Work Text:
There’s a certain smell in the air, just before it’s about to rain. Ilya’s been catching it every time he sees Shane Hollander.
The lighter sparks on his fifth try, the end of his cigarette burning against the backdrop of a low evening sky. For someone so scared of not being able to breathe- physically or mentally- Ilya shouldn’t smoke. And yet.
With this logic he shouldn’t consistently wind up in bed with Shane Hollander either.
And he knows too acutely that there are smells like auras, clues that you’re with the person you’re meant to be with, but Shane’s ignoring them so Ilya will too.
He’d heard Shane get up about ten minutes ago, taking the scent of rain with him. Ilya tries not to burn with the loss, at the way Shane hadn’t even said goodbye. It can’t be anything more than this.
Ilya almost chokes when he hears the room door open, and with it the rush of petrichor. He doesn’t glance behind him, simply forces his shoulders to relax, lets his eyes lose focus behind the haze of cigarette smoke.
The whoosh of the balcony door sliding open sends prickles up his arms.
He can feel Shane’s presence behind him like a phantom, and Shane doesn’t speak for a while. The rain bleeds from his pores and threatens to strangle Ilya with the meaning.
Shane inches forward, leaning an elbow against the balcony railing to Ilya’s left.
Shane’s unease permeates the air and kindles faint nausea. ‘I got you a Coke. From the vending machine… In the lobby?’
Ilya stares at the can in Shane’s outstretched grip. He hadn’t told him off for smoking.
‘How did you get back in?’
Shane shrugs. ‘Left the door on the latch.’
Ilya whistles lowly. ‘Dangerous.’
‘Shut up.’
Ilya tries to smile, but it’s only weak- a twitch at the very corners of his lips.
‘Are you okay?’
The simple question cracks something in his chest; his heart, maybe. He is not okay. Has probably not been okay for a long time.
‘I’m fine, Hollander.’ The way his name sounds coming out echoes the way he softly says Shane in his head. Every time, and for a while now.
‘You just seem… off?’
Ilya flits his gaze up to meet Shane’s, but Shane’s not looking back. He’s staring at Ilya’s shoulder with an intensity he normally only displays on the ice.
He tries to grasp at a reason as to why Shane would open a conversation about anything other than sex or hockey. But it’s a risky road to go down and hope is a loathsome thing.
They cannot be more than this.
And yet.
‘When will we talk about this?’
Ilya’s not sure exactly when his defences lowered enough around Shane to blurt out what he really wants to ask. Maybe his resolve started to crumble the second he first sensed rainfall.
‘About what?’ Shane breathes out, almost a laugh. Ilya can hear the caution.
He’s fucking miserable, so he blows past it and twists the knife that’s probably been lodged in his gut for years.
‘Why do you smell like rain, Hollander?’
Shane almost drops the can he’s still holding. Ilya grinds his cigarette under his heel; he’ll collect it in the morning.
‘I smell like what?’
Ilya tilts his head, rolls his eyes and aims a particularly salty look at the other man. Shane still won’t look at him, instead throwing his sights on the city below.
‘So we are pretending to be stupid now.’
Shane’s muscles jump as he clenches his teeth. ‘…No.’
‘Then what?’
‘Why are you asking about this?’ Shane mumbles, gaze drifting to the bridge of Ilya’s nose.
‘You asked me what is wrong!’ Ilya blurts, a little harsh, a little bitter. Shane flinches.
‘Do you want to go inside?’
It’s probably a good idea. Sound travels. Ilya reaches for the battered pack of cigarettes in the front pocket of his sweats, a petulant cut to his jaw.
Shane exhales messily. ‘Really?’
Ilya lifts a shoulder. ‘Is not too cold.’
‘Such an asshole.’
Ilya actually smirks at that, the familiar retort.
‘I am thinking,’ he allows. Regretting, a bit. Wondering how to chart the course of the conversation he’s unearthed.
‘Okay.’
He delicately places the filter between his lips and lights up. He can almost hear Shane’s eyebrows draw together and the admonishment on the tip of his tongue. But, again, it never comes.
‘I will be quick,’ he mumbles around the cigarette.
Shane rhythmically plucks at the unopened tab of the can, the sound mingling with the street noise beneath them. Ilya scratches at his eyebrow with his thumb, draws in more smoke.
He’s kept in everything he’s truly wanted to say practically his whole life, and he doesn’t know why tonight something’s broken through; it’s not like he hasn’t been exhausted with it all before. Shane’s steady presence beside him is distracting and grounding all at once, though that’s nothing new.
Ilya blows out smoke and then inhales fresh rain.
‘Okay, I am done,’ he says quietly, crushing the second butt.
