Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Making Up, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander, Idiots in Love, Dumb Hockey Boys, Drunk Shane Hollander, Boston Bears Group Chat, Mentioned Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Mutual Pining, Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Post-Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Anxious Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Canon Autistic Character, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander's Hole, Love Confessions, Kind Of, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Cries, Shane Hollander Cries, Shane Hollander Cries During Sex, Anxious Ilya Rozanov, Hurt Ilya Rozanov, Barebacking

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-06 Completed: 2026-08-09 Words: 13,806 Chapters: 2/2

Oh, It's so Hard to Have Someone to Love

Summary

“Who are you waiting for? Maybe I can call him and get him here, then we go?”

Hollander’s face scrunched up, and he hummed like he was trying to remember who he was waiting for.

“Ilya.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. Ilya.”

Ilya blinked.

 What?

“Yes, is my name. Who are you waiting for?”

Hollander huffed and pushed himself up a little so he could glare Ilya down.

“‘M waitin’ for Ilya. Roz’nov. Y’know ‘im?”

“Yes, Hollander. I know him,” Ilya said, trying to keep his voice even.

 

OR: The Voyageurs are in Boston for a game, and Shane is really struggling being in Rozanov's city after he left him on his couch. He goes out and gets drunk. Ilya finds out Shane is alone at a club and too drunk to stand and can't fight the urge to help him out.

Notes

I've read a few fics along these lines before, but I really wanted to dive into the amount of pain Ilya would feel needing to help out drunk!Shane, how hard it would be for him.

Title comes from Okay, I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don't by Brand New

Chapter 1: It Hurts a Whole Lot, but It's Missed When It's Gone

Chapter Notes

Being in Boston was hard. It felt heavy, suppressive like the humid summer heat of the American south. Boston roadies and the days leading up to them used to be among the highlights of the year, but now Shane dreaded them so much he couldn't eat, sleep, or concentrate at practice.

Boston coming to Montreal was not much better, especially the night Rose had dragged him out to the club, but at least when on his own home soil, it was easier to distract himself at home, his gym, or just go to bed.

But now, there he was, in Boston once again without even the distraction of Hayden as his roommate to keep his mind busy. Not when the entire Pike household has been struck down with pink eye. Hayden sent pictures of his swollen, crusty eyes to Shane, and Shane almost dropped his phone into his sink when he opened it.

Without Hayden to help keep him grounded, Shane was flailing, desperate for anything that might take his mind off the vice squeezing his chest. It was hard enough to be in Boston, which he had so many painful memories attached to, and it definitely didn’t help that Boston fucking loved Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya Rozanov.

Fuck.

Shane couldn’t do this; almost everywhere he looked, something reminded him of the biggest fucking mistake Shane had ever made.

Not a mistake. Sometimes the right choices hurt, but that doesn’t make them any less necessary.

Shane wasn’t too surprised when he found himself following JJ before he had even made the conscious decision to go out with him. JJ always knew the best clubs, somehow being acquainted with every owner or a close friend of the owner, and armed with those connections, they always ended up with free drinks. Free drinks for multi-millionaires who could afford the drinks of every single person in the damn club without making much of a dent in their wallets.

Despite how stupid it was, Shane still grabbed drink after drink.

One to help dampen the pain that refused to go away.

Still hurting.

Two to quiet the voice in his head that kept lying to him, telling him he fucked up the best thing in his life.

It wasn’t a mistake! I had to!

Three to be less fucking awkward.

Why am I always so fucking weird?

He lost count somewhere after that. In fact, he lost count of pretty much everything. Where was he even? Was this the same club he came to with JJ? Where was JJ?

Wait. It was JJ, right?

At some point, he was sitting at a table with a whole bunch of people he didn’t recognize who kept supplying drink after drink and shoving them at him. An objectively beautiful girl kept trying to sit on his lap, but every time she began to lower herself, he stood up.

It was way too hot and sticky in the club, and her skin was visibly slick with sweat. Also, her perfume smelled too strong, and there were far too many sparkles on her skin and sequins on her dress catching the club's over the top lighting, blinding him with every movement she made.

Later, it was like he blinked and suddenly he was leaning against the bar describing the difference between offsides and icing to a guy who was staring at him weird.

Fuck. That’s why it never would have worked out with Rozanov.

Rozanov was decidedly cool. There wasn’t an awkward bone in his body. He was hot, he was charismatic, he was talented, and he was just so fucking… cool.

And he knew it.

And Shane? The word “cool” had never once been used to describe him, at least not by anybody who actually knew him.

For a while though, Shane felt cool. Like, how cool is it that Ilya fucking Rozanov wanted to fuck him?

Well, that’s all done anyway.

Nothing cool about me anymore.

Ever notice how weird the word “cool” is?

Cool.

Cool.

Coooooooool.

Coooolllllll.

Fuck, I’m drunk.

Someone leaned into his ear and asked him if he had a girlfriend, and then he got fucking sad again.

You know what the best part about Ilya is? He’s not a girl.

Girls are great. For talking to and hanging out with.

But that’s it.

Shane really had no clue as to where he was, what time it was, where JJ was, the name of his hotel, his own phone number, anything really. At least he knew he was still in Boston.

Right?

Carmy:
Wtf
You guys seein whats all over the internet right now?

Marly:
Ik
Wtf

Carmy:
That’s what I said!

Marly:
Fuck
What a goddam mess

Connors:
At least hes got that built in momager
Watch
By tmrw no1 will be talking about it
N a whole bunch of drunk assholes r gonna get sued

Ilya groaned. All he wanted to do was sleep off that fucking nightmare of a game and every negative fucking thought shouting at him.

He sucked. Hollander sucked. The game sucked.

1-0, Boston

But it didn’t even feel like a victory. It felt like his team had cheated, and while Ilya was a lot of stupid things, a cheater was not one of them.

Hollander wouldn’t even look at him. At every face-off, his mouth was pressed in an angry line, his face bright red but not in that sweet way Ilya loved. Every check, every time either of them stole the puck from the other, Hollander kept his eyes on the ice.

Do you really want him looking at you? It’s not like you were looking anyway.

Except he was. He really was, and every time he realized he was, he hated himself a little bit more.

Ilya really wanted a drink, but he was in bed, and all the vodka was in the kitchen, which was too far away.

Fuck.

His phone rattled again against his nightstand. He wanted to just chuck it at his wall and let it scatter in millions of pieces across his bedroom floor. No one would ever be able to bother him again.

No more calls from Papa. No more threatening texts or demands for money from Alexei.

But no, he had to be captain! Because surely becoming captain of one of the best teams in the NHL would be enough to make his father proud!

Right?

Nothing Ilya could do would ever be enough for him, and now he was responsible for a whole bunch of assholes who texted him whenever they needed a ride home after getting kicked out of the bar or they needed to be bailed out of jail for public drunkenness.

And that’s probably what was happening now. One of his idiot teammates probably hooked up with some girl who already had a boyfriend, and he came home early or showed up without warning, and now the boyfriend had kicked their ass and they’re stranded and bleeding.

Is this what parenting idiot teenagers is like?

After another rattle from his phone, Ilya cursed and pulled himself out from under his blankets and ripped his phone off the nightstand.

Connors:
Do u think its him or his team?

Carmy:
Tf you mean?

Connors:
Do u see anyone from Montreal with him?
No
So either he sucks n no one wants to be around him or the whole team sucks n they just left him there

Marly:
Its gotta be the second one right?
I mean have we ever heard of him going out and getting messy drunk before?

Carmy:
Fuck
Normally id think it had to be him
How often is the whole group the problem and one person is right?

Rozy:
What the fuck are you guys talking about?
Is the middle of night and i am sleeping

Vicky:
Just getting caught up but yeah that is text book messy drunk

Connors:
Middle of the night?
Roz
Its not even 1 am. How r u already in bed?

Rozy:
We played a fucking game tonight
Now i am tired
Unless something is so important you have to wake up everyone, goodnight

Vicky:
Man Ive always had a bad feeling about the voyageurs
They all seem like fucking dicks

Marly:
Except for Hollander
Hes so nice hes almost annoying right?

Carmy:
And like you cant get 2 annoyed bc hes so fucking good you just have to respect him

Marly:
Ikr

Rozy:
What the fuck about Montreal?

Connors:
So were all in agreement
Hollander has fucking awful teammates

Rozy:
What happened to Hollander??

These useless fuckers, talking out of their asses without actually answering any of Ilya’s questions. He was about to say fuck it and start googling Hollander’s name when his phone buzzed again.

Marly:
Hollander is all alone drunk off his ass making a fool of himself at some club
Seems like he might be a messy drunk

Vicky:
Makes sense though right?
If anyone would be a messy drunk it would someone as high strung as Hollander

Carmy:
[video attachment]

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Ilya clicked the video Carmichael sent. As it played, it felt as if someone was pouring a steady trickle of ice water down the back of his shirt.

