chapter 19: Curitiba, Part 2 aka Top Roping

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Ilya...well...tops and ropes Shane.

Chapter Notes

me: doesn't post for 2 weeks
also me: posts 3 chapters in 5 days

I expanded the chapter count to 22. Partially because 22 is one of my favorite numbers (have I mentioned that OCD Shane is close and personal to me) and partially because there are a few more scenes I really want in here.

CW: under-negotiated kink (but nothing non-consensual happens) and a brief reference to childhood physical abuse

Ilya woke up in a quiet hotel room. Through a single cracked eyelid, he saw that the sheer curtains were just barely aglow with golden morning light. Wisps of a dream lingered at the periphery of his mind — lying on a beach, the sun warming his chest; his fingers trailing through silky-smooth sand in swirling patterns; warm, foamy waves caressing his feet and calves. He shut his eyelid again quickly, trying to hold on to the feeling of tranquility, and involuntarily tightened his arms around the true source of his warmth — a smooth, freckled body that apparently ran hot while sleeping. The body let out a small, plaintive sound at being squeezed, then cuddled in even closer. 

Ilya had slept with many people — women, men, and a handful of queer Russians who would likely identify non-binary if it wasn’t so politically (and grammatically) painful. He had never woken up like this. Sure, a few times he’d awoken with a body next to his, usually due to both parties being too cross-faded to remember to leave after getting off, but waking up from those experiences almost always involved a throbbing headache and at least one person stumbling to the bathroom to vomit. 

The only memory that came close was something he hadn’t thought about in years, perhaps a decade or more: waking up with his mother and brother on the only trip they’d ever taken to visit her parents in Kyiv. His father hadn’t wanted to come on the long train journey, and his mother had seemed so much lighter outside of Moscow, almost childlike herself. The three of them had shared a mattress on the floor in the living room of his grandparents’ small home. It had been spring, he recalled, though still early enough in the season that it was cold at night, and they had woken every morning squashed together for warmth as light streamed through the kitchen window. They had been young enough that Alexei still tolerated him, maybe even liked him. His mother had smiled so much on that trip, and she had even carried some of that happiness back home to Russia, though it faded when Grigori informed them all that there would be no more visits to Ukraine. 

Ilya’s reverie was interrupted when Shane turned 180 degrees in his arms, pressing their lightly sweaty chests together and his morning wood directly into Ilya’s lower abdomen. 

“Good morning to you too,” Ilya laughed, his voice gravelly from disuse. Shane’s brow furrowed, a half-asleep version of his angry kitten expression, and he rolled his hips forward as if in retort. Ilya slid a calloused hand around to cup his ass encouragingly, and in only a few minutes, Shane was 100% awake, panting morning breath into Ilya’s mouth as he thrust feverishly into his fist. He came with a choked moan, and then immediately went boneless, his head thunking softly against Ilya’s sternum. 

“Wow,” Shane muttered, sounding more baffled than awed.

“Very good wake-up service in this hotel, no?” Ilya replied, kissing his temple. “Usually they just call room phone.”

Shane snorted and pushed Ilya’s shoulder, though Ilya noted the caution he exercised toward Ilya’s injury even when barely conscious. “I paid for a special package,” Shane replied. 

“Ah, yes sir, your package is right here,” Ilya said before rolling on top of Shane, pinning his arms and grinding on him lewdly. He checked the clock on the bedside table, then gave Shane a final smacking kiss on the cheek and clambered off of him. Only an hour until climber check-in for finals, and he was not going to let Shane squander any of his precious grip strength. 

Ilya had found Yuna and David Hollander easily in the crowd, since they were both wearing T-shirts emblazoned with large red maple leaves. Yuna had a sleek ponytail sticking out of the back of a Red Bull baseball cap and had been talking a mile a minute about upcoming IFSC rule changes since Ilya sat down. David was quietly sipping a coffee and reading an article about the Brazilian economy on his phone. 

Ilya was startled by both Hollander parents shooting to their feet, cheering exuberantly, when Shane emerged with the seven other finalists. Shane’s eyes snapped to their spot in the crowd immediately, and he smiled warmly as Ilya scrambled to his feet beside Yuna. As soon as the judge announced the start of the time period for reading the four boulder problems, Shane turned his intense focus to the wall.

Ilya was excited for the chance to soak in Shane’s climbing skills. Of course, he’d been an awesome climber to watch since their youth comp days, when Ilya had replayed YouTube videos that featured him a few more times than was necessary to simply assess a foreign competitor. But beyond that, he had improved significantly in the past year. He had eliminated technical gaps that had held him back in the Olympics, particularly with deadpoints and dynamic coordination moves, and for the entire weekend he had been climbing with not just grace, but confidence. 

Ilya realized quickly that it was easier to accept barbed comments from Yuna about his own climbing capacities than to hear them about Shane. Yuna was never cruel, as Ilya’s father was when speaking about him — or at least as he had been, back when he’d consistently remembered who Ilya was. She did, though, catalogue every small mistake Shane made, leaning over to point them out to David, who hummed his acknowledgement while keeping his eyes fixed on the wall. Ilya clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to inform Yuna that it was actually a lot harder than it looked, being up there with all eyes on you and a tight time limit, not to mention that the angle of the wall and slipperiness of the volumes were often not apparent from a distance. 

Ilya had joked the night before about seeing where Shane’s intensity toward climbing came from, but he really was starting to understand it now. He had Yuna’s hyperfocus and drive, combined with David’s tendencies to quietly absorb others’ energy and to placate, even submit. Plus, he’d had the concentrated devotion and pressure that came with being an only child. All of that energy had been directed into a competitive, physically demanding sport, which had very few opportunities to actually make a living. While Ilya held a bitterness that his father had never supported his chosen sport or helped him on his career path, he realized, perhaps for the first time, that he was glad competitive climbing had always been his choice. Maybe he would keep competing until the next Olympics and onward, and maybe he wouldn’t — but it would be his decision to make. 

Shane was beautiful on the wall. Beyond his technical prowess, it actually looked like he was having fun. He topped the first problem, then flashed the second, letting out an uncharacteristic whoop as he dropped back down to the mat. He took only the zone on the third, but the climbers who followed him didn’t get much further. Finally, the fourth boulder. Slabby, crimpy — built for Shane Hollander. He flashed it in under two minutes, to an enthusiastic roar from the crowd. Three people were loudest of all, and nearly lost their voices cheering when a bronze medal was placed around his neck. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane felt a bit like he was dreaming. He had stood on the podium this afternoon with Sohta Amagasa and Lee Dohyun, two climbers he had been watching clips of online for years, and they had both shaken his hand, Sohta adding a small bow, like he was their equal. When they had been allowed out into the crowd, Shane had been swept into a tight hug by his mother, which his father joined in on and tugged Ilya into as well. Out of view and as if by accident, Ilya had pressed his lips to Shane’s shoulder, then pulled back so Shane could see the pride shining in his eyes. 

Shane was brought back to reality by a tug on the loop of rope around his wrists. 

“Wiggle fingers,” Ilya instructed. Shane did so, and he heard a small noise of approval, followed by steps and rustling as Ilya presumably returned to his gear bag for more cordage. 

Shane was facedown on the bed in Ilya’s hotel room, his forehead resting on a pillow, knees tucked underneath him like he was in child’s pose. He was naked as the day he was born, except for a rope harness that Ilya had taken his time creating around his chest. Shane was pretty sure they had invented a new form of foreplay when Ilya began quizzing him on each knot he was using, praising him for each correct answer with a single lick or stroke. At this point, Shane was sure Ilya was purposefully drawing out the process, enjoying watching him squirm in anticipation. There was a wet spot between his knees already where he was dripping precum. 

“What knot is this?” Ilya asked, stepping to the side of the bed and crouching down, holding a piece of purple cordelette tied into interlocking loops. 

Shane swiveled his head to the side eagerly. “Chain Sinnet,” he replied quickly. “You can also call it Daisy Chain or…Monkey Chain, I think.” He pressed up on his knees a bit to give Ilya access to his cock, not caring that he probably looked humiliatingly desperate. 

“Very good,” praised Ilya. Choosing to ignore Shane’s helpful repositioning, he leaned in for a filthy kiss and simultaneously reached to slide a dry finger teasingly over Shane’s hole. Shane jolted in surprise and let out a whine. “Since you’re such a smart little slut, can you tell me why I am using this knot?”

Shane’s mind had begun to go pleasingly fuzzy, and he frowned as he struggled to decide what answer Ilya might be looking for. He really wanted to get it right. 

“It shortens the rope?” Shane said hopefully. 

“Good guess,” Ilya replied, “But no. I am using because it is pretty, like you.” 

With that, Shane felt him use the rope to attach the loops around his wrists to the back of the chest harness. Shane tugged, testing the set-up by attempting to pull his wrists further apart, and felt it tighten the ropes around his chest, knocking the breath out of him briefly. He felt a jolt of dizzying adrenaline at the realization that his upper body was completely immobilized — he would be dependent on Ilya’s whims to pleasure him, punish him, and decide when they were done. He moaned and arched his back in a bid to be touched. 

Ilya crouched by his face again, his palm on Shane’s cheek. “You are so noisy. Maybe someday I put rope in your mouth to keep you quiet. But today, I want to make sure you can tell me to stop. What do you say if you want me to stop, kotik?”

“Falling,” Shane replied, his eyes locked with Ilya’s and shiny with desire. 

“And if you need a break?”

“Sketchy.”

“And if you feel great and want me to keep going?”

“Bomber.” 

“Good boy,” Ilya replied, tapping him twice on the cheek, just hard enough to leave a pleasant warmth behind. “You are ready?” 

“Yeah,” Shane said breathily, “please fuck me.” 

Ilya stood. He was still fully clothed, and he seemed to be in no rush to change that. His composure was in stark contrast to Shane, before him on the bed — naked, bound, and trembling with desire. Though Ilya was performing authority and domination, when Shane twisted his neck further to look up at him, tenderness shone in his eyes.

“Okay, malysh,” he said quietly. “On me.” 

“On you,” Shane replied with a hazy smile, letting himself drift under. 

Shane had done some more sex research in the past month (sometimes he felt like his incognito browser got more use than the regular one). He’d wanted to figure out why being with Ilya felt so different — besides the fact that he was a devastatingly hot professional athlete with an objectively above-average cock. He’d read up on submissiveness and, with some embarrassment but mostly relief, recognized many of his own preferences and experiences — how he liked it when Ilya told him what to do; how he drank in the praise Ilya gave him; and how his mind went pleasantly fuzzy when he was focused on being good for Ilya, like their first time in Vancouver when he told him not to come, or in Keqiao when he made him come a second time. 

Ilya walked around to the foot of the bed, out of Shane’s line of sight. With his hands behind his back and his forehead on the bed, there was no way for Shane to turn far enough to see what he was doing. He pressed his forehead down into the pillow, listening for clues. A zipper, then rustling. Something heavy, tossed to the floor. Footsteps. The clink of a belt buckle, another zipper. The familiar pop of the lube bottle’s cap, then faint wet noises and a low, breathy moan. 

“Ilya?” Shane asked hesitantly. 

“Yes, kotik? Want something?” 

“I want — can I see you?” 

Ilya strode to the left of the bed, back into Shane’s view. He had taken off his shirt, putting his muscled torso on display, but his jeans and briefs were pulled down only to mid-thigh. His cock was out, hard and heavy and glistening with lube as he stroked it slowly, looking amused. 

“Better?” he asked, with a teasing lilt to his voice. 

“I thought you were gonna fuck me,” Shane said, a bit petulantly. “I got bronze. It’s — it’s my reward.” 

Ilya tutted, continuing to stroke himself. Shane couldn’t help but follow the motion with his eyes. 

“I have been thinking about when you gave me a little show, in Montreal.” Ilya said, seemingly ignoring Shane’s complaint. “Opened yourself up for me. Didn’t let me get up and touch you until I begged. I have thought about it a lot, actually. In Russia, when I miss you. When I wish you were there to suck my cock.” 

Shane whimpered. He wanted to reach out to Ilya, wanted to make him feel good, but when he wriggled against the ropes, all it did was constrict his breathing.

“You are doing very good,” Ilya said soothingly. “How do you feel?”

“I — I want to touch you,” Shane breathed. 

“But you are bomber? Sketchy?” 

“Bomber,” Shane replied quickly, nodding against the pillow, his eyes still locked on Ilya’s steadily moving hand. 

“Do you think about me when you touch yourself, moya lyubov?”

Shane drew his eyes away from Ilya’s hand, up to his eyes. He nodded again, feeling himself blush — which he realized was a bit insane, considering he was tied up, with his bare ass in the air, dick dripping on the fancy hotel sheets. But something about this admission made him feel vulnerable, like his soul was stripped bare. He did think of Ilya, almost every time — even when he’d been with Miles, sometimes the same night he’d been with Miles.

There was a bead of precum at the tip of Ilya’s cock. Shane’s eyes flicked back down, and he licked his lower lip automatically. Ilya caught the reaction and smiled devilishly, walking closer until he was right up next to the bed. 

“Do you want a taste, malysh? Should I come in your mouth?” 

Shane was halfway through another nod when he processed the second question, freezing with a disgruntled noise. 

“No, Ilya, c’mon. I want you inside me.” 

“Hmm,” Ilya mused, seeming a little more breathless as he continued to stroke himself. “I will consider it… if you tell me one thing you have thought about when you touch yourself. Something you can’t stop thinking about.”  

Shane groaned and turned his face back into the pillow, at war with himself internally. Even as he hid his flushed cheeks, he was sure his ears were bright pink. He was only getting more desperate to be touched, the longer he heard the wet slip of Ilya’s hand and the little groans Ilya seemed unable to hold back any longer. 

“You —” Shane mumbled, unsure how to even phrase it, “When you said —”

“Turn your head, malysh. I can’t hear you.” 

Shane turned his face back to Ilya. Small tears of shame pricked at his eyes, but he forced himself to lock his gaze onto Ilya’s face. 

“When you told me I was made to take your cock,” he whispered. “I think about that. Being made for you…perfect for you.” 

Ilya shut his eyes and stilled his hand. It looked for a moment almost like he was meditating, or even praying. Then he dropped to his knees beside Shane and kissed him, hard, sucking at his lips and running a hand into his hair. Shane ached to reciprocate, to weave his fingers into Ilya’s curls and tug, but all he could do was pant and whine. 

Ilya broke their mouths apart and moved behind Shane. He grabbed Shane’s hips and pulled them back firmly, forcing his chest down into the bed and an arch into his back. Shane heard the pop of the lube bottle opening again, and he readied himself to feel a finger pressing into his hole, always a startling sensation no matter how many times he’d felt it now. Instead, he felt lube drip directly down his crack. Shane flinched at the strange, wet feeling, but he was soon distracted by another new sensation — Ilya fucking not into him, but against him — running his hot, firm cock through the slippery space between his cheeks. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Ilya gritted out, gripping Shane’s ass with both hands and thrusting upwards, letting out a choked moan when Shane canted his hips and caught the head of Ilya’s cock briefly on the rim of his hole. 

Shane arched further and tried to thrust back, to get Ilya inside, not caring that he hadn’t taken any fingers yet. He wanted to be molded to the exact dimensions of Ilya’s cock, even if it hurt — especially if it hurt. He moaned and shifted his hips again, trying to coax Ilya into him, and a crack rang out as Ilya swatted his ass. 

“Oh f-fuck,” Shane cried out at the sharp sting, his cock twitching and weeping beneath him. 

Ilya rubbed a hand soothingly over where he had slapped. “Mm, you liked that, kotik? How are you feeling?” 

“Bomber!” Shane practically sobbed. “I need you in me, please, please, Ilya.” 

“Khorosho, moy angel,” Ilya purred, pulling his hips away. 

Shane whimpered at the feeling of cool air on lube-wet skin, then again at the feeling of a thick, calloused finger pressing inside him. Ilya reached his other hand around and dragged it over Shane’s cock in time with the thrusting of his finger. 

Shane pressed his forehead harder into the pillow, trying to keep himself upright when the loss of Ilya’s hands on his hips and the sudden onslaught of sensations threatened to make his legs give out. His abs tensed and released as his body fought to both chase and escape the overwhelming feelings, jerking with a yelp when the rough pad of Ilya’s finger rubbed firmly over his prostate. 

“Ty idealen,” Ilya murmured as he added a second finger, keeping up the pace with both hands, “So perfect. Nobody takes it like you.” 

“Again, Ilya, please!” Shane cried out, twisting his head in a desperate attempt to look behind him. 

“Perfect,” Ilya growled, “You were made for me, lyubov moya.”

“Ah — no, Ilya — mmh — hit me again. Please.” 

Ilya stilled both hands. 

A cold wave of fear washed over Shane, immediately cutting through his pleasant mental haze. Shit. He’d fucked up. They had talked a little beforehand, about the ropes, the name-calling, Ilya being in control…they hadn’t talked about hitting. Shane hadn’t even realized before how much he would enjoy that sharp spike of feeling, the warm buzz it left behind on his skin. 

“Ilya?” he asked hesitantly, when Ilya was frozen, quiet behind him for a long moment. 

