Chapter Text
The door to his hotel room swung closed on silent, well oiled hinges, punctuated by a soft click. Shane glanced to the left— a dead end hallway with an unglamorous emergency staircase leading the ten floors down to the ground— then the right, in the direction of a bank of elevators. To his relief, the hallway was deserted and silent in both directions. He needed the quiet. He needed to focus, to ground himself, to will himself through the next few hours. He could get through this. He would come out the other side of tonight, and the world would finally shift back onto its axis. His balance would no longer be thrown off by the unbearable gravity of Ilya Rozanov.
Shane inhaled, held the air in his lungs for four heartbeats, then exhaled. He glanced at his Rolex— he needed to go downstairs, get backstage. He’d stalled as long as he could, wringing out every spare minute like the last drops of water from a washcloth. There were none left; it was time to move. The only way out of this was through it. One step towards the elevator, then another one. Repeat.
When the world was too loud and too much and Shane’s grasp on the edges of himself began to slip away, he talked to himself. Not out loud, of course, at least not in front of others— that would probably be the tipping point from “eccentric hockey genius” to “total fucking weirdo”. He’d found dozens, maybe hundreds of similar tipping points over the years, usually by bumping into them accidentally, and scrambling back in retreat, carefully noting their existence and location in order to avoid them next time. So, no, he didn’t talk to himself out loud. Usually. But he’d think the words, feel the shape of them in his throat, and hear them resonate, calm and authoritative in the base of his skull. Instructions, simple and clear, step by step. Don’t think, just follow. Follow, and you will stay safe, and no one will know how close you came to completely falling apart.
Left foot. Right foot. Look up. Breathe. Watch where you’re going. Check the time again.
Shane was never late. Being late, like so many things, made him anxious. Tonight he was as close as he ever came to being late, because tonight was the NHL Awards Ceremony, and because the universe had a sick sense of humor. Tonight, he was slated to present an award with none other than Rozanov. Shane reflected darkly on whatever league bigwig or producer came up with the idea. Clever. Look at the rivals, see how they hate each other for our amusement? Point and laugh, everyone.
It would only last a few minutes. Get onstage, say the stupid fucking lines, present the award. Leave. Two minutes. A shift. He could do that; he did that all the time. He’d done brutal stretches on the ice with fire in his lungs and no feeling in his legs. Rozanov had been present for plenty of those, too. Shane had survived every single one; he would survive this one.
He arrived at the elevators. Push the button. He did. Look up. The metal surface and the bright overhead lighting gave his skin an ugly pallor, made worse by the pained expression on his face. Fix that. Relax. He forced another breath in and out, shook out his shoulders. He studied his face: Relax your jaw. Unfurrow your brow.
The chime sounded as the elevator arrived. Shane rolled his shoulders back and gave himself one final look in the mirrored surface. His reflection split in two as the doors opened in the center like a hungry mouth about to swallow him whole. Where Shane’s face had stared back at him a split second ago stood Rozanov.
A black hole opened itself in the center of Shane’s torso, dragging his organs, muscles, bones, nerve endings from the furthest points of his body inwards to collapse upon themselves. His brain was static on a muted television. Instructions failed to materialize; he had no plan for this.
Rozanov stared at him, unmoving except for an almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. Time slowed. It had a funny way of doing that around Rozanov.
He looked fucking incredible. His tuxedo was tailored perfectly, adorning the gorgeous body underneath. And his hair— fuck, the curls lay loose and gentle, framing his face and accentuating the angles of his jaw in a way that was almost unbearable. On another night, in some other universe, he would rush forward, slam Rozanov into the rear wall of the elevator, tangle those curls in his fist and— No, stop— he couldn't keep staring; he had to look away.
Forward. Move. Don’t be fucking weird. The instructions came back online, abruptly.
Breathe. Be normal. He crossed the threshold. It would have been weirder not to get on, right? Definitely weirder, and deeply pathetic. Okay, so you hooked up with him a couple of times and now you can’t even spend ten seconds on an elevator with him?