From first glance, Hollander was undeniably drunk. He could barely stand, alternating between leaning against the bar or against a group of pricks who were holding him up and egging him on while laughing as if this was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

Worse, every time he opened his mouth to speak, not a single word was coherent, which just made the parasites around him laugh even harder.

Ilya had never wanted to hurt someone so much in his life. Where the fuck were the rest of Hollander’s teammates? Did they just leave him there? There was not even the slightest possibility that Shane Hollander went out by himself. Someone took him out and just left him.

I’ll fucking kill them all.

The thought startled him a bit. He was no stranger to feeling murderous rage against assholes, especially assholes who took advantage of the people he cared about, the ones he felt responsible for. But, since when did Ilya feel that way about Hollander?

Forever. I’ve felt this way about him since I met him.

No. It wasn't that.

He just hated watching people being taken advantage of, especially when they didn’t know any better, and while Shane Hollander was anything other than incapable, when it came to the world of partying and clubs, he was way out of his depth.

Why does it matter? He left me. Rose Landry can take care of him.

Except, Rose Landry was in Montreal, wasn’t she? Wasn’t that what Connors had said when he told him about Hollander and his A-List movie star girlfriend? She was filming a movie there, so more than likely she wasn’t flying out to Boston to watch her boyfriend’s game in person. Besides, she would have been splashed all over the jumbotron in Hollander’s jersey the entire game like Ilya’s own personal hell.

It doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business. He made sure of that when he left.

However, as strong as Hollander was—and he was, Ilya knew from experience how easily he could throw a grown ass man around if the mood struck—it didn’t matter how strong a person was when they were that fucking gone. Anyone could hurt him. Take advantage of him.

It’s just what people do for people they know, right? Like, I know Shane Hollander, we’re both captains of exceptional teams, and we’re always pitted together.

It would be like a public service really, now that Ilya was thinking about it. How would the NHL fair if something bad happened to their golden boy? And it was a nice thing to do. The right thing.

Ilya could be nice.

Rozy:
What club is he at?
Does anybody know?

Connors:
Ppl online r saying hes at Dept Q
Dunno how accurate that is tho
Y

Rozy:
Just curious

Marly:
Roz you know hollander better than all of us
What do you think?
Is he the problem or is it his team?

Rozy:
What?
You think polite Canadian Shane Hollander is problem?
No
Too nice too boring
Voyageurs are all awful and dont deserve nice things

Carmy:
Aw Roz
Are you saying Hollander is a nice thing?

Rozy:
The fuck?
No
Hollander is not thing
But he is good hockey player
Second best
After me

Marly:
There it is
Just when I thought you were being a nice guy for once
Gotta take time to talk yourself up

Rozy:
Is true though
Now focus
Dept Q
When was last time someone said that?

Connors:
Uh yeah
Looks like the most recently named place
Last time he was tagged was 15 mins ago

Carmy:
You gonna pick him up or something?

Ilya pocketed his phone. He was wasting time; he had to get to Hollander before he wandered off somewhere else or someone did something to hurt or scare him.

He threw on a hoodie, stuffed his bare feet in the first pair of sneakers he could find, made sure he had his wallet and his keys, and ran out the door.

Dept Q was a relatively new, trendy spot. It was good for picking up women when the mood struck, but that was about it. The drinks all had weird names, were all too fucking complicated, and were not nearly strong enough. And the music sucked ass.

It was hard to imagine Shane Hollander there. It was fucking loud, even for Ilya. The lights went insane, and there were usually way too many bodies on the dance floor. That should be Hollander’s worst nightmare.

Maybe that’s why he got so drunk?

Ilya got there twice as fast as he usually would and tried not to think about why he was so god damned worried about the asshole. But before he could open the car door, he froze.

Hollander wouldn’t want to see him. He made that abundantly clear when he left. He wanted nothing to do with Ilya Rozanov, and now here was Ilya Rozanov, showing up when he was completely vulnerable.

What the fuck was I thinking?

He should just ask one of the guys to ask their WAG to contact the Montreal WAGs and have them deal with it. Pike would drop everything to be there for Hollander.

Brown noser.

But wait, Pike wasn’t at the game, was he? Ilya couldn’t remember getting extra fucking annoyed.

Boiziau then. He was friends with Hollander.

Ilya pulled his phone out to instruct Carmichael to have his girlfriend, Amy, make use of the extensive WAG network but found himself rewatching the video instead. And rewatching it again. And again.

The more Ilya watched it, the more certain he was that Shane was saying the same thing over and over. He wanted or needed something.

And the fucking assholes around him are just standing there and laughing instead of helping him get whatever it was he was asking for.

Ilya replayed the video again, this time sticking the speaker right against his ear, plugging his left ear as if it might make it easier to make out what Hollander was saying he needed. After the third replay with him listening like that, it started to sound like he was saying “I need him.” Some girl asked who “he” was, and Shane just repeated himself. Then they all started laughing again.

Him? Maybe Pike? Maybe Hollander also forgot that Pike wasn’t here. Normally, the thought would bring him such joy, but not right now. Hollander was asking for his best friend because he needed help, but he was fucking alone.

Ilya exploded out of his car, slamming the door behind him. Thankfully, being the captain of the Bears had its privileges in Boston, and one of them was not having to wait in line to get into the club. The bouncer just nodded at him, and Ilya was in, scanning back and forth for the familiar head of thick, black hair.

He walked deeper and deeper into the club, his eyes catching on every head of short dark hair they found. He was about to give up, get back on his phone, see if there were any more recent sightings of him at a different club or bar when he realized that what he, at first, thought was a pile of coats and hoodies in the shadows of the end of the bar was actually a person with their head, face down, on the surface of the bar, other people’s hoodies and jackets covering their back.

Iya rushed over there, pushing people out of the way ignoring indignant shouts and insults, refusing to take his eye off of the person who had to be Shane. The closer he got, the more certain he was. There was still way too much laughter around him, people pointing and filming.

He was within touching distance of Shane when one of the men turned and looked at him, his jaw dropping in awe.

“You’re fucking Rozanov!”

Ilya snapped his eyes to get a good look at this piece of shit who had been making fun of Hollander. “Yes, and you are asshole,” he snarled.

The man and his friends all jolted back. “What the fuck? What did we do to you?”

“You think is okay to fuck with people who are too drunk to even know where they are? Is funny, yes? How confused and lost he is?”

“Dude, it’s Hollander. Who gives a shit?” The weasel turned his head to the side, cupping his mouth with his hands and hollering “Fuck Montreal!”

Several people shouted it back, letting out whoops and laughing hysterically.

The group looking up at Ilya seemed confused by his disgust. Maybe they expected him to laugh along, pat them on the back, and buy them a round? Instead, they got Ilya puffing himself out to his full height and width, glaring them down with a low growl.

“You will get the fuck away from him, and you will never even think about him again, understand? If I ever see your face again and you are harassing someone who is vulnerable, I will beat you until you cannot walk anymore.”

The weasel’s eyes went wide, and he leaned away, looking around at his friends who seemed just as worried. They left immediately, not a word said.

Ilya took a few steadying breaths to calm himself down before pushing all the jackets and hoodies off of Hollander’s back onto the floor while he sat down on the stool next to him. Hollander was literally face down on the bar, his forehead and nose pressed to the surface, his hands tucked between his thighs. A sticky bar full of who knows how many germs and grease and dirt, and Hollander had his face pressed right against it.

Ilya sighed and leaned closer, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Hollander,” he said, his face as close to his ear as he could brave. When there was no response, Ilya pressed his hand down harder and gave him a gentle shake. “Hollander, wake up.”

Hollander made a choking sort of sound before sitting up quickly. The second he was upright he moaned and laid his head back down, this time with his arms covering his head.

“Hollander, you need to get up.”

Hollander seemed to freeze a moment before slowly rolling his head until he could peak out at Ilya.

“Hmm?”

“Is time to go, yes?”

“Nope,” Hollander said with a slight shake of his head. “Can’ go yet.”

Ilya cocked his head. “Why not?”

“He s’not here yet. Can’ go. Nope. Need t’talk t’him.”

“Who? Pike?”

Hollander shook his head again, this time with a little eye roll he seemed to immediately regret based on the groan that followed.

“Not fuck’n Pike. Hayds eyes z’are pink. Can’t be here with pink eyes.”

While Ilya had no idea what color Pike’s eyes were, he was fairly certain they weren't pink, but that did not matter in the least right now.

“Okay, not Pike then. Who are you waiting for? Maybe I can call him and get him here, then we go?”

Hollander’s face scrunched up, and he hummed like he was trying to remember who he was waiting for.

“Ilya.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. Ilya.”

Ilya blinked.

What?

“Yes, is my name. Who are you waiting for?”

Hollander huffed and pushed himself up a little so he could glare Ilya down.

“‘M waitin’ for Ilya. Roz’nov. Y’know ‘im?”

“Yes, Hollander. I know him,” Ilya said, trying to keep his voice even, not wanting his frustration to scare Hollander away or, god forbid, laugh which would make him no better than those fuckers he just ran off.