Ilya withdrew his fingers, the sound obscene in the nearly silent room. 

“Sorry,” Ilya said shakily, “I — I think I am…sketchy.” 

Tears of shame pricked at Shane’s eyes. He needed to see Ilya’s face, but he couldn’t move well enough to do so. 

“Can you come up here?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He could not panic, not when Ilya was the one using the safeword. They hadn’t even discussed that possibility, which seemed so obvious now that it was happening. 

“Da, I — I untie you?” Ilya asked, his words coming out more accented than usual. 

“Maybe just my arms?” Shane said. Now that was coming down from the floaty, desperate headspace he’d been in, he was aware of the ache in his shoulders. There was rustling behind him, and then a bit of tugging as his arms were released from the chest harness, then from each other. 

Shane’s arms flopped to the bed, tingly, and he rolled himself onto his back. Ilya was on his knees at the end of the bed, holding the rope chain, looking more shaken than Shane had seen him since the comp where he’d injured his shoulder. He’d pulled his briefs and pants back up, but the jeans were still unzipped, hanging limply around his hips. 

“Sorry,” Ilya said again, “I — Your arms are okay? They are hurt?”

“No,” Shane said quickly, pressing himself up to sitting, “Just a little sore from staying in one position. They don’t hurt now.” 

It felt strange to be so far apart, like there was a chasm between them, though it was only a few feet. Shane pulled his knees up to his chest, self-conscious of being naked and still mostly hard. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asked, “I’m sorry about the slapping thing, I — I know we didn’t talk about that. I’m really sorry.”

Ilya crawled up the bed so he was just in front of Shane’s knees. He took hold of one of Shane’s wrists, running a thumb lightly over the line of pink where the rope had chafed him slightly. 

“Is okay,” he said quietly. “I think…I did not mean to hit you. I thought of it like, spank — you know, not too hard, a sexy thing, like in porn. When you said hit you again —” He tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, and Shane could see moisture shining in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Shane shifted a little closer to Ilya, pushing an errant curl behind his ear. “Hey, Ilya, you didn’t hurt me,” he said, slow and clear. “I don’t think I’ll even bruise from being hit like that. I’m a rock climber! Sometimes — usually I have at least a few bruises.”

Ilya laughed wetly. He brought his eyes down to meet Shane’s, the red rims making the irises look bright blue in contrast. They stared at each other for a moment. 

“My father hit us,” Ilya said. “When you said to hit you…it made me think of that. Of being like him.” 

Shane was at a loss for words. He’d always wanted to know more about Ilya’s family, his childhood — but he hadn’t exactly been prepared to have this type of conversation tonight, while naked and still half tied up. His heart hurt thinking of a young Ilya, afraid, terrorized by his father, the same father who Ilya was spending so much time and energy taking care of now. He wanted to wrap Ilya up in his arms and keep him safe. He wanted to convince him not to go back to Russia, ever.

“Sorry, is not very sexy topic,” Ilya said wryly. “Not very good reward for bronze medal.” 

Shane smiled at Ilya’s attempt at levity. “I’m glad you said something,” he said honestly. “I feel dumb now — we didn’t even talk about you using the safewords. I wouldn’t want you to keep going if you were upset.” 

Ilya nodded. He still looked rattled, perhaps guilty, but calmer than before. 

“How do you feel now?” Shane asked gently. “Falling?” 

“Mm, no,” Ilya said, “I am okay. Bomber. Maybe just, little less intense would be good for me. Today.” 

“I can work with that,” Shane said. 

Shane shifted closer, making sure not to move too suddenly, and brought his lips to Ilya’s. It was a light kiss, chaste, and he waited for Ilya to take it further. He was thankful when Ilya did, deepening the kiss and moving his hands to Shane’s chest. Their mouths moved together as Ilya untied the knotted harness with deft hands. 

When Shane’s chest was bare, the harness back to nothing more than a long piece of rope, Ilya ran his hands over Shane’s smooth pecs, his strong shoulders, and up to cup his face, holding him like he was something precious. They separated only long enough for Ilya to push his pants and briefs back off, fully this time, and position himself behind Shane, both on their sides. 

Two fingers slipped inside of Shane easily, and Ilya kissed Shane’s neck as he pressed in a third, rocking them in and out gently. Shane’s desperation roared back like a wildfire, and he reached behind himself to grasp Ilya’s thigh, pulling him closer, feeling his cock press against him, hot and insistent. When Ilya tried to roll away to get a condom and more lube, Shane kept his hand where it was, gripping Ilya’s ass like a sloper. 

“Do we need it?” Shane asked, looking over his shoulder with eyes full of urgent desire. “Have you been tested?” 

Ilya froze, scanning Shane’s face. “I — yes, in March, before Keqiao. It was clean.” 

“And there’s been no one since then?” Shane asked.

“Mm,” Ilya agreed, nodding, his eyes locked with Shane’s. 

“Wait, really?” Shane asked, turning further toward Ilya, momentarily distracted from his lust by incredulity. “But that was—”

It was Ilya’s turn to blush. “Months, yes, I know!”

Shane’s smile was radiant — smug, even — like the cat that got the cream, as the old saying went. 

“Hollander, is not a big deal,” Ilya grumbled, reaching up to squeeze Shane’s pec playfully. 

“I haven’t either,” Shane said, “Not since Miles — and the last time with him was before Keqiao. So…I’m good without.” 

“You are sure?” Ilya asked. “Can be messy.”

“Yeah,” Shane breathed, shutting his eyes and wriggling back against Ilya again, needing to feel him, “I want it messy.” 

Ilya groaned and bucked forward, his cock sliding against Shane’s warm, smooth skin. “Do you need more lube?” he asked, sounding a bit frantic. 

Shane shook his head, pressing his hips back. “There’s enough. Come on, please, baby.”

Ilya shuddered as he reached between them and pressed the head of his cock to Shane’s stretched hole. He crossed his arm over Shane’s chest, grasping his shoulder for leverage to thrust slowly inside, and Shane’s hands flew to his wrist as he felt the stretch, huge inside him, filling him up. He wasn’t going to last long, not when he’d been edged for the better part of two hours. On top of that, he had the knowledge that Ilya was inside him, raw, closer than they had ever been before. 

Shane’s mind hazed over again as Ilya began to thrust rhythmically, kissing his neck, his cheek, his jaw, his ear. It wasn’t the submissive floating from before, but he felt really good, like he and Ilya were becoming one entity — hearts pumping in sync, a circuit of pleasure flowing through and between them. Ilya was murmuring quietly, his voice rough with emotion, Russian syllables blending together so Shane had no hope of recalling them to look up later — Ya tak silno tebya lyublyu. Ya tak po tebye skuchal. Pozhaluysta, ostansya. Ostansya co mnoy. Moy lyubimy, moya lyubov. Ni ostavlyay menya. 

Shane shifted his upper body, suddenly desperate again to see Ilya’s face; he hooked an arm around Ilya’s neck so they could be face to face while Ilya fucked into him relentlessly. Ilya’s expression was wrecked — tears in his eyes, flushed pink all the way down to his chest, sweaty curls in disarray. Shane gripped Ilya’s face, pressing a thumb in his mouth the way Ilya had done to him many times before, and Ilya sucked hard, the sensation somehow traveling straight to Shane’s dick. Shane felt insane — burning hot every place their skin touched, overwhelmed by the desire to consume and be consumed. 

“I want your cum in me,” Shane moaned in ecstasy, feeling his body clench and twitch with his impending orgasm. 

Ilya moaned back, nodding feverishly, drooling around Shane’s thumb while thrusting impossibly deeper. 

“I want — oh god, Ilya, I need to feel it. Please —” Shane sobbed, and a cry ripped ragged out of Ilya as he thrust in deep and came, so hard it was as if it was being torn out of him. He brought a hand down blindly to grasp for Shane’s cock, but Shane was already quaking and spilling onto the sheets, his orgasm hitting at the first sensation of Ilya’s cum inside him, hot and slick and perfect as Ilya thrust through his aftershocks. 

They lay together, breathing hard, saying nothing for a long time. Shane felt on the verge of either laughing or crying, maybe both. When he spoke, it was with Ilya still softening inside him, out into the still air of the hotel room, without a plan, without even meaning to say it aloud — 

“I love you.” 

Ilya startled, pulling out so suddenly that Shane fell back onto the pillows, looming over him with an expression of pure shock. Shane’s eyes cast over Ilya’s face frantically, scrambling mentally for how to backtrack, berating himself that they were supposed to keep things casual, that this was exactly —

“I love you, too,” Ilya said, adding in a choked voice, “For a long time.” 

They stared at one another for a moment, and then Ilya’s head crashed into Shane’s chest with a heaving sob, something raw and animal. Tears of relief sprang to Shane’s eyes, and for once he let them spill over his lashes, rolling down his face and into Ilya’s chaotic curls as they clutched each other. He heard Ilya murmuring again, his voice snotty and muffled against Shane’s neck, the same Russian words Shane was sure he had heard from him before — Ya tebya lyublyu. Ya tebya lyublyu.

Chapter End Notes

This is a very special chapter to me! It was important for me personally to write out a scene in which they could try something kinky, have one of them express discomfort, and have that discomfort be both addressed and also not mean they have to immediately cease all sexual intimacy.

Btw, I'm thinking that I will write some shorter pieces with these same versions of the characters after ending this fic, so if you're interested in that, follow me as an author!

Chapter 20: Salt Lake City, Part 1

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

An early flight and an evening fight

Chapter Notes

Hi all! The rest of the fic is more or less plotted out, but I struggled a bit with what should be contained in this chapter vs. the next one. I’ve landed on this one being pretty short, and the next one being long.

“Syurpriz!”

Ilya gasped, clutching his hand to his heart. 

“Gospodi, Sveta, you weren’t supposed to be here until tonight!” 

Svetlana laughed in delight at Ilya’s shock as he dropped his duffel bag to the floor and steadied his breathing. She stood in the kitchen of the AirBnB they had rented in Salt Lake City ahead of the next World Cup comp at the end of the week, in a pair of jean shorts so tiny they would be more correctly classified as denim underwear and one of Ilya’s own IFSC youth comp tank tops, which she must have stolen from him at some point, hanging off her narrow frame. 

As his heart rate returned to something near normal, Ilya pulled out his phone automatically. He and Shane didn’t usually text updates about every little thing — whether their planes landed safely and so on — but then again, Ilya didn’t usually tell people that he loved them. As sappy as it was, he was already missing Shane a lot. They’d parted ways less than 24 hours before, both of them exhausted but smiling after their night of attempted kink and successful love confessions. By now, Shane would have spent his first night at a resort near São Paolo with his parents and was probably slathered in sunscreen, reading a book about South American birds or Brazilian big wall multipitching. The only thing Ilya was planning to read over the next few days was online takeout menus and maybe, maybe some of the book on trauma that Galina recommended to him — she said it was about bodies and scoring, which happened to be two of Ilya’s main interests.  

When he raised his gaze from his phone, Svetlana was leaning against the kitchen island. Her arms were crossed and she was leveling him with a look that was quite unamused. 

“Seryozno? Who is texting you that is so important? I haven’t seen you in months!”

“Sorry, sorry!” he hurriedly apologized, tucking his phone into his pocket and pulling her to his chest, which she playfully resisted. 

“Forgive me,” Ilya murmured, smiling into her thick curls, “I have a lot to tell you.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane slept terribly on his first night at the resort. He had been looking forward to a few days of fully unwinding between comps, but now that he knew what it felt like to fall asleep and wake up in Ilya’s arms, he found himself tossing and turning for hours — too hot and overstimulated with the sheets on, too cold and exposed with them off. 

His restless mood had already caused him to argue with his mom over dinner. They had just been served their drinks when she’d excitedly announced that she had set up an interview for him to do on Thursday in Salt Lake City — some fluff piece for a climbing blog about his bronze medal in Curitiba. Yuna didn’t seem to see a problem with not consulting him before agreeing to it, even though she knew he hated that type of thing. He just didn’t understand why it was necessary for his climbing career — it wasn’t like being popular made him any more likely to win comps. And then there were the inane questions interviewers always asked: how could people improve their climbing? (Go to the gym, get on the wall, and climb), what did he always keep in his climbing bag? (Chalk, shoes, harness, belay device — same as literally everyone), did he enjoy competing in foreign countries? (He spent almost the entire time in those countries competing or preparing to compete, but yeah, it was cool). 

Besides all the usual annoyances, the interview would cut into the time he had with Ilya — which was already so limited. Of course, his mom didn’t know that part, or at least didn’t know why it would be so important to him. Shane twisted anxiously in bed, sheets tangling around his legs. He had no idea when he would see Ilya again after this weekend. The final boulder comps of the World Cup were in Europe in June, but Ilya had said he wanted to wait until after Brazil and Salt Lake City to see if his shoulder could tolerate more. Shane realized with a wave of guilt and self-reproach that he hadn’t followed up with Ilya after he’d made that comment about his shoulder hurting at dinner after the semi-finals. Maybe it was hurting even worse now, and he wouldn’t compete in Salt Lake City. Maybe he was already scheduling a flight to go back to Moscow early.

Shane glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. 7:21am. He decided to give up on any more sleep, pushing off the tangled covers and scurrying over to where his phone was charging across the room. His flight was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, but maybe there was a way to switch it to today. Sure, his parents had splurged on a great resort, but he’d already gotten some time outdoors yesterday, and he wasn’t much of a beach guy anyway (as Anakin Skywalker once said, the sand was coarse and irritating and got everywhere). Plus, if the whole point of these days between the comps was for him to relax — well, he would feel much more relaxed having an extra day with Ilya. Hell, maybe his parents would appreciate a little extra alone time in such a romantic destination…Shane promptly blushed at that line of thought, then jumped when there was a knock at the bedroom door — dropping his phone, which bounced in its bulky protective case and clattered under the bed.  

“Uh, come in!” he called, his voice a little strangled as he dropped to his knees and fished blindly under the bed skirt with one hand. 

His mother popped her head into the room, saying “Good morning…honey?” as she looked first to the bed and then to the desk before dropping her gaze to the floor in front of her. Shane finally grasped the rubbery case and pulled his phone out triumphantly. 

“Hey,” he said, a bit out of breath. “What’s up?” 

He unlocked his phone absent-mindedly, immediately realizing his mistake when his mom glanced down at it and furrowed her brow in concern. 

“Was there a problem with your flight?” 

“No!” Shane replied automatically, then thought better of it. “I mean yeah, uh, kind of. I emailed with that lady about the interview, and we were thinking of doing it Thursday morning instead? So I would have to leave here earlier because of that. Like this afternoon.” 

“Oh,” Yuna replied, seeming taken aback, though Shane wasn’t sure if it was due to the sudden change of plans or Shane taking the initiative to correspond with an interviewer. “She couldn’t do the evening? I can reach out and—”

“Mom, no, it’s okay. I’ve got this. I’m 21, I think I can schedule one interview. Besides, I would rather get it done before the welcome stuff on Thursday, so I can, like, keep my focus on the comp starting then. Okay?” 

“Well, okay, if you’re sure. Want me to call the hotel about booking the extra night?” 

“I’ve got it!” Shane said, his mind reeling. He was pretty sure Ilya had mentioned staying in an Airbnb with his friend from Russia. And since Ilya had said he hadn’t slept with anyone since before Keqiao, they wouldn’t be sharing a bed, right? “You just relax, Mom. It’s vacation!” he said, with what he hoped was an encouraging smile, but possibly looked more like he was being held at gunpoint. 

“Okay, honey…” she said, giving him a strained smile of her own. “We have a cabana reserved for breakfast in an hour, so just let us know then what time you need to head to the airport.” 

Yuna retreated back into the suite’s living room, where Shane spotted a cup of coffee and her iPad, open to the New York Times Spelling Bee. Shutting the bedroom door gently, Shane sat back down on the bed with a heavy exhale, then pulled up his texts with Ilya. 

30 hours later, Shane sat in the back of an Uber wending its way through Salt Lake City, past church spires and golf courses, staring at his most recent messages with Ilya. 

Shane Hollander:

I’m going to come to SLC early. 

Could I stay with you Wednesday night at the Airbnb? 

It’s okay if not.

I can book an extra day at the hotel. 

I know you’re visiting with your friend, so no pressure. 

Just let me know!! 

Ilya Rozanov:

Shane

Take breath

You can stay of course 

Cancel hotel, you can stay whole time

Shane Hollander:

Okay, thank you!

Ilya Rozanov: 

You are breathing? 

Shane Hollander:

I am, I promise. 

Ilya Rozanov

I would call u but we are going to <<brunch>>

Aparently is when you get drunk during breakfast

Shane Hollander:

Lol yeah, that sounds about right. 

Ilya Rozanov:

Svetlana is very excited to meet you

I told her about us hope it is ok

Shane Hollander:

Yeah, it’s okay. 🙂

Ilya Rozanov:

She says tell you a head of time we have sex in past

But not recent only you!!!!  

😚🍆🍩🥵❤️❤️❤️

—

Ilya Rozanov:

Shane? 

—

Shane Hollander: 

Just landed.

