Summary:

Ottawa, 2010. Canada wins the championship, and Shane slips away from the overwhelming celebration for some peace and quiet. Russia loses, and Ilya runs from his father’s furious disappointment to have a panic attack in the stairwell. Neither boy is really looking for company, but for a tentative few hours in the middle of the night, they find solace, acceptance and a first kiss, first time prelude to something heated and risky in each other’s arms. **** Ilya leaned in with lips pursed and Shane jerked away, “Whoa! What the hell are you doing?” “You do not want kiss?” Ilya frowned. “You stare at my mouth all night, same as after draft. I thought you wanted kiss.” “No.” Shane’s eyes were wide. “That’s insane.” “Okay.” Ilya stood up, hiding how bad the rejection hurt. “I misunderstand. Sorry. Do not worry, I will not say anything about–” “Wait.” Shane’s grabbed Rozanov’s arm at the last second, gathering all his courage, “Y- yes.” “Yes.” Ilya repeated. “What is yes?” “I mean yes.” Shane pulled him back in slowly, carefully, his heart racing. “Kiss me?” January 2010 Ottawa, Canada The party was loud. The championship had been hard won and well earned and the celebration was out of control. The players were cheering, jumping, hugging one another high off the win, the boys were spinning, laughing, shoving one another drunk on the adrenaline, some actually were high off smuggled in weed and others actually were drunk off punch spiked from not very secret flasks, and the coaches and chaperones were all too busy congratulating each other and themselves to pretend to care. Champions. Trophy winners. They were at the top of their game and feeling on top of the world, and the fever pitch excitement combined with the delirious exhaustion of a too long, too intense, too physically mentally emotionally grueling few weeks of tournament shook the walls of the multipurpose conference room on the basement floor of hotel. The noise was deafening, the chaos of it all dizzying, the crush of people and body heat and clamor of conversation suffocating and in the very middle of the room– –in the very middle of the room, team Captain and tournament MVP and all around Canadian Wunderkind Shane Hollander stared down at his glass of electric red punch and tried his fucking hardest not to throw up. “Hollander! We did it! We fucking did it!” Someone pushed into him, fell into him, grabbed him into a messy, sloppy hug and planted a messy, sloppy kiss on his cheek. Teammate. A buddy. Shane had played with him for years. “Shane Hollander! Second in the draft son, good for you! You make us all so proud!” Someone shook his hand, squeezed his palm, pounded at his shoulder. A parent. A chaperone. They’d known Shane since he was sixteen. “Wouldn’t be the player he is without a great coach!” Right in his ear, bellowing over the noise. Shane knew he was supposed to smile, supposed to agree, supposed to pound the no doubt spiked punch and whoop at the top of his lungs and let go – let loose– now that the work was over and the tournament was finished and he had another trophy and medal to put in his room. Instead, “I gotta find the bathroom!” he announced to no one in particular, cos no one fucking cared. They were lost in the party, reveling in the victory, but it was too much hammering against Shane’s head, too much crushing around his body and his stomach was twisting, head pounding, chest too tight, holy shit he had to get out somewhere and get some air. Out of the multipurpose room and into the hall. Down the hall and right past the bathroom. He ditched the cup of punch in the nearest water fountain and broke into a jog down the generically ugly carpeted corridor and by the time he crashed through the door leading to the stairwell, Shane was running. Gasping. He yanked at his tie and scrubbed at his face, rolled his shoulders and popped his neck and told himself to breathe. Started up the stairs to get to his fourteenth floor room and told himself to breathe. Huffed a self deprecating sort of laugh because Shane Hollander jogging up fourteen floors worth of stairs instead of partying with his teammates was exactly the sort of over dedicated, wet blanket, fitness and work ethic obsessed bullshit everyone expected from him so– so whatever. When his parents asked sort of sad and sort of resigned about why he hadn’t stayed to celebrate with his teammates and revel in the end of his juniors era, when they told him he probably should really definitely enjoy these moments of silliness and fun while he still could cos come fall he’d be playing professional and have to lock in, when his parents couldn’t hide how they worried about him isolating and clicked their tongues about him avoiding his long time teammates in favor of running stairs alone, Shane would call it a work out. He’d call it dedication. He’d brush it off and wave them away and tell them he might have gotten second at the draft but he was gonna be first in the league, rookie of the year, and to make that happen, he couldn’t party, he had to train. He certainly wouldn’t tell them how the noisy crowd and pushing unhinged behavior made his skin crawl and lungs seize up and head hurt, no way. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. He was just dedicated. Just focused. It was fine. He was fine. Nine, ten, eleven, floors up and Shane actually started to feel fine. The stairwell was soothingly monochromatic and cold enough to be clarifying, easing the clamor in Shane’s head until he felt like he could think again. His shoes didn’t make any noise on the concrete steps and landing after corner after landing after corner was empty, the doors to the adjoining halls all closed, it was a half hour till midnight so anyone who wasn’t partying in celebration was sequestered in their rooms mulling over their loss and packing for the trip home. It was nice. Peaceful. Space to move and space to breathe and twelve floors up Shane was starting to feel like maybe he wouldn’t just collapse face first onto his bed and scream, maybe he’d have the mental energy to watch a movie or read a little bit in his book, or– Noise in the stairwell up ahead, and Shane slowed at the door for the thirteenth floor landing, paused waiting to see if he heard the noise again, then peeked around the corner bracing himself so he could try and be passably polite to whoever had inadvertently interrupted his single minded dash up the stairs. Ilya Rozanov. It was Ilya fucking Rozanov sitting just below the next landing blocking the stairwell with his body turned sideways taking up a whole step, an unlit cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other… and tears on his face, reflecting the light from his phone, tracking down his cheek and dripping off his chin, landing wet on the cold concrete below. Shit. Shane came around the corner cautiously, curiously, fidgeting with the string on his hoodie as he asked, “Rozanov?” Ilya jumped when someone spoke at him from just a few feet away. He hadn’t heard any door open, he hadn’t heard any footsteps coming up the stairs and he jumped cursing when the empty echoing cold of the stairwell was shattered by the unexpected intruder.