“Y’do?!” Shane sat straight up, his face absolutely filled with delight for approximately one second before he moaned and put his head back on the bar, his face turned towards Ilya.

“Yes, I do know him. I am him.”

“Huh?”

“Hollander, how much have you had to drink?”

“Dunno. Like…” he looked down at his hands, blinked at them a few times, and then held them up at Ilya, his fingers spread wide. “This many.”

“Ten?”

“Pfft. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you know who I am?”

Hollander stared him down for a second. “Y’know what? Y’kinda look like ‘im.”

“Who, Rozanov?”

“Uh huh!”

Clearly getting Hollander to notice that he was in fact Ilya Rozanov was not going to work, so he decided to switch tactics.

“Hey, you know what? I know where Ilya is!” he said, trying to gather as much excitement in his voice as he could.

“Really?! Y’know where he is?!”

“Yes, I can take you there right now, but we have to leave here first.”

“Y’not just sayin that?”

“Nope, am not liar.”

Hollander tried to sit up again, this time with Ilya's arm wrapped around him to keep him steady.

“‘M dizzy.”

“Yes. Is okay. I give you bag in my car for you to throw up in if you need.”

“‘M gonna throw up?!” Hollander asked, his eyes wide.

“Do not know, but if you do, is okay.”

“‘Kay…” Hollander said as Ilya helped him off the stool, allowing him to lean all of his weight onto him.

“Good job, Hollander. We go to my car, then we go see Ilya.”

“Yay!” Hollander shouted out, a grin splitting his face.

It wasn’t until they were at his car and Ilya was trying to help Shane into the passenger seat while protecting his head from the top of the door that it really hit Ilya.

The “him” Hollander had been looking for, saying he needed to everyone around him, was Ilya. But why? Why would he be looking for Ilya? He clearly didn’t need him, he’d made that perfectly clear when he left and found a girlfriend almost immediately.

Maybe he just wanted to apologize? Try to make things less awkward for both of their sakes when it came time for their next game against each other. It would make it easier to face each other if they could, what, bury the axe? Get closure?

But, no matter how practical it would be, how much easier it would be for future games against Montreal, the very thought of closure with Hollander caused Ilya physical pain. He tried not to think about it too much while he got into the driver’s side and started the car.

“What hotel are you staying at, Hollander?”

“Hmm?” Hollander said, opening his eyes and trying very hard to focus them on Ilya. “Wha’ ‘bout a hotel?”

“You are staying at one, yes? Which one?”

“Beats me!”

Fuck.

Fine, to Ilya’s house they would go. He had guest rooms and couches big enough for a hockey player to sleep on.

“Don’ forget, sir,” Hollander slurred, pointing an accusatory finger at Ilya. “Y’promised me y’gonna take me t’see Roz’nov.”

“I did not forget. We will be to his house in five minutes.”

“H’s house?!”

Ilya risked a glance over to the passenger seat to find Hollander staring at him, but instead of excitement like he had before, he seemed afraid.

“Yes.”

“Y’know where he lives?!”

“Yes.”

Hollander seemed to go quiet after that but a few seconds later, Ilya realized he was actually grumbling under his breath.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“Jus’... Las’ time I w’s there, didn’ go s’well.” He sniffed, rubbing his wrist across his nose. “Prolly hates m’now.”

Hate? No, never hate. Hollander was impossible to hate, even after breaking Ilya’s heart. He was mad, hurt, and angry, but he was not capable of hating Shane Hollander, the only man who was good enough to keep up with Ilya on the ice, the man who was kind enough to make sure at least one kid a game got a puck hand delivered by him, and the man who was apparently beating himself up over how they’d last left things.

Then Hollander started to scowl, turning his head to stare Ilya down.

“What?”

“Why d’ya know where h’ lives? Y’been there before?”

“Yes, Hollander. I have been there before. Why does that make you mad?”

Hollander crossed his arms and harrumphed, muttering something under his breath about only having been there once and not being hot enough.

“What are you going on about now?”

“Y’re too hot. S’not fair.”

Ilya’s automatic reaction was to say something like “yes, most people say is not fair because I am so hot,” but he didn’t think that would help anything. So, instead, he just kept his mouth shut, glancing over at Hollander now and then to find him still looking like an angry fucking cat.

Once they pulled into Ilya’s driveway, Hollander pulled up his hood, pulling the string tight so only his nose and lips were showing, shoving the string into his mouth.

“We’re here,” Ilya said.

Shane just nodded but made no move to exit the car, instead sitting there stiffly.

“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to go see Rozanov?”

“What if someone’s already here?” he whispered.

“No one is there, Hollander. Will just be you and Ilya.”

Shane nodded. “Kay.”

Ilya hurried to the passenger door and helped Hollander out, taking most of his weight as they slowly made their way up the walkway to Ilya’s front door. As Ilya entered his lock code, Hollander proudly recited it as Ilya pressed the buttons.

“1014!” He had a smug sort of grin on his face.

“Yes, good job, Hollander. You remembered it.”

“Yeah, n’ver got t’use it though.” He frowned before looking back up at Ilya and forcing his smile back. “But I’ve been ‘n there before! An’, he’s been in me b’fore, so…” He side-eyed Ilya, the look on his face pure anger.

Why the fuck was he angry? And if he thought Ilya wasn’t actually Ilya, and he was telling him that they’ve fucked before, that meant he really had lost all sense of self preservation. Who knew what he’d been telling people at the bar.

Fuck. He was going to have to keep an eye out, see if anyone posts anything that could blow up both of their careers.

Ilya helped Hollander across the threshold, and Hollander immediately kicked his shoes off, stumbling into the wall.

“Where’s he?” he asked Ilya as he looked around.

“He will be out soon. Why don’t we go sit on the couch, hmm?”

Hollander nodded and let Ilya lower him onto the couch. He immediately slouched down. Ilya hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a Gatorade and a water from his fridge, and then offered both to Hollander.

Unsurprisingly, Hollander picked the water.

Boring.

Ilya sat down, leaving enough room between them for at least two people. Hollander looked up at Ilya and huffed again. “‘S he at?”

Ilya sighed and shuffled closer, just enough for Hollander to see his face better. “Hollander, look at me.”

Hollander’s eyes locked to him, that proud smile back on his face, like he was so pleased with himself for doing what Ilya had asked. Instinctually, Ilya wanted to praise him, to touch his face and smile fondly. Fighting those urges felt like telling his lungs to stop breathing, his heart to stop beating.

They looked at each other long enough for Ilya’s throat to tighten, his eyes to sting. There was no fucking way he was going to cry right now, not right in front of the man who stomped on his heart.

He’d rather die.

He was going to be strong. He was going to make sure Hollander made it until the morning, and then he’d figure out how to get him to his hotel. The team staff would take care of him after that.

After what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, Shane blinked rapidly like he was trying to clear his eyes, and then a slow grin stretched across his face.

“Ilya!”

“Hollander.”

“When’d y’get ‘ere?”

Ilya closed his eyes, shook his head, took a deep breath, and then let go of every snarky response he wanted to throw Hollander’s way.

Instead, he said, “Just now.”

Hollander’s grin grew even wider, and he scooted closer to Ilya. “Y’re ‘ere!”

“I am,” Ilya said with a very serious nod. “Why did you need me, Hollander?”

The grin on Hollander’s face slowly morphed to a full on pout. “I needed t’ tell y’somethin’.” He leaned towards Ilya, beckoning him closer with a finger.

What the fuck would he need to tell Ilya?

I never want to see your face ever again.

Rose and I are getting married.

Rose is pregnant and now we’re going to be a big fucking happy family.

Ilya took a steadying breath, bracing himself. “What?”

“Did y’know that was m’first tuna melt?”

Now it was Ilya’s turn to blink.

“What?” he asked again.

“I n’ver had a tuna melt b’fore y’made me one.” He shook his head, his face incredibly serious. “‘Nd at first, I’s like ‘hot tuna an’ cheese? Sounds like a nightmare!’ But, then y’made me one, ‘nd that was m’first one.” He held up one finger, nodding solemnly. “‘Nd it was, like, really good. Like, waaaaay better th’n hot fish an’ cheese should be. S’it magic?”

“You think tuna melt is magic.”

To Ilya's horror, Hollander started crying. “I think ‘bout that tuna melt all th’ time,” he said with a sniff. “Have y’ever had a cravin’ before? I nev’r did, but like I could still taste it ‘n m’ mouth, ‘nd like, m’ mouth was fuckin’ waterin’, man. But, did y’know not all tuna melts taste th’ same? Nope! They do not. ‘Nd that was dis’ppointin’.”

Was that what all of the “need him” was about? A fucking tuna melt?

“Hollander, are you trying to ask me to make you another tuna melt?”

Shane let out a sob so loud, Ilya jumped an inch out of his seat.

“Y’re so funny,” he forced out between sobs. “How d’y’do that?”

“Do what?”