Of course it was fine that Ilya had slept with his friend Svetlana at some point, maybe even a bunch of times. Shane was totally, totally chill about that, and it was going to be normal and awesome sharing a house together for the next four days. Shane didn’t know a lot about Svetlana — just that she had grown up in Moscow, where she and Ilya did youth climbing together, and now she lived in America.

Well, and, Shane had checked her social media, which he’d accomplished by first scrolling back through years and years of Ilya’s Instagram while begging his fingers to not accidentally like a post and reveal his snooping. He’d found a bunch of pictures from around 2021, all variations on a theme — Ilya, with the spiky blonde buzz cut Shane remembered from their youth comps, charisma oozing through the screen even as a teenager. Alongside him was usually a girl, helpfully tagged as @svetav04, willowy and beautiful, with light brown skin and piercing hazel eyes, her arms wrapped around Ilya, and another boy, shorter, with pale skin and tousled brown hair, wearing an expression that was always somewhere between sarcastic and sullen. He was tagged as @xander666. 

When Shane had clicked through to Svetlana’s Instagram profile, her bio said that she was a model, with emojis that implied she often travelled between LA, Las Vegas, and Moscow. She seemed to pose with a lot of flashy sports cars. Shane couldn’t tell if these were unlabeled advertisements or just the types of photos people posted when they lived in LA. It was a good thing it stayed warm in that part of California, because every one of the cars she draped herself over would be completely impractical in the snow. 

Shane swallowed, his throat making a weird clicking noise from how dry it was, and considered asking the driver to change destinations to the salty lake that must be around here somewhere, so he could drown himself in it. 

It was a good thing he wasn’t overreacting. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane arrived in the late afternoon, looking more adorable than ever with a slight sunburn on his freckles button nose and his thumbs tucked in his pockets as he wandered awkwardly through the Airbnb, commenting on the interior design choices. When he was still going after 15 minutes, calling down the stairs to Ilya and Svetlana that the Paris and Switzerland themed bathrooms were an interesting choice, Ilya had took control of the situation and pulled him into the bedroom for a quick makeout session to quiet his racing mind (not that Ilya wouldn’t have taken any excuse after days apart), then led him back down to the living room and put a recording of the women’s boulder final in Curitiba on the TV. Svetlana had settled in next to Shane, smiling with amusement at his stream of consciousness chattering, going against everything she likely expected from watching his behavior in comps, and Shane in turn seemed impressed with Svetlana’s analysis of the route setting, noting that the zone placement on the routes resulted in a lack of score differentiation.

Shane offered to take them all out to dinner as a ‘thank you’ for letting him stay, choosing some fancy vegan place that Ilya had to admit made a pretty convincing meatless burger. Svetlana was in top form, flirting shamelessly with their waiter until he promised a heavier pour on their second round of drinks — a second round that Shane predictably protested, relenting only when Ilya reminded him this was their last remaining night without a competition the next morning. 

They were all a little tipsy when they got home, and it would have been so easy to simply say goodnight, curl up around Shane, and fall blissfully asleep. Instead, Svetlana pulled out a bottle of nice Russian vodka, accompanied by a jar of pickles, and Ilya just couldn’t resist. Shane refused to drink more, but allowed himself to be pulled onto Ilya’s lap, rubbing his face sleepily into Ilya’s neck as the conversation slid into Russian after the first shot. Ilya felt like his heart might burst from the love it contained as he ran a hand soothingly through Shane’s silky hair and listened to Svetlana dish out gossip about people he would never meet. 

Shane raised his head after a while, murmuring apologies about his jet lag and needing to be rested for his interview the next day. Svetlana reached across the table, swaying slightly, to grasp his face with both hands. 

“Do not say sorry, Shane Hollander,” she said, with a playful tone but serious eyes. “I am thankful that Ilya has a good boy like you.”  

Shane blushed at that, of course. “I’m probably too boring for him,” he deflected, but he was smiling. Ilya wanted to bite him on his little pink ear, but he held back since they were probably already at the limit of Shane’s PDA tolerance. 

Svetlana pulled her hands away, reaching for the bottle of vodka and laughing fondly. “No, he needs boring. Bozhe moy, he did enough drugs this winter to last him the rest of his life.”

Ilya felt Shane go very still on his lap. He tried not to tense up in response. 

“Drugs?” Shane repeated, like he might have misheard her. “Like, pot?”

Svetlana poured herself and Ilya fresh shots as she responded casually, “Mhmm, and all the rest of it. You know what a party boy our Ilyusha can be.” 

Shane turned to look at Ilya with those big, shiny doe eyes. “I don’t know that side of him at all,” he said. His lips turned up in a small, wry smile as he shrugged, trying for a joking tone. “I guess I’m too boring for him to even talk to about that stuff.” 

Ilya hadn’t really thought about what Shane’s reaction would be to his drug use in Russia. He certainly hadn’t been in a rush to talk about it, which he was regretting now. It just felt like they were completely separate worlds — his life in Russia and these sacred bubbles of time with Shane. In any case, he hadn’t touched a thing besides alcohol and a little weed since Keqiao — hadn’t even been tempted now that he could focus on getting his strength back and racking up coaching hours to pay for his plane tickets to comps. 

Shane stood up awkwardly, almost knocking his water glass off the table. He was still flushed, and he looked uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know more or bolt out the door. Svetlana didn’t seem to notice anything amiss until she picked up her shot and glanced at Ilya, taking in his panicky expression. 

“What, you haven’t told him about this winter?” she asked, quickly switching back into Russian. 

“We just got back together, Sveta! You want me to list him every drug I did while we were apart? Should I tell him every person I fucked, too?” Ilya hissed. 

“Um,” Shane said, “I’m gonna go to bed now.” 

“I’ll come too,” Ilya said, pushing the full shot glass in front of him back to Svetlana. 

Shane didn’t say anything else, just turned on his heel and headed upstairs. Ilya followed him like a leashed dog, his head spinning with alcohol and fear. 

As they undressed in silence, Ilya followed Shane’s every movement out of the corner of his eye. He was faced away from Ilya, hiding his body like they were strangers in a locker room. In a way, it was a familiar sensation from Ilya’s childhood, the quiet waiting to see how bad a punishment would be. Dread in his stomach but calm on his face. Showing weakness would only make it worse. 

Shane climbed into bed and turned onto his side, still without eye contact or saying a word, so Ilya followed him there. He didn’t lay down, instead opting to sit back against the headboard, quietly awaiting his judgement. 

When Shane finally spoke, his voice was quiet and rough. 

“What—” he cleared his throat, began again. “What drugs?” 

Ilya sighed. “Mostly weed and coke. A few other things, I tried once or twice, but I did not like.”

Shane made a small noise of acknowledgement, then went silent again. Ilya could hear Sveta in the bathroom down the hall getting ready for bed, and he realized that he and Shane hadn’t even brushed their teeth. The thought was strangely comforting. They would have this talk and then get back up so Shane could do his nighttime routine, and have a do-over of going to bed. 

“Have you been high when we’re together?” Shane asked suddenly. 

“Never,” Ilya replied quickly. “I only — only in Russia. When things were bad.” 

“I don’t know if I should believe you,” Shane said quietly, almost to himself.

“Please, Shane, look at me.” He turned his body to Shane, wanting so badly to touch him, reassure him. 

After a beat, Shane turned over, but he stared instead at the golden cross laying on Ilya’s bare chest. Trembling, he reached out a finger and gently traced over it. 

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you forever,” Shane murmured. “And other times I think I barely know you at all.” 

Ilya brought his hand up and placed it over Shane’s, pressing down so the cross pushed into the thin skin between his pecs. Shane didn’t pull away. 

“I did not mean to keep secret from you,” Ilya said. “If you say, I will never touch these things again. I will never drink again. Tell me what to do, and I will do it, please.” 

Shane shook his head minutely, his eyes still fixed on Ilya’s chest. 

“That shouldn’t be up to me. But…you have to tell me. I don’t want to — to not know. To think you really mean something, but it’s just because you’re high, or whatever.” 

Ilya couldn’t help it. He brought his hands to Shane’s face and tipped it up, demanding to see those shiny, soul-filled eyes. “This is what you worry? That what I’ve told you, I do not mean?” 

Shane shrugged, a tragic little attempt to downplay his hurt, belied by his eyes filling with tears. 

“Shane, I have meant everything I’ve said to you. Blyat, I have been telling you that I love you and meaning it since…since the day I left Vancouver.” 

Shane drew back, his brows furrowing in surprise and confusion, so adorable that Ilya let out a choked laugh. 

“You remember the toast I taught you,” Ilya said, looking deep into umber eyes to make sure the words registered. “The one I taught you, in the bedroom at Cliff’s apartment. It means ‘to love.’ Because I knew already that I loved you.” It was Ilya’s turn to lower his eyes now, down to where Shane’s smooth chest was rising and falling a little too rapidly. “I couldn’t say it yet, in English, until I knew that you felt it too. But I said it many times to you in Russian.” 

Shane had managed so far to keep the tears shining in his eyes from falling, but he let them go now, closing his eyes so that they squeezed out and down over his sun-darkened freckles.

“I love you, too,” he whispered. “Will you…will you teach me how to say it in Russian?” 

“Da,” Ilya said, pulling Shane a little closer.

Shane opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on Ilya’s lips so he could watch them carefully as he pronounced: “Ya tebya lyublyu.” 

And because Shane had heard it many times by now, when he pursed his lips in imitation, the words came out stilted but comprehensible: “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Molodets,” Ilya murmured, and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Now, kotik, I can think of one thing we need to do before going to sleep.” 

Shane’s head jolted up so quickly that it knocked into Ilya’s chin, color rising to his cheeks as he hissed, “Wha—Svetlana is right next door!” 

Ilya’s pulled a face of mock disbelief as he rubbed his smarting chin. “Shane Hollander, you have a dirty mind! I meant that we must brush teeth.”

Shane’s cheeks colored even darker, scowling like a cross kitten, which meant Ilya had to kiss him tenderly. Shane melted into him with a whimper, only for Ilya to pull back with raised eyebrows.

“You are getting hard about Svetlana hearing us fuck, or because you love dental hygiene?” 

Shane gave his answer by rolling out of bed stomping huffily to the bathroom, then popping his head back around the door with a smirk that had Ilya scrambling after him. 

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 21: Salt Lake City, Part 2

Chapter Summary

Sex and the City (but the city is Salt Lake City). Then, the semi-final comp and a lot of emotional hurt/comfort.

CW for Shane's food issues

Chapter Notes

Shane and Ilya both made it through the Salt Lake City qualification round easily, and as their reward, Svetlana made it pointedly clear that she wouldn’t be back to the Airbnb until late.

They were on each other as soon as they were in the door, hot and frantic, knocking into a wall in the entryway, then nearly toppling a lamp maneuvering toward the living room. Ilya felt a little insane from the whiplash of the day — their sweetly domestic morning in the Airbnb, followed by not being able to touch all day at the comp, exchanging competitive barbs before climbs and sidelong smiles after both topping each one under the allotted time. The adrenaline of being back to full strength, of winning, and with Shane in sight but off limits, made Ilya so unbearably horny he truly considered jacking off in the bathroom like a teenager. Instead, he found a treadmill in the gym complex where quals were being held and set a new 5k PR. 

The pent up desire had been compounded by the optional tour in the late afternoon, provided by the local climbing association, which Yuna had insisted Shane attend to be polite and make connections. So instead of being back at the house fucking, maybe a few times, Ilya had been dragged along (or perhaps, though Ilya would never admit it aloud, he hadn’t wanted to miss out on any minutes with Shane, fucking or not) to the overwhelmingly huge Salt Lake Temple, a short photo-op in Big Cottonwood Canyon, and then to Brigham Young University for a campus tour followed by dinner. 

Ilya had gotten back at Shane by making their BYU tour guide’s life a living hell. He felt no pressure to make a good impression on a few random, IFSC-adjacent bigots, and if anything he was making Shane look better in comparison, so he enjoyed himself playing the role of oblivious Russian tourist who was just so surprised to find out that, while the United States was comparatively so much more accepting of LGBTQ people than his home country, homosexual behavior was “contrary to the university’s honor code” and could be cause for disciplinary action. 

Even with this entertainment, there was plenty of time for Ilya’s mind to wander — and was it any surprise that it wandered in a sexual direction when Shane was seated next to him in a temple pew wearing a button down and tailored slacks to make that all-important good impression on their hosts, clearly fighting not to sigh or roll his eyes as a university chaplain droned on about the “good works” done on Mormon missions across the world? So, Ilya’s mind drifted sexual — to kneeling, to confession, to power dynamics — and he clamped his cross necklace between his teeth, running his tongue along the metal points to keep a handle on himself until they were home. 

Ilya didn’t let them get further than the living room, and it looked like Shane didn’t mind from the way he dropped to the floor before Ilya had finished saying, “On your knees.”

Shane’s hands went immediately to Ilya’s waistband, but Ilya swatted them away without a word and Shane took the note, sitting back on his heels and fixing those big doe eyes on Ilya, pupils blown huge. 

Ilya stared down, heavy-lidded, drinking Shane in — lips shiny and reddened, flushed down his neck and into the crisp collar of his button-down shirt, an obvious bulge down the leg of the expensive slacks that stretched tight across his large, athlete’s thighs. This silent pause was a test of Shane’s obedience — one that he was currently passing, hands gripping hard at his knees, not straying toward his straining cock or back toward Ilya — but it was also a moment for Ilya to center himself in the dominant role. The last time they’d done something like this, Ilya had used their safeword. He needed to rebuild Shane’s trust that he could give up control and be taken care of, and he needed to rebuild trust with himself that he could responsibly manage both Shane’s and his own desires. 

“You will call me something different today, I think,” Ilya said, reaching a hand down to grasp Shane’s chin, tipping his head back roughly. His eyes were hazy already, fixed on Ilya’s mouth. “Do you want that?” 

Shane nodded silently within his grasp. 

“Bomber?” Ilya asked. 

Shane nodded again, but that wasn’t good enough, not when they hadn’t talked about this dynamic of theirs since the last time. 

“Words, kotik,” Ilya prompted. His tone was gentle but his hand on Shane’s jaw squeezed to underscore the demand. 

“Bomber,” Shane breathed. 

“Good.” Ilya loosened his grip, running his thumb soothingly over Shane’s cheek, and Shane leaned into it, his lashes fluttering. With his other hand, Ilya ran his fingers along the lines of the cross that hung around his neck. “In Russian Orthodox Church, we call priest batyushka. Is old word for father. But, if you know the priest’s name, we use easier word: otyets. Can you say this for me, Shanechka?” 

“Otyets,” he repeated, his voice quiet and rough. 

“Da. Molodets, moy malysh. Then you say their given name. So you will call me…?” 

Shane hesitated, adorable in his seriousness, his commitment to getting it right even while on his knees in a strange living room, tenting his dress pants. “Otyets Ilya,” he said, his eyes flicking up in uncertainty. 

Ilya smiled benevolently. Shane would have to be rewarded for being so good. Then again, he knew that Shane would probably enjoy being punished just as much. 

He pulled his shirt off, and nodded for Shane to do the same, who scrambled to obey — giving the quickest striptease ever as he pressed a few buttons through their holes and then yanked the entire shirt over his head, undershirt coming with. 

“Now,” Ilya said, his voice low and calm, hands going to the button of his jeans, “tell me what you want.”

Shane swallowed, lowering his eyes to where Ilya’s hands rested. “I want to — to suck you.” 

Ilya tsked his tongue and took his hands away from his waist, crossing them over his chest instead. Confusion crossed over Shane’s face, until he realized his error a moment later. 

“I want to suck you, Otyets.” 

Ilya smiled again. Sweet Shane, who would beg on his knees for cock, but was too shy to say the word aloud. 

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

A moment later Ilya’s jeans and briefs were around his ankles and Shane’s wet, warm mouth was around his cock, practically gagging on it as he struggled to take Ilya’s whole shaft against his tongue. Ilya reached and cradled the back of Shane’s head gently, not pulling or pushing but just holding him there, looking down at the brown eyes which were starting to water.

“You like this, kotik?” Ilya asked. He tilted his hips just a little, just enough that he could feel the head of his cock bump against the back of Shane’s throat. Shane gave an answering groan, the sound vibrating Ilya’s shaft in a way that made him swear and buck his hips even deeper into Shane’s beautiful mouth. He felt dizzy, intoxicated by the half-naked man kneeling in front of him, looking up at him with a mouthful of cock, brow furrowed with concentration as he tried to fit more and more of Ilya’s shaft down his throat.

Ilya groaned and pulled away, holding Shane by the hair as he slid his cock out of his mouth, briefly mourning the slick feel of Shane’s lips and tongue. But he was rewarded by looking down at Shane’s flushed face, his cheeks pink with effort, his eyes wet, mouth gasping.

“Zhadnyy,” Ilya murmured, his voice almost a purr. “That is what you are. Greedy.” 

His hand still tight in Shane’s hair, he guided him to his feet, steering him around to the side of the dark leather couch. “Zhadnost is a sin, you know. You will have to be punished.”

Shane moaned, twisting his body so he could make eye contact with Ilya even with Ilya’s hand firmly on the back of his head. “Please, otyets,” he half-whispered. “Please punish me.”

