Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Anxious Shane Hollander, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, pre tuna melt, Language Barrier, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Not Canon Compliant, Dual POV, Self-Worth Issues, on both sides hell yeah everyones miserable, Microaggressions, Racism, Insecurity, Mutual Pining, Literal Sleeping Together, title from "wish that you were here", by florence, which one of u was gonna tell me i wrote robert instead of roger

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-03 Words: 8,793 Chapters: 1/1

some pacific wind

Summary

Someone’s posted a shaky video from the stands, just behind the whole altercation. It’s close enough to catch the snarl on Rozanov’s face as he charges up the steps. He’s so pretty, Shane thinks faintly. The video starts too late to show what set him off, but it catches the tail end of what the man is yelling, the things he's saying about Shane, before pivoting to calling Rozanov a cunt and bitch and a pussy instead.

Rozanov drops his gloves for Shane. He wishes he could just be grateful, but it feels a little bit like the end of the world.

Notes

fun fact microaggresions is not an official tag except for the six of crows version

i hope their character voices are actually distinct because i kept mixing them up by writing ilya too neurotic and shane too gloomy

Ilya stares at his phone, thumb hovering over Sveta's contact. The picture is old; it is of her from Ilya's birthday dinner six years ago, when Ilya first moved to Boston. ‘Dinner’ is generous. It had been vodka and cheese and bread torn with their hands, eaten off mismatched plates, but it was the first time he had seen her in nearly two years. Sveta had brought good champagne and they hadn't even fucked that night, but she'd slept over and let Ilya cook her a shitty continental breakfast in the morning.

He closes his phone. She is busy, and she cannot always be there when he feels this vice grip closing around his lungs, around his beating heart.

On his laptop screen, his cursor sits over the pause button on an interview from three hours ago. The frame unfreezes mid-expression: Ilya, what do you miss most about Moscow? On-Screen-Ilya blinks at the reporter, his head ducked down to hear her better. On-Screen-Ilya opens and closes his mouth a few times, his eyes darting every which way like a fucking idiot trying to comprehend the most basic question.

(They notice this. Ilya has seen people online discussing his eye movements when trying to parse English. They are generally kind about it, endeared more than anything—he’s thinking so hard, he’s adorable—but it makes Ilya nauseous how obviously his brain lags. He imagines his father watching with a curled lip. An embarrassment, he would say, and he would be right.)

He's been asked this question one million times, and he will be asked one million more, but his father has been on his mind and Alexei has been on his mind so all he wants to say is nothing, or maybe everything.

He doesn't say either. He says the books instead, which everyone laughs at because Ilya Rozanov is not exactly known for his taste in literature, and it's funny to imagine him reading anything longer than a takeout menu. He is no Shane Hollander. Ilya laughs with them, smiling sardonically. Look at Rozanov, the joke goes. Too many concussions and too little brains to be able to read.

There is a novel on his nightstand now that Ilya picks up, thumbing at the crisp new pages to find his place on page seventy-nine. Rock, Paper, Scissors: And Other Stories by Maxim Osipov. Connors gave it to him last week, for no particular reason other than that he had seen it in a little bookstore downtown and picked it up for Ilya on a whim. It’s written in Russian originally, Connors told him, but they only sell the English transcription in America—he had been apologetic, as if his inability to procure the original for Ilya was a personal failure; Ilya had gotten such a lump in his throat that he could barely manage a choked ‘thank you’—and sometimes he reads a sentence of this book and mourns what must have been lost in translation.

Rock, paper, scissors. Камень, ножницы, бумага. Death of a language. Every time Ilya fumbles through a diluted English phrase, he feels his home slipping further out of his grasp. His home who he hates, his home who hates him.

He misses Svetlana.

On-Screen-Ilya is now frozen mid-blink, caught between languages, when Real-Life-Ilya clicks out of the tab and rolls over to sleep. He won't be getting any reading done tonight.

Maybe, he thinks wryly. They are right about me.

“I think I'm gonna bulk. Like—for forever. Get bigger.”

Ilya blinks. Halfway through pulling on his sock, he pauses, twisting around to look back at Hollander, sprawled out on rumpled sheets and staring up at the ceiling. His hands are folded neatly over his stomach, fingers tap-tap-tapping an erratic rhythm against his ribcage, but his breaths are carefully controlled, which is how Ilya knows that he's anxious. He just cannot, for the life of him, understand why.

Hollander has been distracted all night. He kissed ferociously, as if to make up for it, but the moment that Ilya’s hands left his fever-hot skin and reality reasserted itself, that little pinch had appeared between his eyebrows once more. Ilya cannot stay—sometimes, he will say this despite having nothing planned, because the act of staying is a feat in and of itself, but this time he has a flight in seven hours and Marlow cannot cover for his absence at breakfast. Still; it pains him physically to pull away when Hollander looks like this, as if his insides are all twisted up and knotted together.

“That is ridiculous,” Ilya says finally. Hollander's eye twitches, but at least now he's looking at Ilya, albeit with irritation clouding his features. Ilya surges on before the beratement comes. “What the fuck, Hollander. You are supposed to be fast, no?”

“Sure, but—”

“So why you want to slow down on purpose?” Ilya asks incredulously. His sock dangles off his toes. “Your entire style will change. Center of gravity, angles, all the boring stuff you care about. Explain to me.”

Hollander cannot. He huffs and puffs, but he can't give Ilya a proper reason, which is simultaneously vindictive and frustrating, because Ilya still doesn't understand. Shane Hollander is peculiar; he has arbitrary rules for every facet of his life, and he insists that Ilya follow those rules on occasion, gets genuinely upset when Ilya carelessly tramples over some invisible boundary he didn't even know existed, and he never explains himself, never offers the reasoning behind the regulations. Ilya has accepted over time that this is just how Shane Hollander is wired. Has become inexplicably fond of it all, even. Hollander’s hockey is no different. Predictably predictable—up until now, at least.