Don’t let him see. Breathe. Relax. Be fucking normal. He turned to face the door. It slid shut. The inside of the elevator was mirrored. Of course it fucking was. Rozanov’s reflection stood stony and unmoving to the right of his. They were two statues, unmoving, unspeaking.
Ten floors down. Keep it together. Look forward, ignore him. Don’t look at him. Who were the last ten winners of the Conn Smythe?
Even now, energy radiated off Rozanov— a magnetism so impossibly strong that Shane couldn’t ignore it. The elevator began its descent.
Nine.
Eight.
Breathe.
Se—
The world jolted, suddenly. Shane came crashing through the fragile wall between himself and the rest of the world with a sharp inhale. They weren’t moving. He heard a quiet sound from off to his right— a suppressed reflex from somewhere in Rozanov’s throat. Apparently the abrupt stop had surprised him, too.
Of course. The elevator had stopped to let on another passenger. This was good, actually. Maybe it would be another player, someone he knew, or who knew him, and he’d be able to swap bland, safe small talk, pretend as if he were looking forward to the evening. Even a complete stranger would be a welcome buffer to the tension that hung in the air.
Shane allowed himself a quick glance down at the floor as he waited for the door to open. The marble tiles reflected the overhead light, just bright enough to be uncomfortable. He looked back up.
Breathe. Shift your weight.
Do elevator doors normally take this long to open? Time was doing that annoying thing again, curving itself around Rozanov, adjusting itself to give him as much space as he wanted.
Hand in your pocket. Be casual. Breathe. It's almost over.
If he timed it right, he wouldn’t even have to break his stride. One fluid movement, from the elevator, across the hotel, through hallways not travelled by ordinary guests, into the wings and then out across the stage. Read the words off the teleprompter, play up the joke for the audience, and retreat with his dignity intact. From there— well, Hollander certainly wouldn’t approach him, he’d made sure of that— and once he’d made his rounds at the afterparty, he’d find a club, find a girl, and get laid. Simple. With any luck, he wouldn’t even have to look directly at Hollander.
Hollander, who was probably already pacing backstage. Probably glancing at one of his stupid Rolex watches every fifteen seconds, wearing an awful, boring tuxedo, looking like a kid dressed up in his father’s suit. How he always looked in anything other than gym clothes or hockey gear— awkward and unsure of how to exist outside of a hockey arena. So stupid. If he ever managed to gain a fraction of the quiet, certain confidence he exuded on the ice, that alone would transform him into— No, Ilya reprimanded himself. Stop. He is nothing. You cannot care about him.
The elevator doors glided open and Ilya stepped inside. He punched the button for the ground floor and settled back against the rear wall as the elevator began to descend. Too quickly, it slowed again. Ilya sniffed in irritation. He was not interested in sharing the lift with anyone, especially now when it seemed as though the entire hotel had been booked by hockey people. With his luck, whoever it was would recognize him, and be foolish or drunk enough to start chattering away about some inane bullshit, and he would have to decide whether they were important enough for him to feign politeness. He let out a sigh of annoyance and straightened, preparing to be… well, not friendly, but not hostile, either. Cold civility would be the best he could manage right now.
The doors opened and Ilya tensed before he could suppress the reflex. Oh, fuck.
Shane Hollander stood frozen in the open doorway, staring at Ilya. For a split second, Ilya wondered if he would let the doors close again, unwilling to breathe the same air as Ilya for even a minute, but he blinked and stepped through the open door.
The rest of the world disappeared as the doors slid shut. Hollander stood stiffly, a few feet to Ilya’s left, his eyes fixed firmly forward. Ilya’s eyes drifted to Hollander’s reflection in the mirrored surface of the elevator walls and confirmed that his earlier assumption had been correct. Rolex? Check. Terrible suit? Check. Boring, unstylish haircut? Check.
Freckles? Check.