Ilya growled and pushed Shane down over the arm of the couch, palming the swell of his ass in the tight slacks which had tortured him all through the tour. He unbuttoned and unzipped the pants smoothly and slid them down and off Shane, followed by his boxer briefs, kneading his ass with a strong hand, then reaching around and ghosting his fingertips over Shane’s cock which hung hard and heavy between his legs.

“Stay,” Ilya ordered, then walked to the bedroom for a bottle of lube and a condom. As he stepped back down the stairs he had to pause to admire Shane — head down, obediently prone over the arm of the couch. Then he saw that Shane was grinding his hips ever so slightly into the arm of the couch, trying to get friction on his poor, untouched cock.

Ilya stepped up behind him, letting his footsteps slap loud against the floor. “Did I say you could do that?” he hissed when he was back behind Shane, his hand coiled in Shane’s hair, yanking his head up so his back made a satisfying arch.

“N-no,” Shane panted. “I’m sorry, but please —” He jerked his hips back toward Ilya.

“Pokhot. Lust. Your second sin tonight. So we will start with two fingers.” Ilya released Shane’s hair, slicked his fingers generously, and slid two into Shane’s tight hole. Shane’s groan was low and guttural, but his expression was rapturous. 

Ilya found himself marveling, as he often had, at how Shane’s rim of muscle clenched around him, how eagerly Shane’s body seemed to reach and grab for him, how quickly he opened. He added a third finger, thrusting in and out slowly, until Shane began fucking himself backward against Ilya’s hand like his hole was desperate to be filled, like nothing could satisfy him except Ilya’s fingers, Ilya’s cock, Ilya’s body…

Ilya pulled his fingers out, stilling Shane’s hips with a firm hand. “Pokhotlivyy,” he muttered derisively, unsure if he was talking about Shane cock-hungriness or his own overwhelming desire to be needed. He rolled on the condom and slicked his shaft quickly with another palmful of lube. 

Grasping Shane’s hair again, he maneuvered them onto the couch itself, letting Shane clamber onto it on all fours before pressing him down onto bent elbows. Positioning himself on his knees behind Shane, he could feel the heat coming off Shane’s body like a physical wall. He could feel his own desperation, but he forced himself to pause.

“Bomber, kotik?” he said, taking slow breaths to steady himself.

“Ilya, c’mon,” Shane groaned, out of his mind, bucking backwards, practically forcing his asshole against Ilya’s cock.

Ilya held Shane by the back of the neck, slowing him. 

“Bomber?” he said, in a voice he knew Shane could not argue with.

“Bomber, Otyets,” Shane panted obediently, and Ilya slid into him.

Then they were together, finally, Ilya pushing Shane’s face into the cushions so he could fuck him hard the way he liked. Shane grunted with each thrust, his hole clenching around Ilya’s cock, perfectly tight and hot. Ilya felt the heady rush of control, of domination, but not in the dangerous, unstable way he had felt with the ropes. He wanted to take Shane, to devour him, but also to hold him, to treasure him, to give him what he needed — and he knew that he could. 

“Is hard to be good, yes?” Ilya said, bracing a leg on the floor and so he could haul Shane onto his cock at a better angle. “Need Otyets to teach you right from wrong?”

Shane nodded feverishly and let out a small sob of pleasure. Ilya leaned over him, his stomach pressing on Shane’s back as he drove him further into the couch, his gold cross necklace dangling over Shane’s shoulder. He could feel Shane getting close now, and he reached beneath him to give Shane’s cock a stroke or two.

Then, as Ilya thrust into him, Shane turned his head to the side and put his mouth on Ilya’s cross, his lips closing around the cool metal. Ilya could feel Shane’s cock harden further in his hand at the sensation. For a second, Ilya’s brain short-circuited. The sight of Shane, pink-cheeked, eyes spilling overwhelmed tears as he sucked on his mother’s cross, was too much. He gave one more deep thrust and came, violently, inside Shane. He pressed his chest down onto Shane’s sweat-slicked back, trying to ground himself as tingly ecstasy radiated through his body, and summoned the energy to give a few rapid strokes to Shane’s cock. He felt him spasm in response, and cum spilled over his hand and onto the couch below them. They stayed like that for a long moment, breath coming in gasps, and when Ilya reached to kiss Shane the small golden cross clinked between their teeth. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Shane woke up on the morning of semi-finals, light was already streaming in the bedroom window, but his alarm hadn’t gone off yet. Check-in wasn’t until 11am, so he shifted closer to Ilya and pressed a kiss to his neck, breathing in his natural musky scent and the sweet notes of his conditioner. In response, Ilya tightened an arm around Shane’s middle as if to prevent him from escaping, tightening even further when Shane squirmed, until Shane had to wrestle him away, laughing. 

Shane could tell that Svetlana was awake from the muffled clinking of dishes drifting up from downstairs, and he was selfishly glad that Ilya stayed in bed with him for a while. They kissed languidly, smiling dopily at one another, until Ilya announced that he was going to explode if he didn’t pee in the next minute. 

With Ilya gone, Shane stretched his body like a cat in the rumpled bed, causing a cacophony of pops from his stiff joints. He took stock of his aches from the night before. His ass was sore, but manageable, though it still may have been unwise to fuck the night before a comp. His knees had a couple new bruises — but, well, he was a rock climber, so they joined a vast array of older bumps, scrapes, and scars. His pulleys had been a little sore after the finals in Curitiba, but a few days of rest had them back to baseline. All things considered, he was feeling good. 

Ilya’s voice drifted down the hallway, singing something in Russian in impressively tuneful baritone, and Shane smiled to himself as he pulled out his phone to wish his parents a good trip home from Brazil. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ilya looked up when Shane padded down the stairs, his hair damp and his skin flushed pink from the shower. It was sometimes hard to decide whether Shane was prettier like this, comfy and squeaky-clean, or on his back with glazed eyes, begging to come. 

“You made crêpes?” Shane asked as he approached the table, face scrunched curiously.

“Sveta made blini,” Ilya responded, “Like crepe, but Russian. Come try.” 

Shane rolled his eyes fondly as he surveyed the three plates Sveta had piled with thin pancakes, accompanied by small bowls of toppings. “Your French pronunciation is horrible. The ‘r’ needs to be in the back of your mouth. Crêpe.” 

If Shane had been looking at Ilya, he would have seen his face fall. Ilya was self-conscious of his English as it was, and French was a whole extra group of sounds and rules for him to embarrass himself by getting wrong. Besides that, Ilya couldn’t help but associate Shane’s French with his relationship with Rose — perfect Rose, who the Hollander parents loved unconditionally; who already got a silver medal at the World Cup in Keqiao and would probably medal again this weekend; who Shane had definitely slept with, though Shane refused to tell Ilya how many times…

But Shane wasn’t looking at Ilya. He walked around the table and into the Airbnb’s small, modern kitchen, and Ilya heard the sound of the fridge opening and closing. Shane re-emerged a moment later with a bottled protein shake he must have bought and stashed there at some point. 

“Anyway, you know I don’t eat simple carbs like that — especially during a comp,” Shane said to Ilya, his tone almost scolding. “Smells good though!” he added, giving Svetlana his trademark polite Canadian smile.

Ilya had been perhaps foolishly excited about the prospect of Shane experiencing one of the parts of Russia he actually liked. As soon as the familiar aroma of blini crisping on the stovetop had floated up to their bedroom, he had begun imagining Shane biting into a blin with honey, and maybe making one of those little noises of pleasure that he let out when Ilya convinced him to try a bite of something decadent. 

Ilya was used to Shane’s restrictive behaviors, but at a deeper level he simply couldn’t comprehend how a few hundred calories could be make-or-break to Shane’s “performance.” How could being rigid just for the sake of it be more important than showing a bit of interest in Ilya’s culture — and more importantly, respect toward Svetlana, the closest thing Ilya had to family outside of his father and brother, who had grocery shopped ahead of time and gotten up early to cook for them? 

Ilya shot Sveta an apologetic look, and for good measure he stuffed an entire blin, topped with dollops of both sour cream and sea buckthorn berry jam, into his mouth. Unfazed, Shane leaned back against a credenza and cracked open his shake. 

“Oh! My mom texted,” Shane said, taking a small sip of his drink and grimacing slightly. “She wanted me to tell you about this physical therapist she thinks you should talk to. She met him at the resort. He speaks Russian, so it could be really perfect.” 

“My physical therapist in Moscow also speaks Russian,” Ilya responded peevishly, wiping jam from his mouth with the back of his hand, knowing as he did it that it was on purpose to irritate Shane. 

Shane’s brow furrowed as he seemed to pick up on Ilya’s snarky tone. His eyes flicked to Svetlana, who busied herself adding honey to one of her remaining blini. 

“There’s no need to be an asshole, dude,” Shane huffed, “My mom just wants to help.” 

Ilya scoffed, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if requesting divine intervention. “He calls me “dude” when I had my dick in his ass 8 hours ago,” he muttered in Russian, causing Svetlana to let out an involuntary burst of laughter. Shane’s brow furrowed further, and he put his drink aside, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. 

“What’s so funny?” 

Ilya rolled his eyes and slouched like he was back in secondary school, getting scolded by a teacher for goofing off in class. “I said thank you, but I do not need your mother’s help, dude.” 

“Don’t you?” Shane shot back acerbically, “You literally said a few days ago that this might be your last World Cup because of your shoulder.” 

“Yes, and?” 

“And what, you’re just going to give up? Just like that?” 

Shane’s voice was incredulous, whiny, and Ilya sighed heavily in frustration, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Is not giving up to prioritize having shoulder that works, Shane. Climbing has already given me a lot — a way to see outside of Russia, and is how I met you. I never planned to do this until my body is completely destroyed.”

“But you’re a good climber, Ilya!” Shane shot back, eyes darting to Svetlana as if pleading for her to back him up. “Lots of climbers get injured and have to work hard to get back to where—”

“Ah, so you think I have not been working hard? That is the problem?” Ilya stood up from the table, suddenly overtaken by sharp, powerful hurt, a lifetime of his father’s admonishments echoing loud in his mind. Svetlana stood up as well, before Shane could answer, taking her plate into the kitchen, clearly trying to give them some privacy for this conversation that had spiraled way out of hand. 

Shane still looked irritated, but he lowered his voice and put his hands up like he was calming a spooked horse, “Look, I know you’ve been working hard. You climbed well in Brazil—”

“But not as well as you expected me to,” Ilya finished for him, spitefully. 

“That’s not what I was going to say!” 

“Maybe the problem is that Mr. World Cup Medal doesn’t want to fuck some lazy climber who can’t even make finals.” 

Shane paused for a moment, looking truly caught off guard, before spitting out, “Oh, very mature, Ilya.”

Ilya had always been told he was observant. What he observed now was that a look had flickered across Shane’s face — a look which said the thought did bother him, even if he hadn’t considered it before. 

“You do not deny it,” Ilya said, the breakfast he had so recently been enjoying sitting in his stomach like lead. 

“I’m not going to justify it with a response!” Shane spluttered. “Anyway, it’s not about whether I want to fuck you — it’s about quitting something when it gets hard. You can get to finals, if you just get serious and stick to a routine!”

Ilya rubbed a hand over his face and laughed, a cruel bark. “Oh yes, that will fix my shoulder, crazy Shane routine with bouldering for exactly two hours and protein shake for every meal!”

“Excuse me?” Shane said, his body freezing in place while his face flushed splotchy red. 

Fuck. Too far. Ilya clamped his mouth into an unhappy line. 

“No, don’t get quiet now,” Shane goaded, his voice trembling. “What did you just say?” 

Ilya’s tone was a mix of irritation and pleading. “Not — I should not have said crazy. But you think I don’t notice your body issues, Shane?”

“I don’t have ‘body issues’,” Shane replied, loud, his hands clenching into fists. 

The conversation suddenly felt like a runaway train — the tracks of their morning together far in the distance behind them. 

“Of course you do!” Ilya said, gesturing wildly at Shane’s half-drunk protein shake. “I see you count your calories, count your bites. You cannot eat one fucking blin that Svetlana made special for you, because what? You will get fat and fall off the wall? You will lose competition — like me?”

“Fuck you, Ilya,” Shane snarled, but Ilya saw his shaking hands and quivering lip. He took a step toward him, knowing how Shane liked to be grounded with physical touch, but Shane stepped back, knocking his lower back into the cabinet behind him. Then he spun and hurried to the front door, grabbing his gear bag from where it sat ready. 

“Shane —” Ilya tried, as Shane jammed his feet, without socks, into the formal shoes he’d worn to the tour the day before. 

“Hollander —” he tried again, but Shane was wrenching open the door and walking out without looking back. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane’s vision was narrow and blurry as he stumbled down the suburban street, heading in a random direction away from the Airbnb. His feet slid sweatily in the leather shoes after a single block, a sensation that made him want to crawl out of his skin, but he kept walking, his gear bag slung over his shoulder and bumping against his thigh with each step. 

Snippets of the fight fought for priority in his mind. Ilya’s furious face when he stood up from the table, icy eyes flashing viciously. How he’d revealed that this whole time he’d found Shane selfish, vain, crazy. Perhaps worst — the moment Shane’s stomach had twisted with dread at the question of whether he would still be with Ilya if he stopped competing, and how Ilya had clocked his hesitation immediately. 

Would his feelings for Ilya change if he was no longer a climber? He really didn’t know. It had undoubtedly been part of the appeal from the beginning — surely for both of them. The competitive spark between them, the shared language of bodies, strength, desire, achievement. And wasn’t Ilya attracted to him because he was a climber? Not just a climber — a winner? Ilya had never given Shane a second glance before he’d gotten into the Olympics, and even then, didn’t kiss him until they’d both competed and Shane had scored higher. And sure, Ilya supposedly said he loved Shane in Russian before Shane had even considered saying it in English — but the first time Ilya had said it was just a few days after Shane had won gold in Montreal. So it was pretty hypocritical to pin this all on Shane, like his ‘crazy’ workout routine and nutrition plan weren’t exactly how he’d gotten Ilya in the first place. 

After some time, Shane’s breathing slowed, and he paused at a bus stop with a small awning and a metal bench. The sun was beating down relentlessly, and the sidewalks around him were almost disturbingly empty. It felt a bit like he was the last person on earth, but he was glad for the privacy as he plucked angrily at his wet eyelashes. Brushing some trash away, he sat down on the small bench and pulled out his phone. No new texts from Ilya. An hour and a half left until check-in for the comp.

Whatever had just happened, he had to pull himself together, had to compartmentalize, had to focus. Shane opened the Uber app and called a car to take him to the training center where semi-finals were being held.  He had cancelled his hotel reservation, so he had nowhere else to be. 

Shane’s stomach growled as the driver pulled smoothly out of suburbia and onto the highway, and he realized he’d barely had breakfast. He wondered idly if Ilya would drink his protein shake, or throw it out, or maybe cap it and stow it back in the Airbnb’s fridge with the confident belief that Shane would be back there tonight. 

‘Body issues’ — Jesus Christ. Shane thunked his head softly against the window. On comp days, eating was usually easier for him, actually. He didn’t worry about if he had worked out enough to warrant a treat. He didn’t have to think about anything. He ate what was on his nutritionist’s comp-specific meal plan, and that was that. He had even diverged from his usual performance diet in the past few days — had drunk way too much alcohol at that vegan restaurant and chosen the best of some terrible options at BYU’s dining hall last night. Clearly that wasn’t enough for Ilya. 

Two hours later, the comp had begun, and Shane had successfully located a protein bar on the isolation zone snack table that fit his nutrition plan. He’d even eaten a clementine that probably put him over his allotted sugar for the day, just to prove that he could. 

He’d ranked 8th in qualifiers, and Ilya had ranked 9th, so of course they ended up in the same area of the isolation zone once the comp was underway. Unlike the day before, when it had felt torturous, Shane was glad now for the excuse to keep his distance. He tried to read Ilya’s emotions from his body language, and though that had never been his strong suit, it was pretty clear he was upset. He stared at the floor as the lower ranked climbers were sent out, his cross necklace in his mouth, rubbing his ear in a way Shane had sometimes seen him do before falling asleep. At one point he stared over at Shane, his eyes unfocused like he was looking right through him, but when Shane darted his own eyes over he seemed to snap out of it and looked fixedly away. 

Soon it was Ilya’s turn on the first boulder, and Shane’s five minutes later. The first problem wasn’t too difficult. Shane saw that Ilya came back in far less than the allotted five minutes, looking barely out of breath. Shane would have liked to flash it to make sure he started out ahead of the pack, but he was satisfied with topping it three attempts.

On the second problem, Shane noticed that it took Ilya the full five minutes to come back, and when he got out to the mat, he could see why. It was a slab problem, and besides that, it involved a mantle that could only be done with immense pressure and control on the right shoulder. Fortunately for Shane, he had been focusing on shoulder moves recently, and it was a nice, rough wall for smearing. He finished the problem in two attempts using his tried-and-true static style, to loud applause from the audience. 