“That is ridiculous,” Ilya repeats. He abandons his sock and perches on the edge of the bed, because he wants this to make sense, and because Shane has gone back to avoiding his eyes, gaze sliding away to fix on some point over Ilya's shoulder. Hollander chews on his emotions like a dog with a bone, Ilya has learned. He cannot drop it—refuses to ever drop it, and sometimes Ilya pities him, but always, always he wants to understand.

“You're acting like it’s stranger than it actually is,” Hollander argues half-heartedly. He knows he's fighting a losing battle but feels obligated to put up some kind of resistance anyway. Ilya would laugh, if he had room left for anything but confusion. “Plenty of athletes do bulk and cut cycles. I bulk pre-season.”

“Not mid-season,” Ilya retorts. “And like you say, it's a cycle. You are saying you'll bulk permanently. Not only strange for you, but strange for anyone.”

Hollander goes back to glaring at the ceiling, but Ilya does not take the hint. He stays right where he is, staring at the stubborn set of Hollander's jaw, staring at his fidgeting hands, staring at the tension gathered at the corners of his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. Ilya has learned to read these signs like a map, navigating the landscape of Hollander's moods with these small physical tells.

“Kellan wished me happy Chinese New Year.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Ilya is at a loss, reaching automatically for context and coming up empty-handed. He opens his mouth, shuts it again. Non-sequitur, his brain reminds him helpfully, but he doesn't think Hollander would appreciate this broadening of his vocabulary at the moment. “Okay?” He says slowly, drawing out the word. “He is fucking stupid, this is not news.”

Hollander is categorically not Chinese, and anyone who paid the slightest attention would know this. I'm sorry, Ilya wants to say. I'm sorry they treat you like that.

But Ilya has never liked the culture of apologizing here. They say sorry for their mistakes, for someone else’s, for things that cannot be helped. It's presumptuous. Ilya does not know if he is allowed to be angry on Hollander’s behalf, does not know if voicing it would help or only turn it into something Hollander then has to manage for him, too.

"I want to get bigger," Hollander insists again, not meeting Ilya's eyes. "I'm too—small," he finishes lamely. "It would be beneficial."

“You are not making sense, Hollander,” he says instead. “Bulking, then this idiot Kellan, next you will tell me what you had for breakfast three days ago.” Nevermind that Ilya already knows that he had the same smoothie he always does.

Hollander just—Hollander just looks at him. He looks at Ilya for a long, long moment, and for the first time in years, maybe, Ilya cannot parse what is happening behind those syrupy-brown eyes. The micro-expressions that Ilya has learned to interpret have been smoothed away into a blank and impenetrable wall; it sends an uncomfortable prickle of unease down Ilya's spine, throwing him suddenly off-balance.

The calculus of it makes Ilya's head hurt. He wishes badly that Hollander would just tell him what the fuck is going on instead of speaking in riddles.

Hollander drops his eyes back down to his lap, shoulders falling a fraction. “Nevermind,” he says. “Goodnight, Rozanov.”

Tell me, Ilya thinks desperately, the words trapped behind his teeth. Please. Tell me why you want to bulk and what Kellan has to do with it and why you look like someone kicked your puppy and why you're shutting me out when I'm right here trying to understand.

Instead, Ilya reaches out with careful fingers, stroking his knuckles along the line of Shane's cheek. Are we okay? Please say we're okay. Hollander allows Ilya to tilt his chin up, meeting his lips halfway, and it should feel like a reassurance but it doesn't.

He stands. “Goodnight,” Ilya calls at the door, hugging his jacket to his chest. Hollander nods at him, fingers flexing against the sheets.

Ilya leaves angry. Angry at Hollander, angry at himself, angry at the chasm between them he cannot bring himself to close. Pike, he thinks bitterly, would be able to wring it out of him. Talking to Hollander is like pulling teeth sometimes. They are both so stubborn and tight-lipped, and mushy feelings have never been part of what they do, no matter that Ilya sort of wants them to be, now.

(Stupid. Положи это на землю, Alyosha told him, when Ilya was six and Alexei ten. Ilya had wanted to take the neighbor’s cat home very badly. Put her down. Always wanting what he can't have.)

The staircase smells like rotting eggs. Ilya shoves his hands into his coat pockets and walks out into the cold Montreal night, shoulders hunched against the chill. His Uber is a matte black sedan, a splotch of black in the flurry of snow around it. Negative space.

They play Montreal the next afternoon. He and Hollander rarely meet beforehand, but Ilya had wanted to see him, and only regrets it a little bit, because once the game starts, he cannot stop watching Shane. This is not altogether unusual, but this time his distracted thoughts are threaded with worry. Is Hollander okay does he seem relaxed am I checking him too hard.

It's stupid. He is Shane Hollander, Ilya must check him hard to win, and so he does, blowing him a mocking kiss as he skates away. The crowd erupts into boos, but Hollander's eyeroll is more fond than annoyed. Ilya's heart flutters.

By the time he’s herded back toward the media area, jersey damp with sweat, pulse still racing, that fragile buoyancy has begun to thin.

Ilya hates media. God fucking knows why they force him into it every time, even though Marlow is assistant captain and can easily give them the answers they want. Part of Ilya thinks they must want to humiliate him. Why else would they shove a dozen microphones in his face, a dozen different cameras pointing his way, to ask him—

“Ilya, what an incredible win tonight. With playoffs on the horizon, how would you say you navigate the balance between your natural offensive instincts and the shifting demands of playoff hockey, particularly when facing a team like Montreal that thrives on physical pressure? Do you feel an added responsibility, as a high-profile player for Boston, to set the emotional tone of the series?”