“Be funny. I’m like, really fuckin’ lame. I make jokes, an’ only like two people’ll laugh, ‘nd I always think th’re jus’ laughin’ t’be nice or maybe ‘cause they have t’cause I'm like their leader, y’know?”

“Am really confused, Hollander. Joke makes you cry? And was not even making joke anyway. Why are we talking about tuna melts?”

“Oh! Why didn’t y’tell me y’re confused?” Shane sniffed, rubbing the tears from his eyes with his fist. “Silly. I coulda told y’earlier.”

Ilya sighed, placing a hand over his face as he shook his head again. “You keep saying this. That you want to tell me something, but then you say, okay?”

Hollander nodded and sat up straight, or at least as straight as he was capable of doing, which was more leaning at an awkward angle. “Yessir. I can do th’t.” Hollander shifted in his seat for what felt like a solid minute until he seemed to be sitting the way he had wanted, tilting to the other side, his eyes still unable to focus fully. He took a deep breath, let it out through his lips. It looked like he was trying to smile, but his mouth was quivering, and his eyes, though still unfocused, were leaking even harder.

“I f’cked up bad, Ilya. Like, so fuckin’ bad.”

“Fuck up what?”

Fuck up with Rose Landry?

Hollander’s shoulders started shaking, and he ducked his head. He used his sleeve to wipe his nose.

“I fucked up w’th you. ‘M so fuckin’ stupid, ‘nd Imma fuckin’ coward. Was so confused, ‘nd I started t’panic, an’ I– Ilya, ’m so sorry f’r leavin’ y’like that.”

Ilya’s heart dropped. He felt his own tears starting to gather and had to look away. This was already fucking painful enough; he didn’t need Hollander seeing how pathetic he was.

“Is fine,” he muttered.

“‘S not fine, Ilya,” he whispered before his breathing hitched and he folded in half.

Ilya’s eyes flew to Hollander to find him fully sobbing into his hands, and it was the most agonizing thing he’d witnessed in years. Yes, this man hurt him deeply, but seeing him in this much pain physically hurt. And, even though he knew it was a terrible idea that he would regret in the morning, he pushed himself to Hollander’s side and pulled his head into his chest.

“No, is not,” he said, carding his fingers through Hollander’s hair.

Hollander buried his face in Ilya’s chest, and Ilya could feel the tears soaking into the fabric of his hoodie. “Can’t sleep at night. Every time I close m’ eyes, I see th’look ‘n y’r face when I left, an’ it makes me hate myself. I did that! I hurt you, ‘nd I f’cked up s’bad, and now y’prolly hate me. Y’ should hate me!”

“No,” Ilya whispered, his voice hoarse. “I do not hate you, Hollander. Yes, it hurt. It hurt a lot, but I could not hate you.”

Hollander started shaking his head so hard, it had to hurt. “I hate me,” he forced out between gasps.

Ilya cupped Hollander’s face with his hands and pulled him away so he could look into his big, deep brown eyes, but Hollander was too upset. His face was drenched with tears and snot, his eyes were swollen and red, and he was shaking with the force of his sobs.

He pressed his hands harder into Hollander’s cheeks and gave him a gentle shake. “Hollander, listen to me. Do not hate yourself. You should never do that.”

Hollander nodded, but his sobs continued. Ilya pulled him back into his chest, running a hand up and down his spine while he buried his nose into Hollander’s hair, unable to stop himself from taking a deep breath. He smelled mostly like the club—alcohol, some fake chemically citrus, and fog machine—but underneath it all, he smelled like Shane, soap, detergents, and lotions. It was a smell he had missed for months, one he thought he’d never smell again.

At least an hour passed by the time Hollander had calmed down enough. Ilya was exhausted, and although a big part of him just wanted to sit there holding Hollander as long as he was given, he knew he had to put a stop to this before Hollander started sobering up and had a panic attack on top of his mental breakdown.

“Is time for bed, yes?” he whispered into Hollander’s hair.

Hollander just nodded in response. Ilya helped him to his feet and guided him to his bedroom. He helped him out of his jeans and hoodie, leaving him in his undershirt, boxers, and socks, before helping him into the bed.

Ilya poured a glass of water from the filter in his fridge, wet a cloth with warm water, and brought them back to his room, helping Hollander drink before pulling the covers over his shoulders. He took the wet cloth and gently wiped away the tear stains and snot from Hollander’s face. Like a knife to the heart, Hollander hummed and melted at Ilya’s touch.

“Good night, Hollander,” he said softly, then turned to the door.

He heard a gasp behind him. “Where’re y’goin?”

“Am going to sleep on couch with door open so I can hear you if you need help.”

“Nooooo,” Hollander whined, “why?!”

Ilya sighed and turned back around to see giant, panicked eyes peaking out from his duvet and tracking his every move. “Hollander–”

“Please, Ilya!” He held out his hands, his eyes becoming more and more desperate by the second.

The thing about Shane Hollander was that he held some sort of power over Ilya that Ilya didn’t fully understand. All Hollander had to do was stare him in the face with those god damn fucking beautiful eyes, and Ilya would give him anything.

This is going to fucking hurt so fucking much.

With his heart in his throat, anxiety coursing through his veins, Ilya stripped down to his boxers and slid into the other side of the bed, leaving as much space as he could between the two of them. He was considering putting a pillow or two between them when an arm wrapped around his middle, holding him tight as a leg was thrown across his thighs just before Hollander laid his head on Ilya’s chest.

Ilya knew he should say no, that he should gently place Hollander back on his own side and build his pillow fence, but the feeling of Hollander’s skin against his own, the rise and fall of his chest as his breath caressed Ilya's bare chest, smelling this man he had spent so much time trying to convince himself he did not miss and did not need… It was all too much, too hard.

I am so fucking weak.

And I am going to regret this in the morning.

The morning. It would be here too soon, and Hollander would wake up, realize where he was, and freak the fuck out. And he would walk out Ilya’s door again, and Ilya would never recover.

It would fucking kill him.

Ilya quietly cried himself to sleep, his tears falling into Hollander’s hair as he tightened his arms around him.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter title comes from The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot by Brand New

I got the club name from a British Netflix show staring Matthew Goode and Kelly Macdonald called Department Q. I have an obsession with British long-form crime dramas like Broadchurch, Happy Valley, and Unforgotten. If you're into British crime dramas and haven't watched Department Q, I highly recommend it.

Chapter 2: If You're Coming Home Just Let Me Know

Chapter Summary

“What–” Ilya stopped, scratched his eyebrow, and started again. “How are things with Rose Landry?”

Hollander face fell, and Ilya’s stomach lurched. Had Hollander somehow forgotten his girlfriend and was now going to freak out and run out the door again?

But Hollander just shook his head. “We broke it off after, like, two weeks. It, uh. It just didn’t work. Not like that, anyway. She’s a really good friend, but that’s it. I’m not– She isn’t right for me. And I’m not right for her.”

Ilya was shocked. Relieved as fuck, but shocked. “But she is beautiful. People are always saying she is perfect,” he said, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Hollander ducked his head, keeping his eyes on his plate. “Yeah, she is beautiful, and she’s pretty fucking great, but um… No woman is ever going to be right for me.” He looked up and met Ilya’s eyes. “Ever.”

Chapter Notes

My grandfather was born in Russia before coming to America when he was young. He died before I was born, I don't speak Russian (except for a few phrases I know that all have to do with drinking,) and I've never stepped foot on Russian soil. But I was raised to be very proud of my Slavic heritage. I can't say for one hundred percent certain that this is what is done in Russia, but this is how my Russian-American family has always dealt with hangovers. I personally don't drink, but I've seen this done time and time again. I also have a deep love for Russian art, especially paintings.

Ilya woke a few hours later with Hollander still wrapped around him. The sky was dark gray and dusty violet, and Ilya was still fucking drained. He was of two minds. One half of him wanted to pull Hollander further onto him and hold him tighter, press kisses anywhere he could reach, smell his hair while nuzzling his face in it.

The other half wanted to run, to get as far away as he could before Hollander woke up and broke his heart all over again. Maybe if he snuck out and went to sleep on his couch, when Hollander woke up alone in the bed, he wouldn’t panic as much. Maybe then, he wouldn’t hate Ilya, would be gentler this time when he walked away and knocked Ilya’s already tattered and bruised heart back into the dirt on his way out.

Between the two, the last option would lead to less pain, so he very slowly, ever so gently began to try to extract himself from under the sleeping man on his chest, moving one leg at a time while trying to think of the best way to move Hollander without waking him up.

He slipped his hands between his chest and Hollander’s shoulders and started to gently lift when he realized Hollander’s body, instead of being loose in sleep, was stiff with tension. His heart started beating irregularly and he held his breath as he craned his neck to find Hollander’s eyes wide open, his face lined with panic.

Fuck.

“Hollander?” he whispered.

After several seconds, Hollander blinked and looked up at him. “Hmm?”

“Are you… Do you need me to leave so you can have some time to yourself?”