The third problem was where everything fell apart. Ilya seemed to find the problem just fine, bursting back through the curtain with a grin, the sound of a cheering crowd following him. His eyes found Shane, who was standing to the side waiting for a nod from the event staff, and his smile softened but didn’t fall completely. Shane gave him an unsure little smile back before heading out to the mat, then groaned internally as he took in the third problem. He’d spied it out of the corner of his eye while he was climbing the second problem, but it was even worse up close. The moves up until the zone hold were huge dual-tex slopers, followed by a tricky coordination sequence, and the route finished on a pocket with an additional hold screwed inside to force a very specific hand position. 

Shane chalked up and patted off the excess on his thighs, wiped the toes of his shoes on a small towel, and pulled onto the wall. 

It took him three attempts just to get through the sloper section, but once he did, he was able to get the coordination move on his first try. He twisted his body and stuck his knee hard into the gap between a large hold and the rough wall, wincing as the sandpaper texture dragged against last night’s bruises. Reaching carefully behind him with one hand and then the other, he re-chalked. 

He thought ruefully that Ilya would probably be able to reach the top hold statically from this position, but with Shane’s limited wingspan, he would have to dyno. Replacing his hands on the hold, he removed his knee-bar and straightened his arm, jamming his toe in for a high left foot. With a strong push, he leapt up and to the right, aiming his right hand for the tiny unblocked area. He barely caught it with the tips of two fingers, and he desperately slapped his left hand at the coarse-textured wall, trying to fight the momentum of his swinging body. As his legs continued to swing, the fingertips popped out of the pocket — fuck, definitely before he’d established control of the top. 

He barely felt it as his left hand snagged a stray bolt before slipping off the wall completely. He was focused on a million other things — falling safely, how much time he had remaining, whether the holds would be too chalked up if he got back on without having them brushed… 

He hit the ground and rolled to his back, deciding on the fly that he didn’t have time for the event staff to brush the holds. When someone ran toward him anyway as he stepped toward the wall, he tried to wave them away, only to be yanked back just before he could place his hands on the start hold. 

He whipped his head around to see a stern-looking man with gray hair, clad in an IFSC staff polo. 

“What?” Shane sputtered — but when he reached his left hand out in a gesture of irritation, a flash of red caught his eye. 

Blood. 

The gray-haired man was speaking to him, but shock muffled his hearing. Shane craned his neck up to scan the wall, and sure enough, just to the left of the top hold was a smear of fresh blood where he had slapped at the rough surface and dragged over a shiny silver bolt, almost flush with the wall and barely visible from the ground. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but IFSC rules said that before he could get back on the problem, the wall would have to be cleaned and his bleeding would have to be bandaged — without stopping his time. 

His eyes went immediately to the clock. He had just over a minute left. He turned to the man beside him, who thankfully had let go of his grip on Shane’s bicep and was pulling out gauze and climbing tape. Shane held out his hand, his eyes staying fixed on the timer. 40 seconds left. In his peripheral vision he could see a short ladder being carried over to the wall. The man pulled out an alcohol wipe, cleaning Shane’s palm of blood and revealing a shallow gash. More blood welled up in it as soon as it had been wiped away. 20 seconds. The man placed the gauze and started to wind tape around it, securing it to his palm. 5 seconds. A staff member started to ascend the ladder, toting a spray bottle of cleaner and a small brush. 

His time was up. Shane’s chest was getting tight now. His heartbeat was loud in his ears and his vision was narrowing and skewing. He’d only gotten the zone. They were still cleaning the wall. Would he even be allowed to attempt the last problem, if he was still bleeding? His time was up — he couldn’t — he didn’t — 

Shane jerked his hand away from the man, and some of the tape peeled away from his chalky skin, revealing red seeping into the gauze. Shane looked up, hearing more voices calling out toward him, but all he saw was a sea of blurry faces and bright lights. Blinding pops of camera flashes, phones held aloft pointing right at him. The staffer beside him was still talking, too loud, grabbing at his hand. His chest clenched further — he couldn’t fucking breathe, and it was being live-streamed to the world. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Rozanov!”

Ilya jolted to his feet, embarrassed. He had been listening intently, trying to suss out if Shane had topped the third problem, when the crowd had gone quiet. Not the quiet of polite applause after time has run out — a strange, serious hush. He looked to the event staff who had called his name, a no-nonsense woman with a blonde, asymmetrical bob. 

“Hold tight, Rozanov, we’re not sending you out yet.”

“There is injury?” Ilya asked, not even trying to disguise the urgency in his voice. 

“Not sure,” the woman replied blithely, “Some kind of technical. They need to clean the wall.” 

Ilya wasn’t sure if he had misheard her. Did she mean they were brushing the holds? And if so, why hadn’t —

Just then, Shane crashed through the curtain, an event staffer on his heels. The man was brandishing a roll of climbing tape and speaking harshly, and Shane was — was Shane crying? 

Ilya didn’t think, he just went. Straight to Shane, gripping him by both shoulders, guiding them both to the floor when Shane’s knees buckled under him. They were right in the middle of iso — other climbers eating snacks and chatting turned at the sudden intrusion of noise — but it didn’t matter. Shane’s eyes screwed shut, and he balled his fists into the front of Ilya’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. 

With Shane’s forehead pressed to his shoulder, Ilya could feel just how rapidly he was breathing. Running one hand from Shane’s bicep to cradle the nape of his neck, Ilya raised his eyes to the staffer who had stopped shouting to stare down at them, flabbergasted. 

“What happened?” Ilya demanded.

Before he could answer, the blonde-haired staffer joined the ruckus. “Rozanov, they’re ready for you,” she said, seeming much less bothered than her colleague. 

A shudder went through Shane, and his hold on Ilya’s shirt tightened. 

Ilya kept his gaze directed at the man holding the tape. “What happened?” he gritted.  

“Blood technical,” came the response. “His time ran out while we were getting him and the wall cleaned up.” 

The blonde woman interjected again, much too chipper for the scene in front of her. “You’d better get out there before your time runs out too!” 

Ilya looked down, scanning Shane’s body for blood, his eyes settling on one of the hands grasped onto his shirt. Climbing tape poked out of the fist like tentacles, and one lone strip was barely clinging to the chalk-dusted skin near Shane’s wrist. Barely visible in the squeezed fist was the edge of a piece of gauze. 

“Send the next climber,” Ilya said to the blonde staffer. Then to the gray-haired man, “I’ve got him. You can go.” 

The woman shrugged and walked off, murmuring into her headset and then calling out for Colin Duffy. 

“He can get on the last problem if he would just—” the man began. 

“Does it look like he will be getting back on the wall in five minutes?” Ilya asked, raising both eyebrows and gesturing with his chin to Shane’s hunched form, still trembling against his chest and letting out quick, audible breaths. “Please, go.” 

The man left, and Ilya brought his full focus back to Shane. He pressed Shane’s head more securely into the crook of his shoulder with the hand on his neck, and moved his other hand to his back, dragging it up the bumps of his spine and then back down. 

“Breathe, malysh,” Ilya instructed quietly, then drew in a slow breath himself, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out. 

Shane’s breath stuttered like he was trying to breathe slow, then gave way to a squeaky little sob. He shook his head, rubbing moisture into Ilya’s neck. 

“You can,” Ilya said, applying more pressure as he rubbed down Shane’s back. God, should he be able to feel his spine like this? He could think about that later. “Keep trying.” 

Shane dragged in another breath, then another, then choked out “Sorry,” with another tiny sob. “I’m okay, I’m just freaking out.” 

Ilya hushed him, tucking him in closer. “Hey,” he murmured into Shane’s hair, “We’re good here. Your boyfriend is here,” he said, fishing around mentally for what else might reassure Shane. “Rose is here, somewhere, getting ready for women’s comp. Pike is… not here, because he is bad climber.” This earned a snort from Shane, which Ilya took as a very good sign. “Even your protein shake is here. I bring it from home in case you can’t eat anything else.”

Shane made a broken little noise at that, and Ilya felt a new round of tears wetting his collar. Ilya switched his murmuring to Russian, intuiting that Shane needed grounding touches and sounds rather than platitudes. Besides, in Russian Ilya could whisper endearments he wouldn’t have the perfect words for in English. 

Climbers moved around them, out through the curtain and back, giving them a wide berth. It was lucky that no phones or cameras were allowed in iso, though Ilya knew people would still talk. 

Finally, Shane pulled his face back. His cheeks were flushed, and his dark eyelashes were wet and clumped together. It was almost unfair how pretty he looked in the midst of a panic attack. 

“Hi,” Ilya said, scooting back a little further, in case Shane wanted space. He glanced down at his shirt, where Shane’s fingers were still gripping the athletic material. 

“Hi,” Shane whispered back. He looked down as well, but didn’t remove his hands. “Sorry, I — this doesn’t usually happen in public.” 

Ilya clicked his tongue sadly, hearing the meaning behind the words. He wondered how often this did happen to Shane, in private. 

“Don’t you need to go do the last problem?” Shane asked. 

“Ah,” Ilya said, with a little chuckle. At least 10 minutes had elapsed since Ilya had been called for the final boulder, but he intuited that that would be too overwhelming of an answer right this moment. He settled on: “No. I do not need.” 

Shane seemed to take this answer without protest, finally releasing his hands from Ilya’s shirt to wipe at his face. His breathing seemed steadier, though the occasional tremor still shook through him. 

“Do you want to call your mom?” Ilya asked gently. “We can leave now, ask event staff for phone back?” 

Shane nodded, rubbing at one eye, almost sleepily obedient like he was sometimes after sex. It made sense, Ilya thought — just like those times, he was relaxing his control and letting Ilya take over. 

Ilya helped Shane out of his stiff competition climbing shoes, noting with a frown that all Shane had to change back into was his formal shoes. Still, it was better than leaving barefoot. He scooped up both of their gym bags over his left shoulder and offered his right hand to Shane, who clutched it like a lifeline as they walked together to the exit of the isolation zone. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Yuna called back, it was evening already, and Shane was tucked into bed in the Airbnb with a book and a cold can of ginger ale. 

Ilya brought him the vibrating cell phone, which he had taken away when he saw Shane try to look up the recorded comp livestream, ordering him to take a warm shower and then get in bed. Ilya retreated after handing over the phone, closing the door most of the way for Shane’s privacy. 

Yuna’s voice burst over the line as soon as Shane answered. 

“Shane, honey, what’s going on? Our flight just touched down in Ottawa and I saw your calls, then I checked the scores from semi-finals and — well, what happened out there?” 

“Mom, slow down. I just —” 

“Hold on, I’m going to put you on the car speaker so your Dad can hear.” 

“Mom —”

“Can you hear us, honey?” 

“Yeah, I can,” Shane sighed, kicking off the covers and bringing his knees up to his chest. He could feel his heart rate, which had stabilized in the past few hours, ticking upward in his chest. 

“So what happened, son?” David Hollander said gently. “From what we saw you got two tops, a zone, and then nothing on the last problem?” 

Shane shut his eyes and pressed a finger into one of the bruises on his knee. 

“I — my hand started bleeding on the third problem and my time ran out while they were taping it.” 

“And they couldn’t stop the bleeding before the fourth problem?” Yuna asked sharply.

“No, uh, the last problem was a scratch — a DNS. I kind of freaked out, I guess, when my time ran out on the third boulder.” 

Shane pressed the bruise harder, until the pain was a sharp throb. He let go, then pressed into another one on his other knee. It was times like these that he really wished he had a manager who wasn’t also his mom. Or maybe he wished he had a mom who wasn’t also his manager. 

“— Shane, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, mom, I heard you.” 

“So what did I just say?” 

“You said we should appeal, and then Dad said he thinks Coach Desgranges would have appealed it during the comp if there was something to appeal. Then you said that Coach Desgranges doesn’t always pay the most attention during comps. And then you asked if I was listening.” 

Shane heard his mom sigh. He could picture her face — mouth pursed, eyes narrowed as she mentally ticked through possible loopholes to exploit or favors to call in. 

“I’m not gonna appeal, Mom. We would have had to do it already anyway, and I don’t even know what we would say. It’s not a technical incident for me to have a fucking panic attack and miss my time slot. It’s just a shitty situation.” 

“Well, at the very least, promise me you’ve reached out to your therapist to set up an emergency appointment. Prague, Bern, and Innsbruck are all in just a few weeks, and we wouldn’t want this to happen again.” 

Shane hummed affirmatively, even though he hadn’t. He had an appointment scheduled for when he got back to Vancouver, and nothing his therapist said was going to change the results of this comp. 

“We saw that your friend Rozanov didn’t climb the last problem either,” David chimed in. “That’s too bad — it looks like he was tied for silver up until then. Did he re-injure his shoulder on the third boulder?” 

Shane’s mouth was open to correct his Dad — Ilya, not Rozanov — but all of a sudden he felt like the air had been knocked out of him. 

Ilya had taken his phone before he could look at everyone’s scores. Ilya must have known, or at least suspected, he was in contention for a medal, and yet he chose to stay and comfort Shane — when Shane wasn’t even seriously hurt, just panicking over a stupid scraped hand. Their argument from the morning came rushing back, along with a wave of nausea. Ilya thought that Shane wouldn’t want to be with him if he wasn’t winning comps, and he still threw away his shot at a medal to stay by his side. 

Would Shane have done the same, if the roles were reversed? He wasn’t sure. 

“Guys, I — I gotta go,” Shane choked out, ending the call abruptly. 

Pushing out of bed, he hurried down the stairs, past Svetlana lounging on the couch, and into the kitchen where he could hear the sound of a knife against a cutting board.

There was Ilya, wrapped in an apron, humming to himself as he chopped a large pile of dill. Shane crashed into him from behind, wrapping his arms around his large frame. Shane heard the soft clatter of the knife being set down, then felt Ilya’s arms wrap back around him, pressing him closer. 

“What’s wrong, malysh?” Ilya asked quietly. 

“Nothing,” Shane replied. “Just — thank you.”

Chapter End Notes

One of my favorite things is adding little Easter eggs -- lines from the show, little visual references, and sometimes references to other fics. If you catch any in this chapter (or previous ones) leave me a comment ;)

One more big chapter after this, and then an epilogue!

Chapter 22: Salt Lake City, Part 3

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

The final chapter, except for an epilogue! Climbing fluff, Ilya being good with kids, and a bit of Roselana fan service :)

Chapter Notes

The 2025 Salt Lake City World Cup was held at the regular US Training Center. However, in 2026 they really are holding it on a baseball field, which I thought this was a much more fun setting!

On the morning of finals, Shane woke up before Ilya again. This time, he didn’t cuddle in closer. Not yet. He needed a little time alone with his own mind. 

Shane still felt drained from the events of the day before. Physically, the day hadn’t been that demanding. His left palm was a little sore when he flexed his hand, but Ilya had added a layer of Neosporin and re-bandaged it securely before bed. His knees were still bruised, which was a pretty constant state in his life, and his shoulders felt sore — probably more from how tightly he’d curled into himself while panicking than from climbing. 

Emotionally, he felt numb. In Keqiao, when he hadn’t made finals, he had felt motivated to train harder and place higher at the next comp. Then, in Brazil, he had made it into finals, and it had been exhilarating. But in this case, losing didn’t feel like a motivation to work harder. It didn’t feel completely devastating either. He found himself just…not caring. Not caring that he wouldn’t compete today. Not caring who took home the medals, or what that would mean for the overall World Cup scores. 

Still, he didn’t want to go watch finals today. Maybe he could tolerate the women’s finals — he’d checked last night and saw that Rose had made it in again. But sitting through the men’s comp, surrounded by other climbers who had witnessed his freak out yesterday? Probably having to repeat some bullshit excuse about why Ilya had been the one to comfort him? He didn’t want to spend his last full day with Ilya doing that. 

Shane slipped out of bed silently, prodding a pillow into the space he’d vacated next to Ilya like Indiana Jones stealing that little statue in Raiders of the Lost Arc. He padded in sock feet to scoop up his phone, then headed downstairs where he slipped into shoes and out the front door. 

When Shane returned from his trek, Svetlana and Ilya were in the living room. Ilya bolted to his feet as soon as Shane stepped through the door laden with plastic bags. 

“Where did you go?” Ilya asked, his voice tight. 

A pang of guilt shot through Shane. He should have texted. He hadn’t considered what Ilya would think if he woke up and Shane was gone, after yesterday’s events. 

“Sorry,” he said, hurrying to the dining table. “I went out to get us breakfast and I got a little carried away. I wanted to apologize for yesterday. All of it. For not eating the breakfast you made, Svetlana, and then for kind of taking up all the attention in the evening. I’m really grateful to both of you.” 

As Shane talked, he unloaded the plastic bags. A bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice, 6 yogurt cups of various flavors, a carton of eggs, a half dozen donuts, and finally a large plastic cup emblazoned with the word ‘Swig,’ which contained a cloudy, light brown liquid. 

“I tried to get us coffee, but I guess they don’t do that as much around here. The checkout lady at the grocery store told me most people go to this soda place instead, so…this is Coke with vanilla creamer. Sounds kind of disgusting, but it’s one of their most popular drinks, and I thought you would like it.” 

Shane held the huge cup out to Ilya, feeling a bit embarrassed by how much he had just nervously monologued. Ilya was looking at him cautiously, as if Shane might go running out the door again, but he stepped forward and accepted the proffered drink. He took a long sip through the straw — his brow furrowed, and then his eyes went wide. 