There is static in Ilya's head. He swallows, twisting his chain around his neck. He understands—bits and pieces. He understands ‘offensive instincts’ and ‘added responsibility’ and ‘high-profile player’ but he can't find a way to fit it all together in a single answer that won't make him sound as stupid as they think he is. This time, there is no Hollander to throw him a lifeline.

The reporter's French-accented English curls around itself, pen poised above the notebook that he doesn't even need. Everything is digitized now, but they still pretend.

Ilya can answer the bones of it—always just the bones—but the muscle and connective tissue, the nuance, gets tangled up and lost somewhere. Through the cotton in his ears he hears himself speak. A grade-schooler fumbling over stilted words. He nods when it's over, says yeah, sure, thank you, clumsy on his tongue. The PR handler touches his elbow, steering him gently down the hallway.

"Good job!” She beams, teeth glinting under the fluorescent lights of the hall. Her name is Mila. Marlow thinks she smiles at him so much because she's into him, but the humiliating truth is just that Mila is very good at telling when Ilya wants to blow his brains out, and is accordingly kind to him. “Tough questions, but you handled them perfectly.” Ilya wants to laugh, but he nods stiffly instead.

He thinks of Shane on the bed, the look on his face just before Ilya left. He doesn't know how Shane stands him. Probably because there isn't a language barrier when they're fucking, when they're grabbing at each other and there’s no room for Ilya to embarrass himself. Whatever Hollander might feel for him, whatever misplaced fondness has rooted itself there, it surely cannot be for the person Ilya is when he opens his mouth and has to find the words. There is nothing there to love.

Отрицательное пространство. Negative space.

Good game, Hollander messages him. We'll get you guys next time.

Ilya shuts off his phone.

In the third Boston-Montreal match-up of the regular season, Rozanov drops his gloves and stomps up the stands, effectively halting play entirely. The sound of leather hitting ice makes Shane’s head snap to the left before his brain can catch up, as he tries to find the fight, but what he sees has his brain blue-screening for a moment. Rozanov’s shouting—he’s shouting at a fan. It’s unintelligible from the ice, and Shane stares, floored, as Rozanov strains against the security tugging him back from knocking the huge, lumbering man flat on his face. He’s yelling back at Rozanov, face flushed a violent red. There’s spittle flying from his mouth. Next to Shane, Hayden’s jaw is on the floor, and even Boston’s players don't seem to know what to do, circling uncertainly. Shane exchanges a look with Ryan Carmichael, of all people, who shrugs helplessly. Part of him is itching to know what the sportscasters are saying, and part of him really is not.

Eventually, Rozanov is hauled back down to the ice, still vibrating with anger, before just as abruptly as he started, he stops. His shoulders drop, like a switch has been flipped somewhere inside him, and when he says something to the ref as he’s ushered toward the bench, it’s spoken calmly.

Rozanov sits himself unceremoniously on his bench, nodding at what the frazzled assistant coach tells him. His mouth is a thin, flat line. “It’ll be a four game suspension at least,” someone says behind Shane. He nods faintly. If Rozanov’s unlucky and the decision favors the fan, he’ll be out for the start of the playoffs, and that's not even starting on the fines.

There's no precedent for this. There were the Bruins in '79, and Rypien was benched for six games after what happened in 2010, but he also put his hands on the guy. Neither of those are applicable here, since Rozanov had been stopped before he could start pummeling.

Shane has no idea. He fucking hates having no idea.

“Hollander!” Theriault barks at him, once Boston calls for a thirty-second time-out. “You go out there and you give ‘em hell, kid. You boys better not waste the opportunity he’s given us.”

“Do y’know what happened, coach?” JJ asks, and Theriault shrugs.

“Don't know and don't care, do I? Go, go.”

He might not, but Shane sure fucking cares. With Rozanov out, Boston doesn't score another goal, but Shane’s head is so out of the game that he only scores once more, wincing internally at the disapproving twist to Theriault’s mouth. Shane pays more attention to security dragging the fan out of his seat than he does to the puck, the insides of his gloves slick with nervous sweat. It doesn't matter, because they win, but for the entire twenty minutes until the game ends, he feels Rozanov’s stare burning holes in his back.

Things have been—weird. Since that night. Shane mostly feels like a fucking idiot for bringing it up out of nowhere, especially since Rozanov very clearly had no clue what he was talking about.

It's sort of relieving, actually, to know that Rozanov is so far removed from the shit they say about Shane that he couldn't put two and two together. When he looks at Shane, he isn’t seeing the headlines or the slurs or the asterisk that follows him everywhere.

Shane desperately wants to keep it that way. He doesn't want Rozanov to ever know about any of it. He knows he's a role model, he knows he's someone the kids look up to, and it matters—it does, of course it matters, but he doesn't want to be Shane-Hollander-NHL’s-First-Asian-Canadian-Player all the time. Is that awful? Sometimes he feels awful for it.

He should get bigger. If he gets bigger, if he becomes a bruiser like Rozanov, they'll stop seeing something soft in him and they'll leave him the fuck alone. Shane’s all itchy underneath his skin. Fucking Kellan. He was so well-meaning about it, too, and Shane kind of hates him for it.

Good game, good game, that was a nice shot, good block, good game—Shane always sounds like a robot when he does this, but he tries his best to smile politely at Boston as he makes his way through the handshake line. On a whim, as both teams are filing off the ice, he taps his stick against Cliff Marlow’s to get his attention. Shane had seen him skate by the bench earlier, exchanging a few murmured words with Rozanov.