Hollander blinked and then looked away. Ilya’s heart, already barely holding on, dropped.

“No,” Hollander mouthed.

“No?”

Hollander shook his head.

They laid there like that for god knows how long, Ilya on his back, terrified to move, terrified to touch, and Hollander stiffly clutching Ilya.

The sky was bright silver, pale blue, and yellow by the time Hollander rolled off of Ilya and tried to sit up.

“Ugh,” he groaned, clutching his head in his hands. “I’m dying.”

“You need Tylenol?” Ilya asked, wincing in fear that the sound of his voice would break whatever awkward, fragile peace they’d woken to. “Motrin?”

“Tylenol,” Shane whispered. “And a gun to put me out of my misery.”

“Hollander,” Ilya cautioned.

“Sorry.”

Ilya slid out of bed, slipped on his slides, and shuffled to the kitchen to grab a Gatorade and the bottle of Tylenol. Before reentering his bedroom, he paused, took a steadying breath, and forced himself to be calm, to be a fucking man, not a fucking baby afraid to get hurt by the boy he had a crush on.

He popped the lid of the acetaminophen, put two into Hollander’s waiting palm, and twisted the top off the Gatorade, handing it to Hollander after he had thrown the pills into his mouth.

“Thanks,” Hollander mumbled.

“Sure,” Ilya said, then cringing at how fucking pathetic he sounded. He grabbed a sweatshirt and joggers from his dresser, dressed quickly, and then sat back on his mattress, leaning against his headboard awkwardly stiff, trying to keep as much space between the two of them as he could.

Hollander gulped down about a third of his Gatorade, twisted the cap back on, and then placed the bottle on the nightstand next to him before throwing himself back down on his pillow, groaning with his eyes screwed shut.

“Too bright?” Ilya asked.

Shane shook his head. “Too much alcohol. What the fuck was I thinking?”

“Do not think you were,” Ilya said simply. “Easy to do when you are already drunk.”

“Why do people do this on purpose?”

“Because not everyone is control freak like you, Hollander.”

Hollander flinched.

“Sorry.”

They sat there in awkward silence, Hollander occasionally making little pained sounds while Ilya was fiending for a cigarette that he knew would make Hollander feel even worse.

Maybe that’s what he deserves.

But Ilya knew that wasn’t fair. Yes, Ilya could be a vindictive prick, but purposefully causing Hollander physical discomfort when he was already so miserable was something he could never do, no matter how mad or hurt he was.

“Do you want space?” Ilya asked a few minutes later, mostly because sitting together silently was slowly driving him insane, but also because as much as he was loath to admit it, he would do almost anything Hollander asked him to do.

“Do you want space?” Hollander asked, opening one eye to glance up at him.

Ilya sighed. “Just answer question, Hollander,” he said with an eye roll.

“It’s your room, Ilya–” Hollander snapped his mouth shut, both eyes flying open to look at him in panic before slamming them shut again.

Ilya decided to be kind and help him out a bit, pretend like Hollander hadn’t just called him by his first name while completely sober. Well, at the very least, mostly sober.

“I know is my room, Hollander. But I can leave if you want. Not like I have small house. Many, many rooms for me to disappear into.” He was aiming for a nonchalant joke but ending up sounding stiff and awkward.

“It’s fine. Just give me a minute, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Out of my hair?” Ilya asked, eyebrows furrowed and mouth puckered.

“Sorry, like, in your way,” Hollander explained as he pushed himself up to his feet, looking around for his clothes. “I’ll get an Uber and get out of your way.”

Ilya groaned with frustration. He knew what Hollander meant, had learned that particular idiom his rookie year when Marley had said it and Ilya had tried to shake his head and brush out whatever Marley was talking about.

“No, Hollander, I meant–” He stopped himself, realizing this was a losing battle. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, Hollander was leaving, and Ilya would never be able to hold him again. One night. One night in six years where he had Hollander in his bed, asleep in his arms. Yeah, they had napped together that one time, and it was incredible, life altering really. But something about a night where they literally slept together felt different.

“Yes, maybe you should get Uber,” Ilya muttered before turning away and walking out of his room. He was fighting a losing battle against his tears. No matter how practiced his stoicism was thanks to his Slavic upbringing, Hollander alone had the ability to get underneath that mask and force Ilya to show who he really was.

He stormed to his fridge to hide his face more than to actually look for something to eat or drink. He let himself go for five seconds before rubbing aggressively at his eyes, swallowing down the unspent sobs, and molding his face into the picture perfect Ilya “No Fucks Given” Rozanov. He grabbed an energy drink, cracked it open, and downed the whole thing in one gulp.

After placing the empty can on his counter, he realized that Hollander still hadn’t exited his bedroom. Carefully, as if he might come across a babay, he tiptoed into his doorway.

Hollander was still in his boxers and undershirt, standing in front of the bench at the foot of Ilya’s bed where he had folded and stacked Hollander’s clothes before they fell asleep. He was staring at the stack of clothing as if Iisus Khristos himself was standing in front of him.

“Hollander?” he asked carefully, unsure what was happening and afraid to scare him.

“You folded them,” Hollander said, his voice tight.

Ilya looked back at the clothes and his eyebrows pinched together.

“Yes,” Ilya said, confused. “You always fold your clothes, so I did. Is not big deal.” He shrugged.

Hollander looked over at him, tears streaming down his face. A second later he launched himself at Ilya, wrapped his arms around him tightly, and buried his face in Ilya’s neck as he sobbed.

Ilya froze in shock. “Hollander?”

Hollander just shook his head and held on tighter.

Let it be known that Ilya really did try. He tried his damned hardest to not hug him back, to keep his arms at his side, to not step over that careful line he had tried so hard to draw last night in the name of self-preservation.

But the harder Hollander held onto him, the more his resolve weakened until he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t stand it a second longer. His arms flew up and wrapped around Hollander, holding him just as tight as he buried his face into his thick, soft, black hair.

“I am so sorry, Ilya,” Hollander sobbed. “I just- Oh my God, I fucked up so bad.”

“No,” Ilya said, shaking his head, Hollander’s hair tickling his nose and lips. “Is okay.”

“No,” Hollander replied, pulling away just enough to look Ilya in the face. “It’s not okay. I have regretted leaving you on that couch every single day. I regretted it the second I left. I’m such a fucking coward; I’m so sorry.”

“Hollander,” Ilya began.

Shane’s eyes widened before screwing shut before shaking his head. He pulled away completely and sunk down onto the bench next to his stack of clothes and threw his face into his hands, his elbows braced against his knees.

“Do you know what self-sabotaging is?”

Thrown off by suddenly being let go, space he didn’t want forced on him, Ilya just shook his head before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hollander, I am exhausted. Is still very early, and I did not get much sleep–”

Hollander nodded before lowering his hands and staring at his feet. “Sorry, you’re right. Let me start over. Okay. So, sometimes when someone doesn’t think they deserve good things, they fuck up all the good things in their lives. Like, sometimes without even meaning to, and sometimes on purpose, but it all stems from basically not liking yourself.”

“Mne?” Ilya asked, pointing at himself.

It probably wasn’t the best kept secret that Ilya didn’t really like himself. He was lazy, useless, and disappointing, but he worked hard to be seen as a man who knew how to live like a real fucking adult, one who was steady and always prepared, who dominated the ice like a fucking god. He gave all he had to be seen as someone who knew that they deserved good things. Yes, Ilya knew he was hot, rich, and famous, but that didn’t make someone a good person.

But to hear Hollander talking about Ilya’s embarrassment so easily made him so uncomfortable that all he wanted to do was crawl back in bed and go back to sleep.

But Hollander looked genuinely confused. He shook his head and pointed at himself. “No, Ilya. Me.”

This genuinely shocked Ilya.

“You are saying you do not like yourself?”

Hollander stared at him like it was so fucking obvious. “Yeah, I mean. You of all people know how fucking weird I am. How I need to be talked through things most people just seem to innately know—like talking to new people, making friends, understanding what people mean when they say something that's, like, contradicting their literal meaning.”

“Hollander,” Ilya began, noting how Hollander flinched. “I think I have shown many times that I do not always understand.”

“Sure, but most of the time, it’s language barrier. A word or phrase you haven’t learned yet, or word you didn’t realize had more than one completely different meaning. I would bet my captaincy that when you’re home in Russia or around people who speak fluent Russian that you never have to doubt yourself.”

He sniffed and looked up at Ilya.

“I doubt myself during and after every fucking interaction I have. Even with my parents, Hayd and JJ. Fuck, especially after every interaction I have with you. If people aren’t being, I don’t know, literal then I almost never understand them. I get uncomfortable going out and having fun. I mean, last night I had like three separate panic attacks until I was too drunk to feel them anymore. How the fuck do people do that for fun?”

Ilya sighed. He grabbed Hollander’s clothes, moved them on top of his mattress, and sat next to him, just close enough that their knees brushed together.