“What the fuck? This is so good,” Ilya said, before diving in for more. 

Svetlana edged in between Ilya and Shane and wrapped Shane in a quick hug. “Apology accepted, though not necessary. I’ll go heat up the stove to fry some eggs — you’ll have a few?” she asked. 

Shane saw Ilya shoot a furtive warning look to Svetlana, but Shane answered quickly, “Yeah, an egg would be great. Just, um, not runny on the inside, if you don’t mind.” 

“I do not mind,” she said with a smile, turning into the kitchen. 

Ilya detached his mouth from the straw to pout, “You did not ask me if I want eggs, Sveta! What, Shane is favorite now just because he brings donuts?” 

“I didn’t ask because I know you want three eggs with the yolks runny,” she hollered from the kitchen, already clanging a pan down and searching drawers for a spatula. 

Ilya set his drink aside and dragged Shane closer to him, bringing his hands to cup Shane’s face. He gave him a lingering kiss, and it tasted like warm vanilla.  

Shane introduced part two of his plan for the day while they ate breakfast. 

“I was thinking — would it be crazy if we skipped watching men’s finals and found a regular bouldering gym to climb at instead? We haven’t really gotten to climb together since Vancouver, and even then we were always so careful to not look too…close or whatever. But I mean, I’m sure some stuff about yesterday is going to get spread around so… maybe it wouldn’t be that weird if we do get seen together?”

Ilya looked surprised at the suggestion, and he chewed a bite of egg thoughtfully while considering it. 

“Yes, I think this would probably be more fun than watching another comp, especially if you are not competing. Sveta, you will join?” 

Svetlana pulled her phone out to check her calendar, frowning as she scrolled. “I have some calls this morning that it will be hard to reschedule.”

“When are your calls done?” Shane asked hopefully. “I was thinking we could all watch the women’s final. My friend Rose is competing, and I’ve got a two tickets my parents bought in case they decided to come — you can have them, if you want to meet us there?”

“Ah, Rose Landry,” Svetlana said, her accent wrapping around the name like a caress. “I have seen videos of her climbing. Yes, it would be good to witness her…skills in person. 

“Great,” Shane grinned. 

They chose a bouldering gym on the outskirts of Salt Lake City, hoping not to be recognized and subsequently photographed skipping finals. As a result, the gym was much smaller than Shane was used to. 

Ottawa wasn’t a huge climbing city, but the gyms that Shane’s parents had brought him to were always the big chains — gyms that were spacious, clean, and had whole teams of route setters and coaches. His Dad had done some climbing back in the day, mostly trad climbing in Parc Regional de Val-David and a few other spots near McGill, and it had been on a family camping trip in that same area that 6 year old Shane had shown interest. At that point in his life, most new experiences caused Shane to melt down over germs, noise, or social pressure. At the crag, though, Shane wasn’t hesitant or fearful. He didn’t seem worried about dirt under his nails or the loud group of hikers setting up a campsite a few hundred meters away. Instead, he was locked in, clambering up a highball boulder as Yuna shrieked at him to be careful and celebrating victoriously at the top (oblivious to the fact that his Dad would then have to scramble behind him and set up an anchor to get them back down safely). After that trip, Shane asked multiple times a day when they could go back. A membership to the Altitude gym chain had been his birthday present.

This gym, Rocky Top SLC, seemed neither spacious nor particularly clean, but it was nice all the same. At the front desk, a curly-haired woman was rolling towels into neat bundles and nodding along an R&B song that was faintly spilling from a portable speaker. She waved them over to an iPad to fill out liability waivers, not seeming at all interested in them until they handed over their IDs. At her double-take, Shane’s shoulders tensed and dread curdled in his stomach — if anyone was going to recognize them, it would make sense for it to be a climbing gym employee. But the woman just raised an eyebrow at the ID cards in her hand, one Canadian and one Russian, and noted, “You’re both pretty far from home.” 

She handed back the IDs and a relief washed over Shane, so dizzying that he almost laughed aloud when the woman — Gabriela, according to her nametag — asked if they needed to rent shoes or chalk bags. Shane insisted on paying for both of their day passes, slapping his credit card against the reader before Ilya could fish his out. 

As he shot Ilya a triumphant look, he realized this was sort of a date. He wasn’t sure if they’d ever been on a date before. Maybe once, if you counted the day after their sauna hookup when they’d gone to a café, but that had gone so poorly that Shane ran away back to Ottawa. No, better to think of this as their first date — and Shane was going to make sure it was a good one. 

They wandered together into the gym. It felt intimate, cozy even. Chalk dust hung in the air and clung to every surface. Two adjoining rooms were wrapped in boulder problems, set mostly with small holds — none of the huge, neon, dual-tex volumes comp climbs were constructed with these days. A third room held two treadmills, two campus boards, and a single weight rack; a huge barn door took up one wall of the room, and it had been opened wide so that sunlight and fresh air streamed through. 

“Where should we start?” asked Ilya. 

“I usually warm up with yoga, but maybe that would be weird…?” said Shane, looking around them. The room with the machines was empty except for them and a woman jogging on one of the treadmills, wearing a matching workout set and an expensive-looking pair of over-ear headphones. The rooms they had already explored held a couple of parents sitting in chairs, supervising elementary-age kids, and a few teenagers messing around on routes a bit too difficult for them. 

“Not weird,” Ilya said simply, striding over to a corner where a large gray trashcan held a few rolled-up yoga mats. “You will have to teach me, though.” 

“Ugh, I am not using one of those mats,” Shane said with a shudder. He rummaged in his gear bag and pulled out a folded, durable piece of cloth, shaking it out into a long rectangle. “I bring this when I’m on the road. It’s made of hemp.” 

“I don’t know if that is legal here,” Ilya said, wiggling his eyebrows. Shane just rolled his eyes and spread out the thin material. 

The room was so small that they were going to block the walkway from the door to the treadmills, but there didn’t seem to be much traffic between rooms anyway. Ilya grabbed a mat for himself, settling down beside Shane, right in the beam of sunlight that poured in the open door. Ilya’s ringlets were pulled back by a tie-dye bandana, and the sun brought out the variety of hues in his hair — honey blonde with pale, almost white-blonde highlights scattered throughout, and a dark amber color at the roots and underneath. 

“Your hair’s getting so long,” Shane said, folding into downward dog and shifting his weight from heel to heel to stretch his calves. 

Ilya grunted in response as he attempted to follow Shane’s movements. His downward dog looked okay, if a bit stiff, but his face crinkled in pain as he tried to copy Shane’s swooping motion into cobra pose.   

“I do not think bodies are supposed to bend this way,” he groaned after trying to hold the pose for about ten seconds. He flopped down forward so he was flat on the ground, then rolling over to face the ceiling. Technically, Shane thought, he was doing a pretty good shavasana — it was just a little early in the yoga session for it. 

Shane pushed back into downward dog and looked at Ilya under his arm. “Are you gonna cut it soon?” he asked. “Your hair was so short when I saw you the first time — the year you won gold in our last youth comp. You had, like, a buzz cut. Kind of looked like you were in the military or something.” 

He swooped into cobra pose again, pressing his shoulders down and back, breathing deep and arching his back a little further. When he glanced over at Ilya (hoping, maybe, for a saucy compliment) he was still laying on his back, but he’d tipped his face away, staring out the open door. His hair fanned out around his head like a halo. 

“Ilya?” Shane asked, letting go of the pose to scramble cross-legged. He placed a hand gently on Ilya’s chest. 

Ilya sighed and pressed up onto his elbows, glancing around them guardedly. There was still only one other person in the room, the woman jogging and watching a video on her phone. Tinny laughter leaked from her headphones. 

“Sorry,” Ilya said roughly. “I get weird about these things. I — I don’t know if I will cut my hair, but I will never cut it that short again.” 

Across the street, a mother pushed a stroller while talking animatedly on the phone. Ilya’s eyes followed them until they were out of sight. Shane waited. 

“After my mother died, my father didn’t like that my hair looked like hers. It reminded him of her, and I think he thought it looked feminine, too, even if it wasn’t as long as now. So every six months or so, he would have my brother hold me and he’d shave it all off. It was only once I got stronger than my brother that they couldn’t keep doing this.”

Shane’s hand had slid from Ilya’s chest to his ribs. He looked down at his thumb as he rubbed it back and forth, as much to soothe himself as to comfort Ilya. This meant the first time he had seen Ilya in person, not even that many years ago, he was still being physically abused by his father. It was horrifying to imagine. 

“Your mother’s hair must have been beautiful,” Shane said quietly. 

Ilya met Shane’s eyes, and a sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It was,” he said simply. He plucked Shane’s hand off him and kissed the palm, then stood up and tugged Shane to his feet. 

“Enough yoga,” Ilya said. “Let’s climb.” 

Usually, Shane would have protested — after all, they’d barely gotten through his beginning poses, hadn’t even gotten to warriors one and two — but he could tell that Ilya needed to move his body to shake off the dark conversation. And he had a proud warmth in his heart that Ilya had told him something so personal and painful. They had come far from that disastrous café visit in Vancouver. 

He trailed behind Ilya back into the bouldering rooms, pausing to look at a laminated sign posted on the wall. Rather than using the V system, this gym marked the grades of their problems with colors of tape — red for the easiest, purple for the hardest. 

Ilya was already pulling onto a green problem, which made Shane roll his eyes. After yoga, his routine would usually be to hangboard and stretch his fingers for at least 10 minutes, so he certainly wasn’t going to jump straight to what looked to be around a V6. Instead, Shane headed for a cluster of orange and yellow problems across the room, moving through each orange problem extra slowly to allow his muscles to warm up, then doing the same with the yellows. 

He added in a few drills — twisting to touch a hip to the wall with each step, keeping his crimps open and intentional, taking extra care to incorporate toe and heel hooks — and he lost himself in the climbing, feeling calmer than he had in weeks. He rarely felt like this while climbing these days, when his focus was on practicing competition style boulders and targeting his weaknesses. He’d forgotten how peaceful, almost meditative, it was to climb more basic problems where he could skip over reading the route and just let his body move intuitively. 

Shane was brought out of his reverie by Ilya’s voice. 

“Your toe — trust it. Step hard, you will not fall.” 

Shane looked down at his toes, which were placed securely on a rather large foot hold. When he turned to give Ilya a questioning look, he realized Ilya wasn’t talking to him. 

A group of boys, maybe 13 years old, were clustered around Ilya, all of them looking up at another boy on the wall. The boy looked a bit shorter than the others who stood below him on the mat, maybe 5 feet flat if Shane had to guess, and his calf was shaking hard as he faced a reachy move about three-fourths through the problem. His arms were tensed in the dreaded “T-Rex” position, beginning to tremble as he clutched the wall, seemingly scared to move either upward to the next hold or to climb down.

A pang of sympathy went through Shane. He had been the short kid for much of his climbing career. It wasn’t as bad in primary school, when everyone was about the same size, but around age 13 was when some of the other boys on his youth climbing team hit huge growth spurts. It had always annoyed him when they sprayed beta that wouldn’t actually work for his body, telling him to just jump for it if he couldn’t reach. He had developed his static climbing style as something of a response — he didn’t need to resort to dynoing all the time if he could read the route and break the beta to work for him. 

Shane quietly finished the yellow route he was on and stepped over toward the cluster, trying to think of some way to distract the teens so that the frightened boy could downclimb without being stared at. 

In the meantime, Ilya’s voice was commanding and yet gentle. “Your body is getting tired while you stay in one place. Stand on toe — you will reach the hold.”

The boy’s friends on the mat called out their own affirmations, some of which were more helpful than others: “Send it, dude!”, “C’mon, bro!”, “Do it for skibidi toilet!”

Letting out a determined puff, the boy stood up firmly on his right foot, grabbed wildly for the hold, seized it for a moment, and then barn-doored and dropped down to the mat. He looked ashamed for a moment, red-faced and shaky, but Ilya was right next to him a second later, whooping and patting him hard on the back. 

“Molodets! Great job, Arthur! Everyone say great job to Arthur.” 

The boys chorused their praise, and in a flash Arthur was smiling and laughing as he massaged his pumped forearms. 

“Who else has proj to work on?” Ilya asked, and the boys scampered off to a variety of yellow, green, and blue climbs, calling out from all directions for Ilya’s attention. 

Shane stepped closer, and heard Ilya murmuring to Arthur. “That was scary, but you are so brave. Rest your arms for a few minutes, and we will try again. Now that you reached the hold once, you can do it quickly next time and finish the problem.” 

Arthur smiled and nodded, with a bit of reverence in his eyes, before scurrying off to the water fountain. Shane’s heart panged again — this time with an overwhelming feeling of love. Somehow, even though he knew Ilya had been coaching youth climbers in Russia, he hadn’t taken any time imagining what it was actually like. He’d seen it as just a thing Ilya was doing to make money, and he’d assumed that “Coach Ilya” was basically the same as the “Climber Ilya” Shane had known at the Olympic Oval in Vancouver — boisterous, daring, self-assured almost to the point of cockiness. 

But this version of Ilya was somehow not a surprise, either. It reminded him of how Ilya had been at yesterday’s semi-finals — a steady rock to cling to when the waves of his panic threatened to pull him under, speaking to him with gentle confidence until the panic ebbed. And he realized now that Ilya had never treated him differently when he came back out of a period of heightened anxiety, never encouraged him to step back from climbing like he was fragile or defective. Shane had worried over the past few days that Ilya was right, and he might not be as attracted to Ilya if he stopped climbing competitively. But right now, Shane thought he might like this version of Ilya even more.  

Just when he thought his heart was full to bursting, a little girl, maybe 7 years old, approached Ilya where he was watching another one of the tweens attempt a bat hang — repeatedly falling off onto his head, laughing, and getting back up to try the move again. The little girl tugged at the hem of Ilya’s tank top, and Shane saw Ilya’s whole face soften when he turned and saw the tiny child. 

“Hello, sweetheart. How can I help you?” Ilya said gently. 

“I wanna send my proj,” came the answer, delivered completely earnestly in a tiny, high-pitched voice. 

To his credit, Ilya kept his face just as serious as the little girl did, despite the juxtaposition of boulder bro slang coming out of such an innocent-looking little creature. Ilya raised his eyes to scan the line of chairs against the wall where parents sat to supervise their kids. 

“Do you have a grown up with you?” Ilya asked the little girl. Shane thought it was strange language, maybe a mistranslation, since he could have just used the word “parent” or asked where her mom or dad was — but he immediately understood the choice when the child grabbed Ilya forcefully by the finger and dragged him over to an elderly man with a bushy gray mustache reading a paperback book. 

Shane couldn’t make out their conversation from where he stood on the mat, but he noticed that Ilya reached out with a warm smile for a formal handshake, and a few moments later the old man was chuckling and gesturing for Ilya and the little girl to return to the bouldering area. 

Ilya followed the girl as she traipsed toward a yellow route in the area where Shane had just warmed up. Ilya gasped theatrically as they neared where Shane was standing, and the little girl whipped her head around. 

“Do you know that guy?” Ilya asked the girl, dropping to one knee as if to tell her a secret. 

“No…” the little girl responded skeptically, looking Shane up and down. Shane suddenly felt a little self-conscious in his chalked-up athletic shorts and loose-fitting T-shirt.   

“That’s Shane Hollander,” Ilya responded in a stage whisper. “He’s one of the best climbers in the whole world.”

The girl’s eyes widened now, and Shane tried not to blush, averting his eyes and scuffing his climbing shoe against the mat. 

“Maybe if we ask nicely, he will help us with your proj, mm?” Ilya said to the girl, getting to his feet again and brushing chalk off his knees. 

“M-Mr. Hollander, will you please help us?” the little girl squeaked, darting her eyes up nervously to Ilya, who looked like he was trying to suppress a laugh. 

“Sure, um, totally,” Shane replied, a bit stiffly. Trying to cut through the awkwardness, he asked “What’s your name?” 

“Ruby,” she responded, rolling her eyes as if it should be obvious. “See how my chalk bag is red?” 

Shane did see that, though he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to have guessed her name from it. 

“My sister’s chalk bag is green, but she couldn’t come today. She’s grounded for running away from Daddy at the aquarium.” 

With that, the little girl clambered onto the start hold and began the climb. She was good — impressive for her age — but she got stuck just a few moves in on a hold that Shane had easily pinched. Ruby was struggling to grip it at all, since her small hand couldn’t reach all the way around. 

Shane let Ilya take the lead, encouraging her to feel different areas of the hold while spotting behind her in case of a fall, but Ruby quickly got frustrated since her hand couldn’t span even the narrowest part of the hold. She flumped down onto the mat, crossing her arms and staring at the wall angrily. Ilya shrugged toward Shane, looking a bit put out that he hadn’t been able to help. 

Summoning a bit of confidence, Shane sat down cross-legged next to Ruby. 

“Can I offer you some beta?” he asked politely. 

The girl nodded, her face still pinched with anger. 

Shane dug in a zippered pocket of his chalk bag and pulled out his laser pointer.

“So, I see you were struggling with that big hold, because your hands are small right now. But that can actually be a benefit, because you can crimp small things that other people can’t.” 

He gestured with the laser pointer to a few small foot holds scattered around the crux of the climb. 