“Is he okay?” Shane blurts. Marlow pauses, his eyebrows jumping up, and Shane’s cheeks heat; that's not what he meant to ask, it was supposed to be something like ‘do you know what happened’ or maybe ‘what the hell is wrong with him.’ Whatever. It's whatever, Marlow isn't going to guess about them just because Shane sounds a little worried for a fellow player.

Hopefully.

“He's fine,” Marlow says finally, skating a couple inches closer. They're both lingering on the ice too long, but Shane needs to know. “I didn't realize you guys were so close.”

He's gone before Shane can speak past the lump in his throat.

The press asks him about it after the game, and Shane realizes, stomach dropping, that he got so caught up in it all he hasn't even prepared an answer.

Today just fucking sucks. Shane doesn't know the last time he was caught off guard during a post-match interview—or at all, really, because everything in his life is always the same except for whatever bullshit Rozanov throws his way here and there. Well. This kind of counts as Rozanov bullshit, Shane thinks wearily.

His throat clicks uselessly for a couple agonizing seconds, the faces of the reporters’ expectant and scrutinizing, before he finds his words. “I have no idea,” he says truthfully. He swallows, continuing somewhat haltingly. He can't remember when he last spoke about Rozanov, but it must've been something cocksure and taunting. He can't be too kind, can he? Shane chooses his words as carefully as he can, torn between wanting to defend Rozanov’s character and the overwhelming, ever-present fear of being found out that has him choking on his tongue.

“I know Rozanov wouldn't have gone up there if it wasn't serious, though. I'm sure the board will judge him fairly.”

That was neutral enough, he's pretty sure, even though the concept of Roger Crowell being fair probably gave them all a good laugh. If Rozanov was any worse of a player—

He isn't, though, so it’ll be okay.

Once he finally gets back to the empty locker room, Shane opens Twitter and immediately closes it. He opens his text thread with Lily, thumbs hovering stupidly over his keyboard, before closing that too. Rozanov won't even have his phone on him right now. He's probably sitting in a meeting—the optics, Mr. Rozanov—or maybe being chewed out in person, or he's already been stuffed in a suit and tie, reciting a monotone apology to the media.

It eats Shane up inside, eats at him all throughout his shower. He lets hot water pound against his body until the adrenaline finally bleeds away, leaving him wrung out and tired, and only afterward, hair dripping onto the locker room floor, does he see the message from Hayden.

It’s a Youtube link. Did you see this? No, Shane has not. Somehow, he hadn't even thought about checking Boston’s interviews, but sure enough, there’s Marlow and LeClaire in the thumbnail, assistant captain and coach. Rozanov is a glaring absence between them.

“Any comment on Ilya Rozanov’s major penalty and subsequent removal from the game?”

Marlow leans forward to speak into the mic, surprising both Shane and LeClaire, who flicks him a wary, sideways look, but sits back to let him talk. “Roz is an asshole, but he's also one of the best men I know. He doesn't tolerate hateful comments about anyone, not even his opponents. The man was removed from the stands. That should tell you everything you need to know. Talk shit, get hit, right?”

LeClaire butts in there hastily, adding something about the responsibility they all have to maintain a level head. It makes Marlow’s lips twist with annoyance, but he doesn't say anything more, probably because he just incurred a fine himself for that last comment. You can't just say talk shit, get hit on live TV, Jesus.

Distantly, Shane is aware of how fast his heart is beating, hammering against his ribs. He licks chapped lips, replaying Marlow’s words over and over in his head. I didn't realize you guys were so close.

What the fuck did Rozanov do?

Shane fumbles with his phone, opening Twitter again, and this time when he sees the clips of Rozanov shouting, Rozanov being hauled away, Rozanov sitting in the box with his jaw clenched tight, he clicks to the replies.

Someone’s posted a shaky video from the stands, just behind the whole altercation. It’s close enough to catch the snarl on Rozanov’s face as he charges up the steps. He’s so pretty, Shane thinks faintly. The video starts too late to show what set him off, but it catches the tail end of what the man is yelling, the things he's saying about Shane, before pivoting to calling Rozanov a cunt and bitch and a pussy instead.

Fucking hell. Shane thought this was bad for Rozanov, but turns out it's actually extra extra bad for him instead. Perfect, yeah. That's exactly what he needs.

Silver linings, Shane reminds himself, pacing the length of the locker room with wringing hands. His mother’s voice echoes in his head, the cool touch of her skin as she smoothes back his hair. There's always a silver lining, Shaney. What Marlow said effectively tied the NHL’s hands; videos are already circulating, and the public is loudly on Rozanov's side, so unless they want to look like they're siding with the racist, they'll let him go with a slap on the wrist. A two-game suspension, if he's being optimistic, or better yet, just a fine. Maybe $5,000.

Rozanov, at least, will be fine.

Shane startles as his phone buzzes in his hands, Hayden’s name lighting up his screen. He clears his throat before answering, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Yeah?”

“I feel crazy. Am I crazy? There’s no way Rozanov fought that asshole for you, right?”

“‘Course not,” Shane laughs, only a little hysterical, so props to him honestly. He sits heavily on the edge of the bench, fighting to keep his voice even. “I mean, even if he did, it wasn't for me, you know? Just—I don't know. Anti-racism in general, I guess. It’s good for his image.”

It makes Shane feel like a piece of shit, talking about him like this. ‘Good for his image,’ as if the concept of Rozanov being a good person for the sake of it is so outlandish. Shane’s gut curdles, and all of a sudden, all he wants to do is tell Hayden the truth.

Just once, he wants to tell the truth.

“Since when has Rozanov ever given a fuck about his image?”