“I do not know why you are so certain I am confident. I am always doubting myself, even at home. Blyad', especially at home. Home… is awful there. Not completely, there are good things. Happy memories, places I enjoy going to, people I love to see. But I disappear when I am there. Mostly to protect myself. I know I seem like I know what I am doing. I know how to have fun at clubs and bars, I know how to get attention, I know how to have good time. But everything else? Is mask. I almost never know what I am doing when it really matters.”

Hollander was watching him in awe, like he had never truly seen Ilya before.

“I never would have guessed,” he said quietly. “You always seem like you know you’re god’s gift to, well, everything.”

Ilya shrugged. “Is an act. How do they say, pretend until is real?”

“Fake it until you make it?”

“Sure. If I am not on ice or at club, I never know what I am doing.” He looked over at Hollander, who was being so damn honest with Ilya, more honest than he ever had before, and decided he could be brave too. “I never know what I am doing with you.”

Hollander blinked in surprise. “Uh, I mean, I might not have a lot of experience, but there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“No, Hollander. Do not mean sex. I mean before and after sex. I mean when I want you to stay longer, I say wrong thing and you leave. When I want to spend time with you not fucking, I get too confused up here,” he pointed to his head, “to figure out how ask without being embarrassed or making you mad.”

“Fuck, Ilya…”

“All last night and this morning, have been so scared. Knew that when you woke up, you would leave, and then I would hurt again. Hurt more.”

Hollander carefully took Ilya’s chin in his hands and pulled up until Ilya was looking at him, making Ilya’s heart race and his stomach turn.

“I really am very sorry, Ilya. You don’t deserve to hurt like that.”

Ilya laughed humorously. “My family would disagree with you.”

Hollander’s face scrunched up, that adorable line appearing between his eyebrows along with the lines running throughout those beautiful freckles that showed up in Ilya’s dreams most nights.

“Then your family is fucking stupid,” Hollander said with such conviction, it took Ilya’s breath away. Hollander mistook his reaction for offense and winced. “I’m sorry, that was horrible.”

“No, Hollander. You are not wrong. My father, my brother, they are awful. Mean for no reason, hate anything that is different to them, say happiness and sadness is weakness.”

“And your mother?”

Ilya looked away. “Died when I was still young.” He swallowed, nodded once, and continued. “She was very kind, funny, smart. She had big heart, but my father, he made her small until she was gone.”

Hollander placed a hand on Ilya’s knee and squeezed. “I am so sorry, Ilya.”

Ilya shrugged. “Was long time ago now.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still affect you. And it doesn’t make you weak either. It makes you human.”

This was getting to be too much for Ilya. He shot to his feet and walked to the corner of his bedroom, rubbing at his eyebrows.

When neither of them spoke for a while, Ilya forced himself to look at Hollander who was watching him with tears streaming down his face. Normally that would make Ilya uncomfortable, make him want to run, to hide, but there was not even a sliver of pity in Hollander’s face. All he could see was pain and an understanding he was certain he’d never seen in anyone else’s face before.

Hollander stood up, slowly approached Ilya like he was giving him time to stop him or leave the room. But Ilya stood still, watching, waiting to see what he would do.

When Hollander was standing in front of him, he held out a hand, waiting. Ilya searched his tear soaked face before taking it. Hollander gently closed his hand around Ilya’s and pulled him towards the bed. He pulled up the covers on Ilya’s side, indicating he should get in. Too tired to ask or find a reason against it, he slid in.

Hollander pulled the covers up to Ilya’s chest before walking to the other side, slipping in, and scooting closer to Ilya. He gently moved Ilya so he was lying on Shane’s chest before scratching gently at Ilya’s scalp, occasionally pressing his lips and his nose into his curls.

Ilya didn’t let himself go completely, he couldn’t, but he allowed himself to let the tears fall, to occasionally sniff, to let Hollander hold him closer and hum soothingly.

When Ilya opened his eyes again, he needed a second to reorient. The sun was high in the sky, the light flooding his room, and Hollander was still holding onto him like he was precious, even as he was still fast asleep, snoring gently.

The urge to run was still there but not nearly as strong as earlier, not with Hollander holding him instead of the other way around. He settled in closer, closing his eyes. He wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, but he was going to enjoy this for as long as he could.

Too fast, Ilya could feel Hollander waking up, slowly moving, stretching his arms and yawning. He opened his eyes and smiled at Ilya.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better,” Ilya said, and it wasn’t a lie. He was still nervous, still scared of what might happen next, but Hollander hadn't run yet. Still, he was too afraid to hope. “What about you? Still feeling sick?”

Hollander slowly sat up like he was testing his body, he slowly looked around and then groaned. “Yes. Headache’s better, but fuck I feel like shit.”

Ilya crawled out of bed and held out a hand to Hollander. “Come,” he said.

Hollander squinted at him but took his hand and followed him to the kitchen. Ilya led him to a stool, making sure he was situated before opening his fridge. He pulled out eggs, bacon, cheddar cheese, and some frozen hash browns. He could feel Hollander watching him and looked up to see Hollander with his eyebrows so high, they disappeared behind his bangs.

“Eating greasy breakfast is hangover cure, Hollander. One time will not kill you.”

He got to work, preparing the food for the both of them. While he waiting for everything to finish frying, he went to his fridge, pulled out a jar of sauerkraut and a jar of fermented pickles. He held them out to Hollander.

“Which you like better? Pickles or sauerkraut?”

Hollander made a disgusted face. “Why?”

“Russian hangover cure. Is classic. Works every time.”

“Uh. Pickles I guess?”

Ilya nodded, put the sauerkraut away, and pulled out a small glass cup. He poured the fermented brine into the glass and handed it to Hollander.

He stared down at it before looking back at Ilya. “What?”

“Drink it,” he said.

"Why is it all cloudy? I've never seen cloudy pickle juice before."

"Because these are real pickles. Not fake stuff they sell in American grocery stores."

When Hollander just kept staring at it, Ilya sighed, grabbed another glass and filled it with brine too before walking back to Hollander, holding it out for him to see then throwing it back.

“See. Easy.”

Hollander sighed, grabbed his glass, and sniffed it.

“Smells like pickles.”

“Because is from fucking pickles,” Ilya said flatly.

Hollander held it up to his mouth, sighed “fuck it,” and shot it back. Wincing, he put the glass back on the counter.

Ilya held back a grin before turning back to plate the breakfast for both of them. Once both plates were on the island, Ilya sat next to Hollander and dug in. Hollander was much less enthused than Ilya, but he slowly ate.

“American breakfast is good for hangovers but not as good as what we do in Russia.”

“Besides drinking pickle juice?” Shane asked.

“Yes, besides pickle juice. If I had kvass or kafir, would pour you a glass. I prefer kvass, but kefir is good. If I had known I was picking up drunk Shane Hollander in middle of night to sleep at my house, would have made soup to have for breakfast.”

“Soup?” Hollander asked incredulously.

“Da, soup. Shchi or solyanka. My mama made best solyanka,” Ilya said with a shake of his head as he took another bite of his bacon. “Never found any that taste even close to hers, even in Russia. Have never made it myself, but shchi is easy enough.”

Hollander was watching him while he spoke as if the useless information he was spewing was in any way interesting.

“How is your food?” he asked, desperate to change the subject from something so personal.

“Really good,” Hollander said, smiling. “I haven’t had anything like this to eat in so long. I forgot how fucking good bacon is.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, nodding sagely. “Could not live without bacon.”

Hollander laughed, nudging Ilya gently with his shoulder. Ilya nudged him back, completely failing to keep the grin off his face this time.

Ilya shoveled a mix of hashbrowns, cheese, and egg yolk into his mouth while he tried to figure out the best way to ask the question that had been killing him since he picked Hollander up from the bar. He watched Hollander eat, actually eat greasy food, and the fondness in his chest was too much.

“What–” Ilya stopped, scratched his eyebrow, and started again. “How are things with Rose Landry?”

Hollander face fell, and Ilya’s stomach lurched. Had Hollander somehow forgotten his girlfriend and was now going to freak out and run out the door again?

But Hollander just shook his head. “We broke it off after, like, two weeks. It, uh. It just didn’t work. Not like that, anyway. She’s a really good friend, but that’s it. I’m not– She isn’t right for me. And I’m not right for her.”

Ilya was shocked. Relieved as fuck, but shocked. “But she is beautiful. People are always saying she is perfect,” he said, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Hollander ducked his head, keeping his eyes on his plate. “Yeah, she is beautiful, and she’s pretty fucking great, but um… No woman is ever going to be right for me.” He looked up and met Ilya’s eyes. “Ever.”

He said it with such conviction, his eyes drilling into Ilya’s, and Ilya understood. He had finally figured it out. Ilya had a pretty strong feeling since their first meeting that Hollander was gay, but he never seemed ready to examine his preferences, just happy to take what Ilya offered.

“Ah,” Ilya replied. “Took you long enough,” he teased. The truth was, Ilya was fucking proud of him. Hollander had done the introspective work that he’d avoided for so long, which Ilya knew was so hard for him.