“These holds might look like they’re just for feet, but people with smaller hands can use them to ‘break’ the beta. Wanna try?” 

Ruby jumped up with determination, running back to the start hold. With a bashful look to Ilya, Shane took over spotting, hovering his hands a couple inches behind the child’s back as she climbed to the tricky section and wrapped her little fingers around a small, bulbous foot hold. 

“Allez…” he whispered as she pulled on the hold and smeared a foot directly on the wall, then got a toe onto a higher hold and stood up triumphantly. 

“I broke it!” she hollered down, and Shane laughed aloud, caught off guard by how radiant her smile was over something so simple. 

Neither Shane nor Ilya got much climbing done over the next couple hours, as both of them were pulled in different directions — sometimes literally. Soon enough, it was time for them to dole out fist bumps and head to the women’s final. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Svetlana was waiting outside Smith’s Ballpark when Ilya and Shane arrived. She looked fashionable as ever in a pair of barrel jeans, heels, and a y2k inspired baby tee pulled tight across her cleavage. She gave a pointed look to the boys’ scruffy gym attire. 

Ilya had been a bit confused by the IFSC’s choice to hold the boulder finals in a baseball stadium, but as they took their place in the stands, he had to admit there was a particular excitement in the air. The view was much better than the usual comp backdrop of off-white gymnasium walls — the nearly 30 meter long bouldering wall had been built directly on the infield, and beyond the stadium spanned a range of dusky mountains. 

At Shane’s request, they didn’t sit with the other climbers who hadn’t made finals in the reserved section of chairs down on the field. Ilya didn’t mind this at all — not least because they were sitting close to a concession stand. He was on his second hotdog before the climbers even came out to wave at the audience and preview the climbs. 

Rose was recognizable even from a distance, with her two trademark French braids, tied with red ribbons at the ends to match the large red maple leaf on her tank top. 

“Ukh ty, vot eto da,” Svetlana breathed with a smile when Rose’s name was called and she stepped forward, crossing her arms over her chest and settling back comfortably in her seat. 

Two hours and three hotdogs later, the comp was over. A brilliant pink and orange sunset stretched across the sky, and the stadium lights blinked on. Shane seemed to have relaxed somewhat, even suggesting that they go down to the field to watch Rose receive her bronze medal, but his body drew in tight again as they wove through the crowd of spectators, drawing murmurs from those who recognized them. Ilya wished he could ground Shane with an arm around his shoulder or a hand on his lower back, but he knew that in this setting it would just stress him out more. Perhaps someday.

When they reached the front of the crowd, Ilya spotted a familiar face. Coach Desgranges was standing near the judges, speaking amiably with a few coaches from Team USA. One of the American coaches was wearing an honest-to-God cowboy hat, and Ilya nearly tripped over Svetlana’s heel while imagining buying one for Shane to wear in the bedroom…

“Rozanov!” Coach Desgranges called out in a jolly tone, waving them over. He clapped Ilya on the shoulder hard — luckily, he remembered to do so on the left shoulder and not the right. 

“Coach, this is my friend Svetlana Vetrova,” Ilya said, “She was youth climber like me in Russia, but she is smarter than all of us and moved on to more, ah, lucrative things.” 

“Very good to meet you, Svetlana,” Coach Desgranges replied, giving her a firm handshake. “Shane, bud, how ya feeling?” 

Shane gave the coach a tight smile, meeting his eyes for a moment before directing them toward his broad chest. “Much better,” he said. “Won’t happen again.” 

“Hey, we all get a bit overwhelmed sometimes. Don’t sweat it.”

Shane gave a chagrined nod. Coach Desgranges, having known Shane a few years now, seemed to intuit that he wasn’t going to get anything more than that and moved the conversation onward quickly.  

“Rozanov, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Speaking of youth climbers — you’ve been coaching over there in Russia, haven’t you?” 

“Yes,” Ilya replied simply, unsure where this was going. 

“Well, I wanted to put it on your radar that we’re looking for a few new coaches for our youth. We’ve got a position coaching U19 in Québéc that would start in August, and one of our U17 coaches in BC will be going on maternity leave around November.” 

Suddenly, it was like a switch had been flipped in Shane. He lit up, his eyes wide and hopeful, and seemed to shock even himself with the exuberant words that spilled forth. 

“Coach, you should have seen Ilya with these kids today at the bouldering gym! I know, I should have been here to watch finals, but I just — anyway, he’s so patient with them. And encouraging, and, like, strict? No, not strict — authoritative. The kids all loved him. It was like he knew just what to say to each one! Team Canada would be lucky to have him, really.” 

Shane let out a shaky breath, his eyes darting between Ilya’s face, which Ilya was sure sported an astonished expression, and Coach Desgranges’, which seemed bemused at Shane’s out of character outburst. Shane clamped his mouth back into a polite smile and went pink all the way up to his ears. 

Ilya wished he wasn’t having this conversation in front of Shane. He didn’t want to disappoint him, especially on their last day together, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He smiled at Coach Desgranges, mustering as much Russian stoicism as possible, “Unfortunately, I can not leave Russia right now. My father, he is my…responsibility. I appreciate you considering me.” 

“No problem,” Coach Desgranges replied easily, “just keep us in mind.” 

Out of the corner of Ilya’s eye, he could see that Shane looked just as crestfallen as he’d feared. Svetlana, too, was looking at him with a complex expression of frustration, helplessness, and grief. Ilya was glad for the distraction when a microphone screeched to life and the medal ceremony began. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They met Rose just outside of iso, after she’d changed and gotten her phone back. Most of the crowd had dissipated, which Shane was extremely grateful for. It had been a long couple of days. 

Rose hugged Shane first, so tight, followed by a kiss on either cheek and a long look into his eyes. They hadn’t talked yet about his breakdown at semi-finals, but her look told him that she knew and they would be discussing soon. 

Shane was briefly surprised when Rose hugged Ilya just as tight, following it up with two kisses for him as well — and then he got it. The gossip that Ilya gave up a chance at a silver medal just to hold Shane through a panic attack must have broken containment sometime today. Shane thought he caught a whispered “Merci,” but he couldn’t be sure. 

Then Rose seemed to notice Svetlana for the first time. Svetlana, in heels, was a full head taller than Rose, and so she leaned down to exchange cheek kisses. 

“Svetlana Vetrova,” she purred in introduction. 

“Rose Landry,” Rose replied. “But I guess you already knew that,” she added, gesturing to the stadium and the towering climbing wall that staff in hi-vis vests were beginning to deconstruct. 

There was a beat of silence where Svetlana kept her eyes fixed on Rose.

“So, we’re all going to dinner together?” Rose asked, with a certain coyness in her voice. She was fiddling with the end of one braid in a way Shane had never seen before, staring back at Svetlana brazenly. 

As difficult as Shane found it to pick up on flirting, Svetlana had made it pretty clear back at the Airbnb that she was interested in Rose. But was Rose…?

“Oh, um, actually,” Shane sputtered. “Why don’t just you two go. I’ll send you the reservation info and everything, just, I’m feeling really exhausted.” 

Shane gave what he thought was a pretty convincing yawn and then shrugged apologetically. Rose raised an eyebrow, and Svetlana gave him a smirk. On second thought, maybe the yawn had been overkill. 

“In that case, Ilya will still join?” Svetlana asked innocently. 

“Ah,” Ilya said, his eyes going from Svetlana to Shane to Rose and back. “Well. Shane might need—”

“Him to fuck me!” Shane said impulsively. Rose’s mouth fell open. Shane himself was rather alarmed at the words that had come out of his mouth, and he turned his eyes pleadingly to Ilya.

“Yes, yes,” Ilya said, nodding with mock seriousness. “He will not be able to sleep without. You know how needy Shane is, right Rose?”

Shane was pretty sure that if he took his shoes off, even his toes would be blushing. Luckily, Rose just rolled her eyes. 

“Don’t push it, Rozanov. You’ve been in my good books for about a day. Anyway, I haven’t had a real meal in days. Svetlana, I would love to still use that reservation, if you’d like?” 

Svetlana obviously agreed. 

“All right, Mr. Matchmaker, let’s go home,” Ilya said. They were standing outside the stadium again, watching Rose and Svetlana’s Uber pull away. 

Home, Shane thought. Funny how an Airbnb they had stayed in for only a few nights could feel more like home than his own apartment in Vancouver. He guessed that Ilya being there made all the difference. 

It suddenly felt important to say a few things out loud. 

“Hey,” Shane said, reaching over to thread his fingers through Ilya’s. The sun had set fully now, and he felt cocooned by the warm summer darkness. It seemed like Ilya must feel the same, because he didn’t pull his hand away. 

“I remembered something you said yesterday — when I was panicking,” Shane said quietly. 

“Mm?” Ilya prompted, rubbing a calloused thumb over Shane’s knuckles. 

“You said…boyfriend,” Shane said, eyes scanning Ilya’s face for a reaction. Ilya’s thumb paused its movement, and his eyes crinkled in recognition. 

“Ah, maybe I did say that,” he said slowly. 

“Are we boyfriends?” Shane asked, and this time Ilya actually laughed. 

“Yes, I think so, probably,” he replied. 

“Okay, then, I wanted to say something,” Shane went on determinedly. He would have time to revel in how good that word felt later. “I know you have to go back to Russia. I’m not going to try to change your mind on that. But when your dad passes away…You should move to Canada.” 

Shane looked up and met Ilya’s eyes, which shone a dark grey-blue in the dim glow of streetlights. 

“I know it’s selfish and asking a lot of you, but I can’t exactly move to Russia to date you, so. Yeah. Even if you didn’t want to come out, that would still be okay. I just want time. Time to climb with you, time to relax with you — not just a few hours in between comps.” 

Shane stared now at where their hands were joined. Ilya was squeezing his hand hard, probably unconsciously, but Shane didn’t mind. 

“Then, after a few years, you could apply for Canadian citizenship. You wouldn’t have to worry about Russia or your visa, and…maybe someday we could be together. For real.”

“You really think that far ahead?” Ilya asked, his eyes searching and his voice rough. 

“I do,” Shane said without hesitation, “about this.” 

Ilya’s eyes were misty now. He sniffed and adjusted his cross necklace with the hand not clinging to Shane’s. 

“And is that what you want? To be together?” 

“So much,” Shane said. He pulled Ilya further into the shadow of the stadium, pressing their foreheads together, and whispered against his lips, “Ya tebya lyublyu.” 

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” Ilya replied. “Vsegda, tolko tebya.” 

Chapter End Notes

So, the main plot of the epilogue (which will take place about 2.5 years after the end of this chapter) I’ve known for quite a while. However, it has come to my attention that some people may want a final sex scene. Please comment if there is something specific you would be excited for in an epilogue sex scene — some possibilities that I could imagine would be exhibitionism, a bit of breeding kink talk, or a threesome. Lmk ;)

Chapter 23: Epilogue

Chapter by BrainChemicalRomance

Chapter Summary

Los Angeles, 2028

And a final sex scene for the smut-lovers ;)

Chapter Notes

Los Angeles, 2028

Ilya stood at the front of a large crowd, facing a set of complex, brightly colored boulder problems. The day was bright and clear, and the crowd was electric — cheers in dozens of languages were magnified as they bounced off the climbing wall. 

His hands rested on the low fence keeping spectators a safe distance from the mat. To his left was Coach Desgranges. To his right, Yuna and David Hollander, holding hands, both with tears in their eyes. 

Four years ago, both he and Shane were competing in the Olympics. They had been 19 years old, full to bursting with hormones and adrenaline, their identities — as climbers and as people — just beginning to form. Four years ago, nearly to the day, they had shared their first kiss (and a few other firsts as well). Ilya had had no idea how much that night would shape the direction of his life. 

The podium was being set up just on the other side of the fence. The medals were visible on a table near the judges’ seats. 

A part of Ilya had worried that he’d be bitter or resentful, being at the Olympics but not as a competitor. Would he wish it was he, and not Shane, up there on the wall — wish the crowd was cheering his name? 

He had been pondering something Shane had written to him on their first anniversary — which they had chosen to celebrate a year from their “re-meeting” in Curitiba: We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together. We will keep climbing until no one else can reach us, but it will always be together. 

Initially, Ilya had understood it as Shane had probably intended. At the time they had moved on from IFSC Juniors, they had been seen as two generational talents. To enter the climbing world in the same year, in the same discipline, was to always be one of each other’s main rivals. Yes, the challenge they posed to one another forced them to improve on their weaknesses. Shane had taught Ilya to slow down, and Ilya had taught Shane to take leaps of faith. But even still, as rivals, they’d had to stand alone at the top — even if they were both on the podium, only one climber could take home the gold.

Shane’s words took on a whole new resonance now that Ilya had retired from competing. If they were on the same team, they could actually both win. Shane had kept climbing, and here they were together at the top. 

Ilya was lost in thought while the bronze and silver medals had been awarded. Two climbers now stood on the podium, leaving the middle empty. Then, booming over the speaker system, the final medalist was announced. 

“Representing Canada: Shane Hollander!” 

Ilya had never seen something more beautiful than Shane’s face in that moment. He stepped onto the podium confidently, with his real smile on his face — not the tight, polite one he used for handshakes and photo ops. His genuine smile caused crinkles to form beside his eyes and his mouth to curve like a handsome, happy frog prince. His skin glowed in the direct sunlight, almost like he was emitting the bright rays himself, and his eyes scanned the crowd, taking in the hundreds of people who had witnessed his triumph. 

The gold medal was looped around his neck by a judge, and the smile stayed on his face as the official Olympic photographers snapped away. The three medalists stepped together, wrapping arms around each other, and Shane held up his medal and kissed it cheekily, drawing more cheers from the crowd — and taking Ilya back to a certain night in Montreal. 

Then the medal ceremony was over and, sooner than some might imagine, the bureaucratic hustle and bustle of disassembling the bouldering wall began. The climbers were released back to iso without further fanfare. The crowd began to disperse, off to watch another event or buy an overpriced salad. 

A few minutes later, Shane emerged from the side of a tent, still in his competition clothes but now with his gear bag slung over his shoulder and a pink Gatorade in hand. He jogged over to them with an almost childlike energy, gold medal thunking against his chest in a way that would probably hurt if he wasn’t so flush with endorphins. 

He went straight to his mother, folding himself around her. It was easy to forget how small Yuna was when she had such a formidable presence. Ilya could hear her murmuring from within the embrace, choked with tears, “—so, so proud of you.”

Next came David Hollander, who pulled both Shane and Yuna into his chest. Shane let out a wet laugh, and Yuna peeled herself away from her son, wiping furtively at her cheeks. David was crying as well, unabashedly, and made no effort to wipe the tears away. He kissed Shane on the top of the head and then leaned down and kissed Yuna on the cheek. 

After a moment, Shane extricated himself and turned to Coach Desgranges. He seemed less sure of how to celebrate with his head coach, especially after the emotional display he’d just been a part of, and held his hand out to shake. Coach Desgranges chuckled and gripped it tight and then pulled Shane in for a bear hug. 

Finally, Shane turned to Ilya. 

“I do not get a special coach handshake?” Ilya asked with a pout. 

“You’re not my coach,” Shane replied, rolling his eyes as always. It was unfortunate for Shane that Ilya never got tired of this bit. 

“Oh really? I am pretty sure I saw you do The Rozanov on the second problem.” 

“You can’t just call every dyno The Rozanov!” Shane protested. 

“I think you will find that I can,” Ilya retorted easily. “But, okay, I am not your coach. That is good, because if I was, it would be very inappropriate to do this.” 

Gripping Shane’s face lightly, he pressed their lips together. Though the kiss had much less tongue than usual — they were in front of Shane’s parents and Ilya’s boss, after all — Ilya tried to pour all of his pride, admiration, and love into the kiss. All the feelings he wouldn’t be able to perfectly put into words, either in Russian or English (or the measly French he’d been picking up), but which he was sure Shane could understand in the way they had always understood each other’s bodies. He reveled in the taste of sweat on Shane’s upper lip, a byproduct of the effort that had won him the gold, and the way he could feel the shape of Shane’s smile against his mouth. 

Sooner than he would have liked to, Ilya broke their mouths apart. Shane’s cheeks were flushed pink, but Ilya had become an expert in Shane’s blushes in the past few years, and it was clear that he was more excited than embarrassed by the public display of affection. Well, there would be more where that came from once he got Shane alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, after a celebratory dinner (which Shane was slowly learning to think of not as a “cheat meal” but just a “meal”), Shane and Ilya finally retreated to their hotel room. Shane technically had a spot in the Olympic Village, and Ilya had suggested that fucking there would be a beautiful homage to their past, but Shane had argued that that would be a waste of Ilya’s perfectly good hotel room paid for by Team Canada. 

“I bought a surprise for you, but there is no pressure,” Ilya said, toeing his shoes off and crawling onto the bed after Shane, who had already collapsed backwards onto it. 

Shane lifted his head a little, eyebrows already going up in alarm. “Saying there’s no pressure makes me think it’s bad!” 

Ilya settled himself on his side, propped on his left elbow, and pushed a hand into his right pocket. Shane could hear a rustling within, but Ilya made no move to pull his hand out. Shane’s face went from questioning to frustrated when he realized Ilya was drawing this part out on purpose. 