“I don't know, Hayds. I really don't know. Hey, my mom’s calling,” Shane lies. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? Bye.”

He presses his forehead briefly to his knuckles and exhales shakily, bent over his knees.

They're probably tearing him apart online.

Hollander can’t even handle a heckler. Hollander needs a bodyguard. Hollander’s so fucking fragile his rival has to climb into the stands and fight his battles for him. The jokes write themselves; he’s already sick at the thought of what they'll start saying in the locker room, and Shane feels shitty for this, too, for worrying about himself when Rozanov is facing suspension, but he just—he's tried so hard to show everyone he can stand on his own two legs, that he's not soft, and it's just that he doesn't know how long he can keep fighting the same battle.

Shane pulls out his phone again, fingers flexing as he types and deletes and re-types before settling on: Will you come over tonight? Please. We need to talk.

It’s dumb, the way he phrases it, because it's not as if Rozanov coming over after a game is ever in question, but—it's different. He doesn't know if he’ll still want to fuck after, and Rozanov might not come at all if he says that. Belatedly, Shane adds; Hope everything is okay.

He doesn't want him to think he's mad. He's not mad. Probably. Maybe a little bit, but not at Rozanov, and it's more of a general panic than anger. Shane's used to feeling like that pretty much all the time.

God. He really, really doesn't want to have this conversation.

Shane is already hovering by the door by the time Rozanov texts that he's arrived. He forgets to think about how ridiculous it looks from Rozanov’s perspective when he opens the back door a half-second after the text comes through, before his phone has even finished vibrating in his hand. Rozanov jumps a little, lips parting with surprise. He glances at his phone, then at Shane, then back at his phone. “It has been two seconds,” he offers helpfully.

“Get in,” Shane huffs, stepping aside to let him pass, and Rozanov does, but not without mouthing ‘wow' to himself.

“Most deja vu than anyone has ever felt before, I think.”

“What are you—nevermind, I don't care.”

Mirroring Shane, Rozanov toes off his shoes the moment they cross the threshold into his house, leaving them neatly aligned next to Shane's sneakers, before following him down the hallway in silence. It’s unusual enough that Shane knows he's picked up on his mood. “You're not—in trouble,” Shane says lamely, determinedly keeping his eyes forward as he leads them into the living room. “With me, I mean. You're not in trouble with me.”

“Did not realize that could be a concern,” Rozanov says, seemingly mystified. His gaze wanders around the room as he leans against Shane’s couch, tilting his head to read the titles of the books stacked on his bookshelf. It’s weird. This whole thing is weird. Rozanov’s been here before, but they usually don't linger long enough for him to examine Shane’s home like this. “You need better bedtime stories, Holland—”

“Are you okay?” Shane interrupts. Rapidly, he feels his face heat, blood rushing to his cheeks in a way that he knows is visible even in the low light, but he forces himself to continue. “Did they get really mad at you?”

“Oh, yes,” Rozanov says gravely. “They get all red in the face—like you now—and yell very loudly at me for a very long time. ‘Never in all my years of hockey, Rozanov,’ and ‘you could be sued, Rozanov.’ But internet saved me. Voila, only a single game suspension.”

“One game?” Shane demands, disbelief coloring his voice. “What about fines?”

“$5,000, because I did not throw punch at—”

“Not for lack of trying.”

Rozanov grins. “Was mostly just very angry lecture about professionalism and representing my team and blah blah blah. But I think—” he pauses, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “I think they also understand why. Coach does, at least. Not that he said this, of course, but when he yelled, he did not look me in eyes the same way he does when I actually fuck up. So.” He shrugs, like this is all very simple and straightforward and not everything Shane has been dreading since he watched that fucking video.

“Rozanov,” Shane starts, then stops, fidgeting with the cuffs of his hoodie. “I need to—we need to talk about what happened.”

“That is not what we are doing?” Rozanov teases, because he's a dick and says dickish things like that, but Shane can't quite muster an eyeroll. He gestures stiltedly to the couch, letting Rozanov move first before shuffling after him.

“I appreciate what you did," Shane says, and he means it, he genuinely means it even though what he's about to say next is going to make it sound like he doesn't. "I know you were trying to have my back, I know that guy was—" he cuts himself off, the words stuck in the back of his throat. Rozanov's lip curls, though he's trying valiantly to keep his expression blank, and Shane drops his eyes. This is so—it's fucking embarrassing, is what it is, and it's exactly why he never wants to acknowledge this shit.

“Hollander."

Shane ignores him. “I know he was completely out of line and you were trying to help.”

Rozanov nods slowly, his blue eyes unreadable. “Okay,” he says. Cautious, as if he's talking to a spooked animal. Shane's fingers flex, his jaw locked, and he resists the urge to scream. Or cry. He probably looks like a spooked animal.

“But you can't do that again,” he finishes. It's more forceful than he intended. Shane feels as though his hackles are raised, his body made up of serrated edges, and he doesn't know how to smooth them over into something peaceable. “You can't go into the stands like that, you can't almost fight fans, you can't—”

“I would do that for anyone,” Rozanov interrupts tersely. “They will not know about us just because I got upset. If someone says these things about any teammate, any player, I would do same thing. You think I would let someone talk like this and just sit there?”

“Yes!” Shane cries, throwing his hands up. “Fucking obviously, Rozanov! You don't fight every person who yells slurs at you, how is this any different?”

It's a stupid question and Shane knows it even as the words leave his mouth. When people shout at players on the ice, it could be about anybody and everybody, about no one in particular. It's different, with Shane. It's only him, and Rozanov had responded to that singling out with an equally singular defense.