“Fuck you,” Hollander said, fighting the hint of a smile.

When they were finished, Hollander insisted on helping Ilya clean up right away even though Ilya argued it would be fine to wait.

“The food will set and get harder to wash off if you don’t take care of it right away,” Hollander said as he washed the dishes with soap and water before adding them to Ilya’s dishwasher.

“Hollander, why are you washing dishes twice?”

“This is how you properly wash dishes,” Hollander responded. “Get all the food bits and grease off and then the dishwasher sanitizes them.”

“Seems like waste of time and water,” Ilya grumbled as he stacked the obviously already clean dishes in the washer.

When Hollander was done washing the dishes, he looked down at the dishwasher and sighed.

“One day, I’m going to teach you the proper way to load a dishwasher. That way everything in there gets equally clean.”

“Hollander,” Ilya said with a long-suffering sigh. “My dishes are fine. Never get sick eating off them.”

“Trust me. You’ll thank me when your dishes are cleaner than you’ve ever seen.”

“Mmm. If you say so, Hollander.”

Hollander’s smile faltered, just slightly, but he got back to work until the kitchen was up to his impossible standards.

He turned and leaned against the counter a few inches away, watching Ilya carefully while Ilya tried his hardest to not look right at him, but it was fucking impossible. Shane Hollander was by far the most beautiful person Ilya had ever seen. Trying not to stare at him was like trying to not look at a gorgeous sunset or Vasnetsov’s Alyonushka.

The way Hollander was gazing over at him with such affection made Ilya ache, but he couldn’t rip his own eyes away. He felt like he could be pulled into the brown of his eyes and happily drown in them.

Hollander’s face was inching closer, and the second Ilya realized, his brain started to scream at him to run, to hide, to protect himself, but he didn’t listen. Couldn’t listen. Instead, he met Hollander half way until their lips touched in a gentle kiss, so gentle they were just brushing against each other. Then Hollander grunted and pressed closer, his hand coming up to grasp the back of Ilya’s head.

Ilya opened his mouth, and Hollander’s tongue slipped in to gently caress Ilya’s. With a deep moan, Ilya grabbed Hollander by the thighs and picked him up, sitting him on the counter and slotting himself between his legs. He grabbed Hollander’s chin and held it while he kissed him deeply.

Hollander moaned and arched his hips, pressing his clothed erection against Ilya’s. He grabbed the hem of Ilya’s sweatshirt and yanked up. Ilya pulled away long enough to rip it off his head before picking Hollander up and into his arms and walking to his couch, lowering him while staying as close to him as possible. He grabbed the waistband of Hollander’s boxers and yanked them down.

“Off,” he demanded, pulling at the fabric of Hollander’s undershirt.

Within a second, Hollander was completely naked beneath him.

Every person who possessed the gift of sight could see how beautiful Hollander was just by looking at him. Between those fucking eyes, the straight slope of his nose, his face covered in the most incredible freckles, the amazing shape of his body, Hollander was a work of art, but most people didn’t get the absolute pleasure of seeing him like this.

Naked Shane Hollander was a thing of beauty, especially when Hollander was worked up like this, flushed with want from his hair line to his chest, chest heaving even though they had barely even touched yet, his cock hard and thick against his stomach, leaking down the shaft.

Ilya didn’t really believe in luck or being blessed, but this wasn’t the first time he felt like this was a sight meant for him and him only. The fact that anyone else had ever seen him like this made Ilya irrationally angry, made him jealous in a way he had never experienced before with anyone else.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered with utter devotion. “Every inch of you is perfect.”

Hollander’s face flushed more from the praise as he yanked on the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants. Ilya pulled them down and kicked them off, settling back down so their bare cocks were flush together. They both let out a moan as they slid together.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groaned.

Hollander’s eyes shot to his, full of the fire of desire and complete possession.

“Shane,” he demanded. “It’s Shane.”

Ilya froze. Logically, he knew Hollander had been calling him Ilya since last night, even after sobering up and taking a nap together, and he hadn’t run yet. But the last time Ilya called him by his first name, he had been hurt in a way he had never experienced before.

Hollander noticed the hesitation, the fear. He cupped Ilya’s face and brought his head down so their foreheads were touching.

“Ilya,” he said looking him in the eyes with an intensity Ilya hadn’t thought Hollander capable of outside of the ice. “I am not going anywhere. I swear to you.”

Ilya flinched. He tried to look away, to hide his face into Hollander’s neck, but Hollander held on tight.

“I know I hurt you, and I will never forgive myself for that. Ever. But you… you mean so fucking much to me, Ilya. You don’t even– I can’t even put it into words.” He swallowed, suddenly seeming nervous himself. “Not yet anyway. But if you can, if it doesn’t cause you too much pain, I’d really like it if you could call me by my first name.”

Ilya inhaled sharply, trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut, a tear rolled down his cheek, and then forced himself to open his eyes to look at Shane again to nod before touching his forehead to Shane’s collarbone.

“Sometimes, I think I like you too much,” he whispered into Shane’s skin.

Shane shivered. He traced his fingers up Ilya’s spine, stopping at his neck and pressing his thumb into the tension there.

“I’ve felt that way for a while now,” he whispered back.

Ilya fought a smile before looking up at Shane.

“So, what do we do about that?”

Shane chuckled. “I can think of something we can do about it right now. And then, after, maybe, if you don’t have any plans, I can spend the night again? The team flies out this evening to New Jersey, but the game isn’t for two days. I could fly out separately.”

Ilya couldn’t hold back his smile this time, not able to access the embarrassment he would usually feel for showing someone the warm and soft part of himself.

“I would like that very much, Shane.” He reached up and pressed a quick kiss to Shane’s lips. “And then after we finish here, maybe we could talk about being exclusive?”

He tried his hardest not to show how nervous he was as he waited for Shane’s response, but based on the fond grin Shane was giving him, he knew he was unsuccessful. “Are you sure you’d be okay with being exclusive? I mean, we only see each other five or six times a year, and–”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupted, “I have not enjoyed anyone else I have been with in long time. Not truly.”

“Why?” Shane asked.

“They are not you,” Ilya said with a shrug. When he saw Shane looking uncertain, he pressed another quick kiss to Shane’s lips. “I have only wanted you for so long, Shane. Will not be hard to only be with you.”

Shane smiled, relief written all over his face.

“Besides,” Ilya continued. “We can meet up more than five or six times, right? We can meet during breaks and summers.”

“What about Russia?”

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe I spend less time in Russia and more time in boring Canada.”

“You would do that?”

“Hollan– Shane. Is not a big deal.”

“Okay,” Shane agreed, his eyes brighter and more excited than Ilya had ever seen. “Exclusive. And more time together.”

“And phone sex in between,” Ilya said with a smirk.

“And more texts and regular phone calls?”

“Obviously,” Ilya responded like it really was that obvious, like he might not float away if he wasn't tethered to Shane.

Shane grabbed his face and pulled him back in, kissing him awkwardly since neither of them could stop smiling. Until Ilya rolled his hips against Shane’s, and Shane’s hands clasped Ilya’s arms.

“Ilya,” he moaned.

The sound of his name on Shane’s lips as he moaned went right to Ilya’s dick. Ilya kissed across Shane’s jaw, nuzzled behind Shane’s ear, kissed down his neck, and sucked the skin at his collar bone in between his teeth.

The whole time Shane was writhing beneath him, mewling, desperate as his cock leaked all over both of their stomachs.

“Leave a mark,” Shane demanded breathlessly.

Normally, Ilya would have pulled away, stared down at Shane and asked him if he went crazy. But finally being given permission to mark Shane as his own, especially now that he was Ilya’s? He refused to pass this opportunity up.

He sucked and bit while Shane rutted against stomach, and when he pulled away, saw the reddening mark that would prove to anyone who saw it that Shane Hollander was claimed, that he belonged to somebody, he almost came. He pressed a kiss to the mark, licked it, and then kissed down Shane’s body, taking the time to flick his tongue across each nipple, and then sucking another mark on Shane’s hipbone.

When he finally reached Shane’s cock, he kissed around it, licked the crease where his thighs met his stomach, and quickly sucked on one of Shane’s balls.

Shane was getting louder and louder, more desperate each second. Ilya looked up and watched as Shane’s cock leaked more and more pre-come, making Ilya’s mouth water. Ilya licked it all up, every drop on his stomach, every drop in his pubic hair, every drop that covered his shaft and the head. He licked the slit before flicking his tongue under the head until Shane was babbling incoherently as he dug his nails into the fabric of the couch beneath him.

As quickly as he could, Ilya grabbed the lube from where he had hidden it along with condoms between the cushions and armrest.

Shane looked at him funny, and it took a second for Ilya to realize why.

“Shane, I put these here for you. When you came here last time.”

Shane’s face got even redder, but he nodded, very obviously trying to not look too relieved.