“What is it?” Shane asked. 

“Mm, I don’t know. You do not seem excited for surprise. Maybe we just go to sleep. Long day for you, moy kotik.” 

“Ilyaaaa,” Shane groaned, exasperated, before realizing that he wasn’t using all of the investigation methods at his disposal. Quick as a wink, he pounced, pushing Ilya to his back and straddling his waist. While Ilya’s guard was momentarily lowered, Shane pushed a hand deep into his pocket — a bit of a tight fit with Ilya’s hand already in there — and wriggled out a small metal tin. 

“In The Mood Sexual Euphoria THC Gummies,” Shane read slowly. “Jesus Christ Ilya, what the fuck? Is this marijuana?” 

Ilya, who seemed happy as a clam being pinned to the bed by Shane’s large thighs, just shrugged. “We are in California, you do not compete for a while after this…and you have mentioned before that you might like to try. But like I say, there is no pressure. This is your celebration night.” 

Shane nibbled his lower lip in consternation, turning the tin in his hands as if reading all of the fine print would help him make this decision. He knew that pot was a pretty low-level drug to try, and he had asked Ilya a few times what it felt like. But a part of Shane felt like he might lose control of himself if he did it even once, and he wasn’t exactly great at letting loose. 

Then again, the times that he did give up control were usually with Ilya — and Ilya had always kept him safe (and satisfied) so far. 

When Shane opened his mouth to answer, an unexpected fear came spilling out. “What if I’m not, I dunno, good at it,” he said, looking down at Ilya self-consciously. 

Ilya smiled at him fondly. “There is no ‘good at it,’ malysh. There is no way to do it wrong — except maybe take too much, but I will make sure you do not do this. Maybe you like it, great. Maybe you don’t like it, then we get through it and at least you know.” 

Shane startled a little at the idea of we get through it. God, what if he had some kind of adverse reaction and had to go to the hospital? And then what if that got out to the press — could they take his gold medal away retroactively for doing drugs? 

Ilya evidently saw Shane beginning to spiral, and he went on reassuringly. “I asked the guy at the dispensary for a recommendation, and he said you will have the best chance of liking this one. I told him I would be taking gummy with very anxious person who loves to fuck.” 

Shane’s eyes went wide. “Ilya!” he protested, incensed, slapping at Ilya’s chest. “Don’t say shit like that to people!” 

“Eh, he did not know who I am. Anyway, I also looked them up online. They have good reviews.” He said this last sentence in a sing-song voice, like he knew that would be a selling point to Shane. 

Shane bristled slightly at how well Ilya knew him, and how easily he could wield that knowledge to convince him of things…but he wasn’t wrong. A good score on a reputable review website did mean a lot. He put on a determined face. 

“Okay, um. If you give me a hype-up speech, I’ll do it.”

This was something they had been doing lately, though it had embarrassed Shane to ask for it at first. There was just something about Ilya believing in him that gave him so much confidence. Plus, Ilya was great at speeches — he loved making toasts and motivating his youth climbers and holding court at the Hollanders’ dinner table after Yuna had poured him a second glass of wine. So it was a win-win, really. 

Ilya prodded Shane to lift his hips up and scooched back a bit, leaning against the headboard so that he and Shane were eye to eye. He was silent for a moment, like an actor getting into character mentally, and then began in an inspirational tone. 

“Listen. You are Shane Hollander. You do scary things every day. Most people have a job in an office, typing spreadsheets and sending emails. Most scary thing for them is if fast casual lunch restaurant does not have their favorite flavor of hummus. You climb up mountains! You took a 15 meter whipper on a 5.13c and then finished it the same day! You are an Olympic gold medal winner and a bad bitch!!!”

With Ilya’s praise ringing in his ears, Shane wrenched open the small tin, grabbed a red, heart-shaped gummy, and swallowed it down nearly without chewing. He handed the tin to Ilya with a proud smile. 

“Mm, I was going to say we could do half for your first time, but whole one is good too,” Ilya said, popping a gummy into his mouth as well and chewing it thoughtfully. 

Panic flashed through Shane and he felt his face heat up. “Wh—you said the only way to have a bad time is take too much! Oh my god — should I go throw up?” He was halfway off the bed when Ilya grabbed him and hauled him back onto his lap. 

“No, no, is all okay, this is still low dose. Lower dose, you might not even feel it at all. I have you, kotik.” 

He pulled Shane down against his chest and ran both hands up and down his back, soothing away the tension with gentle pressure.

Shane’s voice was a little muffled against his shirt when he asked, “Where did you learn ‘bad bitch’?” 

“One of my U17 kids,” Ilya replied. “At first I told her not to insult others, but she says it is a good thing. I think it is like double negative.” 

Thirty minutes later, Shane was pretty sure the gummies were duds. He felt exactly the same as always, except a bit tired — but that was probably because he’d competed in the Olympics less than 12 hours ago. Ilya had gone to the bathroom at some point, and Shane had decided to watch something on TV, but he had looked everywhere on the bed and couldn’t find the remote. 

Shane. Shane. Shane. 

What a weird thing, that there was a sound that meant him. It was a nice name for him, he thought. Nice that it started with Shh, since he liked to be quiet. The -ane part, he didn’t care as much about. He had always liked how Ilya said it though, more like Sheyn. He could hear it so clearly in his head, Ilya’s accent wrapping around the letters— 

Oh! Actually, it wasn’t in his head. He looked up, and Ilya was standing halfway between the bathroom and the bed, giving him a crazy look. 

“Did you say Shane?” Shane asked clumsily. His tongue felt a bit weird in his mouth as he talked, bulky and dry. 

“Only five hundred times,” Ilya said with a huff. Then he walked over closer, getting right up in Shane’s face. “Ah, you are high as fuck,” he announced, like he had solved a puzzle. 

“I am not!” Shane protested, but he was distracted by Ilya’s lips curving up into a smirk. 

Shane blinked, and suddenly he was laid out on the bed with his tongue in Ilya’s mouth and Ilya’s hand down his pants. He wasn’t exactly sure when they had moved, but he was much too distracted to try to remember. His sensations were turned up to a thousand. He gasped into Ilya’s mouth, feeling like he’d been electrocuted when Ilya ran a teasing finger over the head of his cock. 

A wave of need crashed over him, and he suddenly realized how impossibly hard he was. He could feel his heartbeat throbbing in his dick as it strained against his clothes. The fabric against his skin was a prison, trying to keep his desire caged in. But with Ilya, he didn’t have to hide how much he wanted — how intensely he felt things. 

He pulled away from Ilya abruptly, and Ilya barely had time to ask “Are you o—” before Shane was tearing his clothes off — literally, tearing the button off his pants in his haste to get every speck of cloth off of his body. 

Ilya laughed, an almost childlike sound of delight, and started taking his clothes off too. As soon as they were both naked, Shane moved closer to press the warm, smooth expanses of their bodies together, but Ilya put a hand up to his chest and pushed him back gently. Then, while Shane watched in awe, Ilya picked up each piece of Shane’s clothing, which were strewn at the foot of the bed and on the floor, and folded them, placing the whole stack on the dresser. 

Leaving his own clothes heaped on the floor, Ilya returned to the bed. Shane could feel himself grinning so wide it was starting to hurt his cheeks, and Ilya smiled back hazily, the red tinge to the whites of his eyes making the blue irises look almost neon bright. 

He crawled on top of Shane and slotted a knee between his legs, nudging. Shane let them fall open in a loose butterfly pose. God, it was so nice for Ilya to take control, when his mind was usually spinning with a hundred “shoulds”. He let his mind go fuzzy, floaty, as Ilya slid lubed fingers inside him, kissing his knees and inner thighs as he worked him open slowly. 

Shane heard sounds coming from his mouth — whines and moans and panting breaths — but as if they were coming from someone else. His cock was still rigid and throbbing, leaking onto his stomach, but Ilya paid it no mind, probably knowing that Shane could shoot off at any second if he did. Ilya pressed a third finger in, dragging over Shane’s prostate and making his hips buck erratically. He was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed — a bit panicked that Ilya was going to stay down there forever, and he tugged at Ilya’s shoulder urgently.

Ilya understood as perfectly as ever and made his way up Shane’s body, holding himself up on one huge bicep and trailing his other hand over Shane’s nipple, playing with it idly so that it hardened to a peak. 

“Yes, kotik?” he purred, looking at Shane with hooded eyes. 

Shane had wanted to tell him something, but he had completely forgotten now that he had Ilya’s face to focus on. It was crazy how beautiful Ilya’s mouth was, the sharp Cupid’s bow and plush bottom lip he loved to nibble. His brows were so full and masculine, his eyes so deeply expressive. And his hair — fuck. Shane reached both hands up and plunged them into the mass of curls. It was so like Ilya — full of variation, different from one day to the next, and yet always breathtaking. 

Ilya kissed him again, on the lips and then all over his jaw and neck, but Shane was more focused on the sensation against his fingers. He remembered what Ilya had told him, about his father shaving his head because his curls were like his mother’s. With his fingers tracing bumpy waves and poking through ringlets, it was like he was communicating with Irina Rozanova herself. 

Sadness clenched Shane’s heart, and a sob escaped him before he could stop it. Ilya pulled back from sucking at his neck, looking bewildered and then concerned. 

“Did I hurt you?” he said, sitting up in a rush. 

Shane shook his head quickly, but he felt a traitorous tear roll down his face. 

“What is it, lyubimyy? Please tell me.” Ilya tugged Shane to sit up as well, which he did even though his body felt heavy and the room looked strange. 

Sniffling, Shane scanned all of Ilya’s beautiful features again. “It’s silly,” he said quietly. 

Ilya brushed a tear off of Shane’s cheek. “I’m sure it’s not silly. And even if it is, I promise not to laugh.” 

Shane took a deep, shuddering breath. “If you were with a woman, she could have your baby. And that baby could have hair like you — hair you got from your mom. And I —” he choked on a fresh sob. “I can never do that for you.” 

More tears coursed down Shane’s face, and Ilya clicked his tongue sympathetically, pulling Shane to his chest and rocking them gently. With Shane’s gaze directed downward, he could see the hard jut of Ilya’s gorgeous cock, but that only made him cry harder. It was so unfair that no matter how perfectly he took Ilya inside himself, how good he made him come, he could never have Ilya’s child. 

“It would be too powerful,” Ilya whispered into his hair, “our baby. Too good at rock climbing. Too sexy.”

Shane coughed out a laugh through his tears, clinging to Ilya as they kept rocking together. “Our baby would not be sexy, weirdo,” he huffed. 

“Cute then,” Ilya amended. “My curly hair, your freckles. Your perfect skin, my juicy ass…”

“Ilya!” Shane complained, laughing again. He pulled away to wipe his face. 

When he looked up, a devilish glint had come into Ilya’s eye. 

“You want me to try?” he asked. 

“Try what?” Shane replied, furrowing his brow. 

Ilya dipped his head so his mouth was right next to Shane’s ear, his breath warm on his neck. 

“To get you pregnant,” he murmured. 

The bolt of arousal that went through Shane was so staggering, he was truly surprised that he didn’t come right then and there. He crashed his mouth into Ilya’s, nodding feverishly. “Please,” he moaned breathily against his lips. “Ilya, please.”

Ilya pushed Shane gently to his back, slowing Shane’s frantic movements with firm pressure. The lube was already on the bed from before, but he reached to the bedside table for the condom he’d stashed there ahead of time. 

Shane sat up in dismay and intercepted Ilya’s arm. Ilya looked at Shane in confusion, then seemed to realize his mistake. 

“Ah, good point, kotik. Cannot get you pregnant like that.” 

He grabbed the lube and slicked himself while Shane watched, unabashedly ogling Ilya’s cock. It arced upward, dark pink, balls hanging heavy below. It twitched toward Shane like a wave hello. Shane waved back bashfully. 

It seemed like overkill, the amount of lube Ilya was slathering on, even pausing to press some into Shane’s open hole, but Shane was proven wrong when Ilya began to press inside. Somehow, even after all these years, the stretch still felt enormous. The burn of it was eased by the slickness of the lube, but Ilya still took his time, fucking into Shane with shallow thrusts.

“So fucking tight,” Ilya groaned, pressing Shane’s legs back nearly to his chest. “Perfect hole for me, lyubov moya.” 

Ilya bottomed out with a firm push, panting overtop of Shane, his eyes scanning for discomfort. Shane could only offer him a blissed out smile and a breathy “More.”

Ilya clenched his jaw and dragged his cock out slowly, then snapped his hips in hard, his balls smacking against Shane’s ass. Shane grunted out a little ah, and Ilya smiled wolfishly, snapping his hips a few more times, driving Shane’s body up the bed. 

He let go of Shane’s legs to dive in for a messy kiss, and Shane wrapped them tight around Ilya’s lower back, wanting desperately to close any remaining distance between them. Like this, Ilya couldn’t even pull out more than an inch or two, so he settled into a rhythmic, rolling grind that lit Shane up from the inside over and over. 

Shane could feel his orgasm building like spotting something approaching from far in the distance. His cock rubbed against Ilya’s stomach, head gliding over the ridges of his tensed abs in time with his thrusts, leaking precum steadily. Ilya’s face was flushed above him, a vein standing out on his temple, and his mouth was a tight line like he was already staving off his own orgasm. 

Rearing back, Ilya grabbed a handful of Shane’s pec, brushing a calloused thumb roughly over the nipple as he kept his hips moving. He was almost snarling as he said, “Takoy idealny. Your body is so perfect. These tits, mmh.” Ilya’s body dropped down again, his mouth closing around a nipple and sucking hard, making Shane throw his head back with the overwhelming rush of pleasure. 

Shane had always resented any implication that he was feminine — always on high alert against being profiled for his sexuality and Asian features — but he couldn’t deny that the way Ilya had said tits had made him feel so sexy. Ilya’s mouth moved to his other nipple, replacing his mouth on the other with rolling, lightly pinching fingers, and Shane moaned, loud and shameless. 

“Oh god, Ilya, I want it. Please give it to me, fill me up, please.”

Ilya growled, rolling back onto his knees and pulling Shane into his lap, planting one hand on the bed behind him for leverage and gripping Shane’s hip with the other, fucking up with punishing speed.  

“Need my cum, da? Need me to fuck my baby into you?”

Shane felt tears pricking at his eyes from pleasure and overwhelm. He let them fall, feeling immense relief that Ilya always understood what he wanted and gave it to him, that Ilya wouldn’t see his tears as weakness but would know he was letting himself feel the big feelings trapped inside him. 

“Shane, fuck, I’m — are you close?” Ilya choked out. His grip on Shane’s hip was bruisingly tight now, his thrusts deep and rabbit-fast. 

“Mhmm,” Shane moaned, his words slurring, “come in me, please, please—”

Shane felt his balls tighten, pleasure concentrating almost to the point of pain, and then it crested and radiated outward as he came with a groan, cum spilling between their bodies, coating the hair on Ilya’s stomach. 

Ilya shoved a hand into the back of Shane’s hair, grabbing a fistful of the silky strands and tugging hard, dragging Shane’s body even further onto his swollen, unyielding cock. The delicious, overstimulating pain made white spots form and burst behind Shane’s closed eyelids. A sound between a shout and a sob punched out of Ilya’s throat as he came, pulses of cum shooting into Shane as he gripped him tight like a lifeline. Shane felt all the tension release from his body and buried his face in Ilya’s neck with a satisfied smile. 

They stayed like that a while, shuddering together, frozen in bliss. Finally, Ilya groaned and leaned forward to deposit Shane carefully on his back — his legs must have been asleep or well on their way, considering Shane had let his full weight rest in his lap for however long it had been since they came. Shane was completely spent, but his mind felt mostly back to normal. He wondered if weed could be fucked out of you. Maybe he would Google it, later, when he wasn’t so exhausted. 

Ilya’s cock had softened inside him, and he pulled out, leaving the strange sensation of cum oozing from Shane’s loosened hole. Shane startled from his half-asleep state at the feeling of a thick finger pressing at his rim, and he cracked an eye blearily to see Ilya, his gaze directed downward with rapt attention, scooping up cum and pushing it gently back into his hole. Shane squirmed, the feeling odd and his ass tender, but Ilya looked up at him scoldingly. 

“Need to keep it in you or it won’t work,” Ilya said petulantly. 

Shane’s post-nut clarity had him feeling done with their sexy scene, but he had been the one begging for it, so he laid his head back and let Ilya play to his heart’s content. 

They fell asleep with Ilya’s face tucked into Shane’s chest, running a hand soothingly over Shane’s belly, smiling at the idea of the once-in-a-generation climber with blonde curls and freckles.

Chapter End Notes

This has been such a fun experience. It is by far the longest thing I've ever written, and really the first fiction of any kind that I've written in 10 years. THANK YOU!!!!!! to those who have read this, left kudos, left a comment, or shared online or to a friend! Please let me know in the comments what you have thought/liked and anything you might like to see in a follow-up one-shot!

And my eternal love to mitsk_i. I don't ever want this problem (being addicted to HR fanfic together) to ever go away.

I’m on threads now! Same name as on here. Come say hi!