“Maybe I should,” Rozanov says loudly, stubborn. “Maybe I will. Excellent idea, Hollander. Crowell will be thrilled with this.”

“That's not—Jesus Christ, you're not listening to me," Shane snaps, and he can't articulate how terrible this feels, how wide the gulf between them suddenly seems, except to say that he and Rozanov must live in such glaringly different worlds if Rozanov still doesn't understand why this matters to him. It's—he feels unmoored.

“I am listening.” Rozanov is staring at him with this wounded expression on his face that makes Shane want to put his fist through a wall. Abruptly, he stands, turning to pace the length of the room, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes hard enough to see stars. When he speaks, it's to the staircase behind him.

“You say you would do this for anyone, but you wouldn't. You don't. You've never climbed into the stands before, you've never gotten yourself nearly suspended over something a fan said, and now suddenly—”

He hears the shuffling sounds of Rozanov getting to his feet. “What he said was—”

“I fucking know what he said!” Shane shouts, whirling around. It echoes in the living room. Rozanov tenses almost imperceptibly, and Shane lowers his voice with effort, trying to rein himself in even though he feels like he's coming apart at the seams. "I know exactly what he said. I watched the video, I read the tweets. I know." He takes a shaky breath, willing his voice to stay steady. “But it makes me look—”

He stops, humiliated and angry and devastatingly sad all at once.

Rozanov's chin juts out. “I was not trying to make you look like anything.”

Shane stares at him. He's always like this, contrarian just to piss Shane off, but usually it's on purpose, and this time it's very clearly not. Rozanov has his arms crossed tightly over his chest, but his shoulders are curled inwards. You're not in trouble with me, Shane had said, and he meant it, but he's being so awful anyway, so harsh and bitter, and this is such a fucking mess that Shane wants to lock himself in his room and never come out.

Instead, Shane takes a breath and forces his feet to move, one foot in front of the other until he's crossed the small distance to the couch and sat himself down on the cushions. He waits until Rozanov joins him, hesitantly, holding himself stiffly on the other end of the couch with as much distance as the furniture allows.

Shane isn't stupid. He knows that Rozanov deals with his own set of rules about what he is and isn't supposed to be, and—and Shane is just so tired of all of it.

“I'm not mad at you,” he says quietly, eyes dropped to his lap. “I know that I’ve—it’s just really bad. Everyone who sees that video, everyone who's going to read about it and tweet about it and talk about it, they're not going to think you’d have done that for anyone. They're going to think I can't stand up for myself.”

“But you were on ice,” Rozanov says, confusion flickering over his face. “You could not have done anything.”

“It doesn't matter,” Shane mutters, defeated. His shoulders slump. “I wouldn't have even if I could. You think I've never heard slurs before, Rozanov? I ignore them. Every single goddamn game, I ignore them. Do you know how many times I've had teammates or coaches or fucking commentators question whether I'm too small or soft for this league? And I'm the lucky one. If I had my mom's last name I probably wouldn't even be here.”

Rozanov has gone very, very still.

“The narrative isn't going to be ‘Rozanov defends Hollander against racist,’ it's going to be, 'Hollander can't defend himself.’ I can't afford to be the damsel in distress,” Shane grits out, angrily wiping at damp eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

He's so sick of crying all the time.

Rozanov is staring at him with an expression that Shane has never seen on him before, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his side, Adam's apple bobbing. He looks as if Shane has physically struck him.

“I did not—" Rozanov starts, then stops, swallowing hard. "That was not—I was not trying to make you look weak." His voice is quiet now, stripped of its usual bravado, and Shane can tell that he's choosing his words carefully, leaving no room for more misunderstandings. It makes his chest ache. "I was just angry, I heard what he said and I was so angry I could not think, I just—I wanted to make him stop talking. I did not think. I am sorry, Hollander.”

Shane, stupidly, sits there with his mouth open, blinking rapidly at Rozanov's uncomfortably pinched face. He doesn't know why the possibility of Rozanov apologizing hadn't crossed his mind, but now that it's happened he doesn't entirely know what to do with himself. “Hollander?” He says again, probing and scared, almost. It's ridiculous. Ilya Rozanov doesn't get scared, especially not over anything as dumb as this.

I like him so much, Shane thinks suddenly. God. God.

This is very bad.

Shane resists the urge to rub at his chest, press his palm flat against his sternum and rub away the horrible, no good feelings he can feel settling behind his ribcage. Rozanov is still watching him, except the longer Shane goes without responding, the more he looks vaguely ill.

Shane offers him a wobbly smile, the best he can manage. “It's okay,” he says, earnest despite the state of catastrophe he can feel himself tipping headfirst into. He can't let himself—it's not like that. He can't let it be like that. “It's really okay, Roz. You—it was really good of you. And, you know, not a lot of people would—” He fumbles over his words. “I do appreciate it.”

Rozanov doesn't look like he wants to believe Shane, but at least since he knows how genuinely terrible Shane is at lying, he doesn't really have a choice. He nods stiffly and turns so he's facing forward, not looking at Shane.

“You were upset,” he tells the wall, just as Shane is starting to wonder how long they're both going to sit here deliberately not looking at each other. “About Kellan. This is why it was on my mind, I suppose.”

Shane’s stomach drops. “No,” he denies automatically, breath coming in a clipped, humorless laugh. It sounds brittle even to his own ears. “No, what? It was stupid. Kellan's a good guy, he just—he didn't think about it, it's not like he meant anything by it. I just told you because it was weird.”

“Okay,” Rozanov agrees, except Shane can tell there’s a ‘but’ coming and he would like to be literally anywhere else right now. “But it bothered you.”