Ilya doesn’t wait for Shane to follow as he strides back into the warmth of the room. It’s more bare than his last one, but the surroundings have never mattered when it comes to Shane. Knowing as soon as Ilya enters that there’s the inevitability of him sprawled out on the same sheets Ilya had napped in earlier in the day, the aroma of rainwater washing any mundane detail away. When Ilya says boring, he means consistent. Safe.
Shane, now, is waiting in the doorway- stewing- expecting Ilya to say more. He gently places the forgotten Coke can on the nondescript dresser and bites his bottom lip.
‘Can we sit?’
Ilya takes in the rigid hook of Shane’s thumbs in his shorts pockets, the tense slope of his shoulders. He looks so small under the dim light of the hotel room.
Ilya nods and sinks to the end of the bed, lightly patting the spot beside him. His brain is everywhere as Shane slowly sits, Russian and English mixing with adrenaline and panic, a fog he’d brought on himself.
‘I thought we weren’t…’ Shane motions at the space between them and then sighs. ‘…Acknowledging this.’
‘Is true. I didn’t think we were,’ Ilya concedes.
‘But I asked, I guess.’
Ilya breathes out. ‘You didn’t know. Maybe I didn’t.’
He feels Shane turn to look at Ilya’s profile. ‘How long have you been thinking about this?’
‘Is that a serious question?’ Ilya says dryly.
‘Sorry, yeah, I mean- Obviously we’ve both been fucking thinking about it.’
Ilya wants so badly to seek out Shane’s eyes, but he remains fixed resolutely forward. There’s a small dent in the wall, next to the TV. It begins to blur as Ilya stares.
‘It is hard to ignore,’ Ilya eventually admits. ‘It is so…’ He furrows his brow, gestures vaguely about himself as he searches for the perfect word.
‘Overwhelming?’
Ilya nods, lets his hands drop back into his lap. A long sigh. ‘Overwhelming. Yes.’
‘Maybe it was dumb, but I didn’t think we’d be even having this conversation.’
Ilya smiles, a little sadly. ‘We have ignored it for a long time. But is inevitable.’
‘Inevitable,’ Shane parrots, an almost fond edge to his tone. He sounds scared when he speaks again, a contradiction. ‘Then I guess I’m ready for it.’
‘You do not want me, though,’ Ilya says, perhaps redundantly, and he hopes his longing hasn’t entirely drenched the statement.
‘Of course I want you,’ Shane says quietly. ‘So much.’
Ilya’s heart throbs, the hope poking through again. ‘But you can’t.’
Shane stutters a laugh. ‘I think that ship’s sailed, Ilya.’
He whips his head to look at Shane, wide-eyed. Ilya, not Rozanov. Another barrier crumbling.
There’s a hint of trepidation in Shane’s stare, but he’s not looking away, like he’s decided something crucial no matter the outcome.
‘Shane.’ There’s a certain pain in letting himself say the name aloud, but a hell of a lot more relief.
A moment passes, a shared look of pieces falling into place. Shane reaches out a shaking hand and places it on Ilya’s cheek, his palm still cool from the Coke can. Ilya thaws under the touch as he thinks about the pack of ginger ale in the carry-on bag slumped against the side of the bed. A constant just in case for away games.
Ilya mirrors him and gently pulls Shane’s face closer. There’s a shuddering shared breath between them before their lips meet, and it’s the same sort of kiss they’ve traded thousands of times before, but this time that underlying, unspoken rightness has been allowed to fully breach the surface.
Rain water envelops him, flows into his bloodstream and he moves to cradle the back of Shane’s head. This is the problem, and Ilya can no longer pretend it doesn’t exist or that he doesn’t want it, wholeheartedly and with everything he has.
‘Fuck,’ Ilya mutters against his lips.
‘Are we doing this?’ Shane hushes back.
Ilya groans, deep in his throat. He squeezes Shane’s hip before maneuvering him onto his lap. Shane’s breath hitches as he settles, pushing further into the kiss.
Ilya’s chest tightens as he attempts to grasp what this means for both of them going forward, but he bats the thoughts away for now, sinks into the pool of Shane’s reciprocation, the new balance that’s been tentatively decided. He drinks Shane in, flattens a palm against his back to draw him closer. He knows they’re both getting hard, but it’s an afterthought in this moment.
Shane breaks away to lean his forehead against Ilya’s, dark eyes molten with fragments of too-big emotions Ilya freely lets himself examine this time. He reaches up to graze the tips of his fingers against Shane’s jaw, against the bump of barely-there stubble. Shane inhales, closes his eyes and lets his head fall to the crook of Ilya’s neck. He slots there perfectly, and Ilya can’t help but wrap his arms more tightly around him, to move to place a kiss against his temple.
‘We will figure this out,’ Ilya murmurs into Shane’s hair after a tender minute, the softness of his tone slipping into the softness of the strands.
‘Okay,’ Shane says simply, smoothing his palm over Ilya’s chest. His index finger twitches involuntarily before he whispers, ‘You smell like a campfire.’