Ilya poured the lube all over his fingers and warmed it up. He licked up the underside of Shane’s cock before swallowing it down until the head was in his throat.

At the same time, he circled Shane’s rim with one finger before beginning to slowly bob his head up and down. When Shane had relaxed enough, Ilya pushed in slowly until his finger couldn’t go in any further.

He kept the tempo of his finger fucking in and out of Shane’s hole the same as he sucked on his cock. When his second finger joined, Shane shouted out as his hands flew to Ilya’s hair, yanking on his curls making Ilya groan and his cock ache.

He scissored him open, relishing each whine, each whimper he earned. About a minute after he added a third finger, Shane bit out, “Ilya, I’m good, just fuck me already!”

Ilya popped off Shane’s cock and smiled hungrily at Shane. “Impatient?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“No,” Ilya said, leaning up to kiss Shane deeply, while his hand reached back into the couch cushion for his condoms.

“Wait,” Shane said against his lips, gently pushing Ilya away. “Are you clean?”

Ilya pulled back, sitting up on his heels. “Last test, yes. Why?”

Shane was a deep shade of cherry red, fighting even harder to not look away, and he was so fucking cute that Ilya wanted to eat him up.

“And have you, you know… been with people since?”

“One,” Ilya admitted. “It, uh. It did not go so well.” When Shane’s eyes widened, Ilya realized how that might have sounded. “No, I mean, I used condom, but I– uh, could not stay hard.”

“You? You couldn’t stay hard?” Shane asked incredulously.

“Yes.” Ilya replied. “I missed you too much. You were only one I wanted.”

He tried to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, like he wasn’t humiliated at the time, but Shane kept looking at him, biting his lip, his eyes shining. Almost like he was trying not to laugh.

“You think is funny?”

“No!” Shane exclaimed. “It’s just that… I couldn’t even get hard with Rose. Like at all.”

“You never–”

“No, I mean we did. I just, uh. I had to think about you the entire time…” he trailed off looking over Ilya’s shoulders as if that wasn’t the hottest thing Ilya had ever heard in his fucking life. But then of course it was Shane, and Shane had to go and prove Ilya wrong.

“Do you think it would be safe to go without a condom this time?”

Ilya couldn’t help but wonder if he should go get his hearing checked. “You want to fuck without condom?”

Shane nodded enthusiastically. “I want you to mark me inside like you did outside,” he said, his eyes ticking to the fresh bruise on his hip bone from Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya tried to keep his voice steady, tried to act like this conversation wasn’t deeply affecting him, like he wasn’t about to come right that second at just the thought of being bare inside of Shane. “I, uh. I was not inside her very long. Less than minute.”

“So small risk,” Shane said.

“Yes. Small risk, but big dick,” he said, grabbing Shane’s hand, bringing it between their bodies, and pressing it against his cock.

Shane rolled his eyes, but his breath hitched at the contact, his hand opening and wrapping around Ilya’s cock, squeezing and pulling up.

“Need you,” Ilya gasped out, slowly fucking Shane’s fist.

“So no condom?” Shane asked.

“No condom,” Ilya replied. “But only if you are really sure.”

“Ilya, I’ve been dreaming about you fucking me without a condom for years, so please, fuck me already.”

“Da, blyad'!”

Ilya grabbed the lube and slicked up his cock, hissing at the cold, but immediately lining himself up.

He looked up, meeting Shane’s eye, keeping their gazes locked together as he slowly pushed in. He wanted to cry, shout for joy, he wanted to wrap Shane up in his arms and swallow him whole. After being convinced he’d never have this again, never have Shane again, it felt like what he imagined coming home would feel like if he had a better, kinder family.

By the time he was fully buried in Shane, Ilya was trembling from how incredible Shane felt, from the pure adoration all over Shane’s face, and from the knowledge that, locked together, they had crossed a line there was no going back from, a line Ilya tried to convince himself for years wasn’t something he desperately wanted to cross the whole time.

After they both had time to adjust, Ilya pulled all the way out and looked down to watch as he thrust back in.

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned. “Wish you could see this, see how good you take me.”

Shane nodded his head as Ilya continued to pull out and thrust back in, each thrust earning Ilya a whimper.

Ilya lowered himself so they were closer as he set a rhythm of slow, hard thrusts, angling himself so he was grinding against Shane’s prostate. Usually by now, Shane’s eyes were shut, tears falling from the corners as he would writhe and moan and scratch at Ilya’s back, but Shane’s eyes were wide open, locked onto Ilya’s.

They stared into each other as Shane started to move his hips in time with Ilya’s thrusts, as they both got faster, meeting in the middle harder, the slap of skin against skin echoing off of Ilya’s living room walls.

“You say this is your dream,” Ilya grunted. “But you, malysh, you– oh fuck! You are my dream.”

Shane’s tears fell faster, harder, not like he usually did when Ilya fucked him so hard and so good his brain shut off. This time, Shane was staring at him through the tears like his heart beat only for Ilya.

Shane’s hole got tighter and tighter, his back arching further and further, his eyes getting wider and wider, and his moans becoming more and more desperate.

“Fuck, Ilya,” he whimpered. “I’m gonna come so fucking hard.”

Ilya growled. He fought the urge to go faster and harder, instead wanting to keep it right where they were, where Shane was currently finding so much pleasure. Instead, lowered his forehead to Shane’s, biting his tongue while he grunted louder than ever.

Shane’s hole spasmed around him as he shouted, his abdominal muscles beneath his skin clenching as his cock throbbed between them, shooting his release so hard it shot all over Ilya’s chest, neck, and chin.

“Okhuyet'!” Ilya bit out just as his own cock exploded deep inside of Shane, his eyes still locked onto Shane’s. “Oh, fuck!”

Spent, he claimed Shane’s lips with his, cupping his jaw with one hand as he kissed him deeply until he could no longer hold himself up.

“Holy shit,” Shane panted. “That was– Wow.”

Ilya chuckled. “Yes. Wow.”

Shane pulled on Ilya's head until it was tucked beneath his chin so he could press kisses into Ilya’s curls.

“Well?” he asked.

“I think I might have died,” Ilya replied into his neck.

Shane laughed. “So, good?”

Ilya held himself up to look down at him. “Shane, I have never come so hard in my life.”

“Same,” Shane said, bringing a hand to Ilya’s chin to wipe his come off. “Sorry about that.”

“Mmm, no sorries,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane’s hand and sticking the come covered fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking them clean.

“Ilya,” Shane whined. “You’re going to get me hard again, and I’m too hungover to go again.”

Ilya hummed. “Is okay. We go again later, yes?”

Shane nodded seriously. “Obviously.”

Ilya carefully pulled out, soothing Shane with soft caresses across the skin of his hips as Shane hissed at the loss. He watched in utter fascination as his come dripped out of Shane’s hole.

“We have to do this again, Hollander,” he said seriously. “I want to do so many things with this. Eat you out until you’re clean, use it as lube to fuck you again with my fingers or my cock if he is up for it. Take a picture of it to have someone turn to painting I can hang on my walls.”

“Shut up,” Shane said.

“No, is true. I will take many different pictures, get different angles and lighting, and painter will paint them all so I can cover my walls with beautiful sight of my come in your hole.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane said. “You’re so gross.”

“Admirers will come from all over to see my beautiful art collection. Will call it “Shane’s Beautiful Hole.”

“Oh my God,” Shane muttered, trying not to laugh.

Ilya stood up, scooped Shane into his arms, who yelped and threw his arms around Iya’s neck as he started walking towards his bedroom.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Ilya just grinned as he walked into his room and gently dropped him on the mattress. He pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead.

“Be right back,” he said as he walked to the bathroom.

He returned a minute later with all the come on his chest and neck cleaned off and a fresh, warm cloth for Shane. He carefully cleaned Shane’s chest and then, as gently as he could, wiped his hole.

“Okay?” he asked.

“More than okay,” Shane said, holding a hand out for Ilya to join him.

Ilya quickly threw the cloth on top of his dresser and jumped into his bed, crawling as close to Shane as he could so he could spoon and wrap an arm around him. Shane took his hand, laced their fingers together, and pulled his hand to his chest.

“Need another nap?”

“Yes,” Shane said. “I’m never drinking again, by the way.”

Ilya grinned. He pressed his mouth against the scar on Shane’s shoulder. The last twelve hours had been crazy, his life had changed completely, and he could not be happier.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispered.

Shane turned his head, his eyes were sleepy, but he was smiling. “Je t’aime,” he whispered back, puckering for a kiss that Ilya was more than happy to supply.

Chapter End Notes

babay - a boogeyman of sorts
Iisus Khristos - Jesus Christ
Mne? - Me?
Blayd - Fuck
Da - Yes
Da, blyad' - Oh, fuck
malysh - baby
Okhuyet'! - Holy shit!, Fucking hell!
Ya tebya lyublyu - I love you
Je t'aime - I love you

Chapter title comes from Jaws Theme Swimming by Brand New