“It was fine,” Shane says, too quickly, a dead fucking giveaway. He places his hands flat against his thighs, pressing his palms into the denim of his jeans hard enough that he can feel the heat of his own skin through the fabric, heartbeat lurching irregularly in his chest. Rozanov doesn't know how to let things go. He's never known, not in all the years Shane has known him, and he's certainly not going to learn how to do it now, not after Shane has acted like a total freak the last few times they saw each other. It’s all too much. We already had our conversation, Shane wants to plead. Let it be.

“I have thought about it since that night.”

Shane turns his head to stare at him, wide-eyed. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Why?”

Rozanov frowns, the lines on his face deepening. “Because you wouldn't tell me. I asked, and you would not tell. Could not figure it out, what Kellan had to do with—”

Ilya stops. His teeth click together when he closes his mouth, and he can see in Hollander’s eyes that he knows Ilya gets it, now. “Don't,” he says frantically. “Just don't, Rozanov.”

Ilya purses his lips, a tendon in his jaw jumping, but he doesn't apologize again and he doesn't waste his breath on empty platitudes. I understand I understand I understand I understand. I'm sorry it took so long. He can see the full shape of it laid bare in the dim light of this room, can trace the line from Kellan's thoughtless comment all the way back to that unreadable look Shane gave him in the hotel room. For years, for his entire life, Shane has been sitting in that hotel room, cracking himself open and holding the pieces up to the light so that someone—anyone—could see, and Ilya couldn't.

Despite his earlier demand, Hollander shifts a little in his seat, the cushion dipping beneath his weight. “Rozanov?” He asks tentatively.

He's sick. He might actually be sick.

Ilya presses his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Yes,” he hears himself say.

“Can you—will you say something?”

His voice is so small. Shame sits in Ilya’s lungs, in his throat, in his mouth, suffocating him, and he thinks that if he tries to speak, he might puke or cry or walk out into the road until there is nothing left for him to fuck up.

Ilya is supposed to know Shane. He knows his hockey, he knows how he sounds when he cums. He knows what the little hairs at the nape of his neck feel like beneath his fingertips, knows the way Shane's skin pebbles when the air hits it after Ilya pulls his mouth away. He knows the flavor of pre-workout he uses. He knows how Shane’s face crumples in on itself when he's about to cry, his eyebrows drawing together and lip wobbling when he's sad, when he's frustrated, when he's angry. But none of that matters, because Ilya should've known better and he didn't.

“Rozanov, come on. It’s not that big of a deal. Please say something.”

(Там наверху нет ничего полезного, верно? Where would you be without hockey, Ilya?)

Ilya stares at his own hands, clasped between his knees. He thinks about Shane on the ice, about the way his face must have looked when he saw the video, and the thought sours in his stomach. “I did not understand,” he chokes out, “and I did not think.”

“Okay,” Hollander says carefully, hesitantly, and Ilya cannot tell if he's scared of Ilya or for him. He doesn't know which would be worse. “But that's—that's not your fault. I mean, I don't really understand the kind of pressure you're under, either. Just listening to me is enough. I know you, Rozanov. It's enough.”

“You are not like me,” Ilya snorts. Hollander visibly prickles, so he spreads his hands out as if to say look at me. “I am not smarty-pants Shane Hollander, no? Plenty I do not understand. I will fix, and this will not happen again.”

“What does that even mean? ‘Plenty you don't understand?’ Like, English?”

If Hollander were anyone else, Ilya might think he's being mocked. As it stands, Shane Hollander is perhaps the only person in the entire world who could ask this so sincerely, his doe-eyes wide, as if the concept of Ilya being stupid has never crossed his mind. Fucking ridiculous.

Ilya rubs a hand over his face, pressing his fingers against his closed eyelids until the pressure starts to ache. “English is—yes, okay, English is part of it. But also—the way people talk to each other here. There are rules I do not know. Everyone else understands without being told and I just—” He clicks his tongue, frustrated. “I miss them. And by the time I realize I have missed them, it is already too late.”

He doesn't know how this has become about him, all of a sudden, but it's making him want to down the nearest bottle of Stoli. Shane's face has gone through several transformations in the space of a few seconds, settling on something halfway between guilty and pitying. Ilya cannot stomach it.

“When you do press. You always—” He stops, recalibrating. “You dodge questions sometimes. I always thought it was because you didn't want to answer them.”

“Sometimes,” Ilya allows. “But sometimes it is too complicated, and I cannot ask them to say it again because then they know, and then it is in the paper, and then everyone knows that Rozanov cannot understand simple fucking English question.”

“Shut up,” Shane snaps. “Don't talk about yourself like that. So you just—what, you just sit there and nod?”

Ilya sneers. “What else am I supposed to do?” He might actually get up and leave if he has to hear Shane defend him right now, when the evidence is in Shane’s glossy eyes and the cushion of distance still between them. “They already know that I am thoughtless and немой. I am a fucking caveman, Hollander. No use pretending otherwise.”

“You're not thoughtless,” Shane says. “You're—you care so much it made you stupid for five seconds. That's not the same fucking thing.”

Hollander gets this look on his face sometimes. Ilya sees it most often when they're facing off at center ice, that determined slant to his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes. It's cute. It makes him want to annoy him and simultaneously pepper kisses all over his face, all over those pretty freckles. He's looking at Ilya like this now, and as if he's only just now noticing the distance between them, scooches himself over until their noses are inches apart. Ilya leans back a hair, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

Faintly, he wonders how he could have made it here. On Shane Hollander’s couch, with Shane Hollander reaching out to grab Ilya’s hands in his, watching Shane Hollander’s eyes dart to his lips.

Ilya thinks: you are looking at the wrong person. You have always been looking at the wrong person. The universe must have gotten its wires crossed somewhere, must have shuffled the deck and dealt the wrong hand, because someone like Shane Hollander does not end up with someone like Ilya Rozanov in any version of events.