No. He tore his gaze away from Hollander and bit the inside of his cheek, hard; punishment for the thought. That is behind us. It’s done.
It had always been a terrible fucking idea, of course, but he’d had it under control. This thing with Hollander was just a bit of fun, a convenient way to scratch that particular itch, fragile trust borne out of mutually assured destruction. Until Hollander had invited him into his bedroom, laid himself out, gorgeous and bare and vulnerable like a sacrificial offering, and eagerly gave himself to Ilya.
And Ilya had taken, made reckless by his desire, swept up completely in a flood of intoxicating passion and dragged under the surface. He'd been greedy for every brush of his skin against Hollander's, drunk on the moans and whimpers that he coaxed out of Hollander's mouth. He’d taken more, more, until what he’d thought had been pure lust mutated into something else. Something which lurked in the shadows of his mind, something that he didn’t recognize and certainly didn’t trust.
He’d realized his mistake immediately and made his escape. He’d said goodbye to Hollander for the last time. He couldn’t let this happen again, whatever this was. But then, after a few days, it had been easy to convince himself he'd misread the look in Hollander’s eyes when they parted. He’d just been blissed out after a good fuck. Ilya himself had had nothing to do with it, which is how it should be. That was the only way this thing could work.
But then Hollander had to go and be fucking stupid in Sochi. Approaching Ilya in public, in Russia, showing concern for him as if they were anything other than strangers who sometimes got naked together.
It was the harsh reality check Ilya had needed. Hollander had become a liability, and more than that, a distraction. Ilya had chosen his words to be cutting and harsh, the rebuke meant as much for himself as for Hollander. Ilya needed him to flinch, to retreat, to realize Ilya wasn't worth the risk, and would never give him what he was looking for. Ilya needed him to look back in a few months or years and realize that in that moment, Ilya had made the kindest decision for both of them.
Maybe in some future, the two of them could share an elevator, a press conference, a stage, without so much as a second thought. Strangers. Safe. Nothing.
Ilya risked another glance at Hollander's reflection. His face was a mask, but his arms hung unnaturally as if he'd forgotten how to relax them. Yes, maybe someday they would be able to exist in mutual indifference, but clearly that day wasn't today.
The elevator stopped again. A curse almost escaped from between Ilya's lips, but he caught it and swallowed it back down. Hollander inhaled sharply, the breath hissing like precious oxygen through a hole in the hull of an aircraft, threatening to rip fully open and send the occupants hurtling to the unmerciful ground.
Ilya pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the time, unnecessarily. He'd checked the time when he left the Penthouse less than two minutes ago. It had only been two minutes, right? Regardless, the phone was an anchor, a lifeline to a world that existed outside of this fucking metal box.
His eyes flicked up to the door. It remained closed. Strange… it certainly didn't take this long to open when Hollander had gotten on. He waited. Irritation cooled and congealed into unease as the doors refused to open. His eyes slowly moved to the display which showed that the elevator had stopped on the 7th floor.
He counted silently. One, two, three, four… no. This was wrong. The doors should have opened by now.
Hollander had appeared to come out of a reverie when the elevator had stopped. Now he stood, shifting his weight back and forth, looking at the doors expectantly, almost hopefully, Ilya thought. Hm. Yes. He would rather be in here with a pack of hungry wolves than alone with me.
The doors stayed shut. The elevator stayed still. Ilya was suddenly hit with the full force of the absurdity of the situation: he was stuck in an elevator with the man he'd pursued for two years, fucked and promptly discarded. He'd behaved badly, and punishment had followed, as it always did. This lesson, at least, he knew well.
The doors weren't opening. The elevator sat motionless, floating in space.
Breathe.
His eyelids slid closed. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
A harsh bark of laughter shattered the near silence of the lift. Shane's eyes snapped open and fixed themselves on Rozanov like a pair of homing missiles.
Rozanov laughed again, but there was no humor on his face. The sound echoed and died, and he nodded to himself as he looked down at the floor.
“I think,” he said, “we will be late for our cue.”