“Hollander,” he blurts, because Shane is opening his mouth and Ilya needs to get this out first. “I'm sorry. It’s not fair.”

There's so much more he wants to say, but Ilya doesn't trust himself to put it into words, and isn't that pathetic. Alexei would have a field day with him now. You think you're better than me, he had snarled, the day Ilya got drafted. You're nothing, Ilyushka. You're nothing.

Absently, Shane's thumb strokes along Ilya’s knuckles, bringing him back to himself. Ilya is always going somewhere else, it feels like, but Shane is always pulling him back into his own body. “Okay,” Shane says quietly. He squeezes Ilya's fingers once, firm. “Okay. Thank you.” He pauses, and then, reluctantly: “And I'm sorry too. For how I said all of that. The way I said it.”

Ilya shakes his head, opening his mouth to argue, but Shane beats him to it; one hand comes up to cover Ilya’s mouth. He resists the urge to lick Hollander’s hand like a grade-schooler, instead raising his eyebrows and secretly delighting in the way Shane's cheeks pink slightly. “I’m serious, asshole. I didn't mean to make you feel like shit.” His gaze drops to their joined hands, and he turns Ilya's left hand over in his, tracing his thumbnail along the line of Ilya's palm. “It's just so frustrating. No matter what I do—" He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "I've never—I haven't really talked about this before. To anyone.”

He seems to take Ilya’s silence as judgement, or something similar, because he hurries to continue, that crease between his eyebrows reappearing. Ilya wants to smooth it out with his lips.

“I mean—my agent, I guess. And my mom.” He makes a funny little expression, wincing at his own words. “God, I sound so fucking stupid right now.”

“You don't,” Ilya tries to say, except it comes out as “oo-doot,” muffled through Hollander’s palm, and he laughs outright at the affronted look in Ilya’s eyes. “You don't,” Ilya repeats, once the hand is removed. “Does not sound stupid at all.”

“That’s my line,” Shane murmurs, his eyes flicking to Ilya's mouth and back again. Part of Ilya worries; he wants to poke and prod, get the rest of Hollander's fragmented sentences out of him, the full extent of his anger and his hurt and his bitterness—Ilya wants to know it all—but he can tell that this is already pushing it. Another night, then.

"Can I—"

"Always, Hollander."

Shane tries to fight off the pleased smile on his face, only he fails spectacularly, slotting his lips over Ilya’s as if he can't go any longer without it. Ilya’s hands find their place along Shane’s waist, and for a moment, they sit there pressed up against each other, unhurried. It wouldn't take a lot to get Ilya hard, with Shane Hollander already halfway in his lap, but he doesn't think that's what Shane is trying to do. He's just—kissing him. Soft, sighing into Ilya’s mouth.

His eyes are already shut, but Ilya squeezes them tighter, fighting back the wetness he can feel collecting at his lashline. He won't burden him further.

“Will you stay for a little bit?” Shane mumbles against Ilya’s lips.

He shouldn't. Every time Hollander smiles at him, Ilya can feel himself careening into dangerously uncharted territory. The inevitability of wanting more if he stays and the inevitability of hurting when that wanting has nowhere sensible to go.

I haven't really talked about this before. To anyone.

“I can stay,” Ilya breathes, nudging his nose against Hollander’s. He can feel him smile against his cheek.

Ты мой свет в окошке.

You are my light in the window.

Later, once Shane has settled more comfortably against Rozanov’s chest and his blinks are getting heavier, he feels the hand carding through his hair stop. Sleepily, he turns his face further into him, smushing his cheek against Rozanov’s shirt. “What?” He mumbles. “D’you have to go?”

For a beat, there’s no reply, long enough of a silence that Shane looks up, blinking at him with bleary eyes. Rozanov’s thumb brushes over the thin skin beneath his eye. “I have to make statement,” he says finally. “About today.”

Right. He’ll have his agent to help him, and nothing he says will be published without, like, twenty different people’s approval, so it should be fine. Shane squints. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Yeah, Roz. You almost punched a fan. Your own fan.”

Rozanov smiles thinly, pinching Shane’s cheek. “Deserved worse,” he dismisses. “That is not my point. Will you—”

He stops, shifting uncomfortably, and now Shane is fully awake, sitting up so that Rozanov can't duck his gaze. Shane swallows, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’d been half-asleep against this man’s chest a second ago. Rozanov doesn't tease him, though. He scratches his nose, glancing at Shane, then away, then back at him. “Will I?” Shane prods.

“Will you help me write it?”

Shane’s breath catches in his throat. Rozanov could ask anyone. His agent, his team, the media people. He can feel himself start to smile dumbly, and has to consciously school his expression into something neutral. “Yeah,” Shane manages. He's chill. He's being so chill. “Yeah, of course.”

I think I’d do anything you ask me to, he thinks, half-delirious. Rozanov’s shoulders lose some of their tension, and he darts forward to peck Shane’s forehead. It’s far too sweet and far too much all at once. Shane buries his face back in Rozanov’s chest. His hand lingers at Shane’s waist, thumb tracing an absentminded line over fabric. “Also,” Rozanov adds, as if it’s an afterthought, “I do not have to go.”

“Oh,” Shane says, brilliantly articulate. He clears his throat. “I mean. You—” He hesitates, nerves flaring, and hates how transparent he probably is. “That’s…cool.”

“‘Cool,’” Rozanov echoes with a grin. “Yes, it is very cool. I'm sleepy,” he announces. “This is okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane whispers. He hides his grin in Rozanov’s shirt. “Yeah, this is okay.”