Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I need to sleep.”

Shane chokes down the last of his vodka. The alcohol burns down his throat and lingers, worse than it usually does. It’s bitter enough to match Rozanov's aloof dismissal, which stings, sure, but it's fine. They're not dating and honestly, they're not even friends. Not really.

They're not really anything, if the past six months of silence means anything.

None of it matters anyway, because they didn't even kiss. He’s just a body to Rozanov, easily interchangeable with anyone else. If he hadn’t shown, Rozanov would’ve just found some other tight hole to fuck.

Which is fine because, again, they’re not anything. The second he leaves the room, Rozanov will go back to pretending he didn't exist, Shane will go back to pretending he hates Rozanov’s guts, and life will go on. Shane will plaster on a smile and pretend that he's not falling apart at the seams. He’ll pretend that every short response, ignored text, and blank expression doesn’t cut him right to the bone, and it'll be convincing, too, because that's all he does anymore.

Pretend.

His whole life, down to every last carefully curated smile, is an act. It has to be, he has to be, because if anyone knew the truth—that Shane Hollander would trade every award, every year with the C on his sleeve, and all of his Stanley Cups, for Ilya Rozanov—his whole life would come crashing down. Everything would be ruined, and all he had ever worked for would be for nothing. And Rozanov would never want him back, so it’s not worth it.

It's hard to admit that to himself, but with vodka churning in his stomach and everything he can never have right at his fingertips, he does.

For a moment, he imagines leaning over and kissing Rozanov goodnight. In this fantasy, Rozanov would welcome it. Rozanov would melt into his kiss with that satisfied, smug hum that drives him absolutely insane. And maybe, Shane could ask to stay. Maybe Rozanov could be Ilya, and Hollander could be Shane, and they could be together.

But then Rozanov blows smoke into his face because he’s an asshole and he’s trying to make Shane leave, and he knows it’ll never happen. Rozanov will never be Ilya, and he will never be Shane, no matter how much he wants it.

If he tried to kiss Rozanov now, he knows it wouldn’t go over well. Rozanov’s lip would curl up into a mean grin, one that would pierce Shane to his very core, and he would mock him for needing something as needy as a kiss goodnight.

I am not your boyfriend, Hollander.

Shane can hear the words in his head as if they'd been spoken aloud, and he would rather live in painful ignorance than hand Rozanov his heart and watch him toss it aside like it's nothing. There’s a line drawn firmly between them, keeping Shane at arms length at all times. Accessible and easy, but never close enough to cherish.

So, he does what he does best; he plays his part.

“Yeah, me too.”

The words don’t come freely, they never do. They claw and rip at his innermost desires, leaving him sore and chafed in their wake. Just like every time, he picks up the piece of his soul he placed at Rozanov’s feet and throws it away, rejected and unwanted.

So, Shane slips out of bed, sets his empty glass down on the nightstand, and walks away. He leaves Rozanov alone in bed and pretends that every fiber of his being isn’t screaming for him to turn right back around. He ignores the hollow pit in his gut and the shake of his hands as he pulls on his clothes. He grabs his jacket and his phone and his wallet, and he…waits.

For…what, exactly? For Rozanov to walk him to the door? For Rozanov to round the corner of the wall and watch him leave with a heated stare? For a kiss goodbye?

Shane shivers, scanning the very windows he felt so exposed by just an hour ago. He thought he couldn’t possibly feel more bare than when he was pinned under Rozanov’s gaze in the middle of the room wearing nothing but tight boxer briefs. He was wrong. Here, without the protection of Rozanov’s desire, he’s more vulnerable in rumpled slacks and a disheveled button up than he ever was naked.

His chest is full to bursting with feelings he's in no state to examine. Not when he’s waiting with watery eyes and shaking hands for something he can’t have. Not when he's still sticky and loose from being fucked within an inch of his life. Not when he has to sneak back to his hotel room, curl up in an empty bed, and pretend it’s exactly what he wants.

What he really wants is a distant fantasy, an absurd, perverted dream he will never fulfill.

He wants to fall asleep against Rozanov’s warm chest, wrapped up in his strong arms. He wants Rozanov to murmur soft, unintelligible words against the top of his head and he wants them to mean something. He wants to hear Rozanov's voice first thing in the morning, when it’s rough and gravelly from a long night's sleep. He wants to wake up and complain about morning breath and have Rozanov slip back inside of him where he’s slick and sore until he forgets they ever parted.

But they don’t stay. They don’t talk, they don’t kiss, and they definitely don’t like each other.

Shane sniffles, presses against his eyes until it hurts, and wishes the ground would swallow him whole. This is a uniquely humiliating experience, crying over a man he has no claim to in an obnoxious penthouse suite, all because they didn’t kiss. He’s never felt more alone in his entire life.

“Hollander? You are still there?” Rozanov calls. His words are punctuated with another billow of smoke. His voice is bored, almost cold, and Shane resents the way it punches the breath from his lungs. He should have expected this, expected Rozanov’s impatience and annoyance, but he didn’t. He thought maybe it would be different this time. Stupid.

Shane’s bottom lip trembles as he forces air into his lungs. He knows he needs to chirp back fuck off or you’re such an asshole, something that fits their careful ritual. He can’t, because the second he opens his mouth, he won’t be able to hide anymore. He can’t follow Rozanov’s lead in this ridiculous dance of theirs, not when fuck you, Rozanov drips off his tongue the same way I love you, Ilya plagues his every thought.

“Hollander?” Rozanov huffs, “Did my dick murder you?” Shane exhales and tries to muster up a response. Before he can, Rozanov is laughing under his breath. “Don’t worry, you wouldn’t be the first. Death by big cock, yes?”

Shane’s breath hitches. It’s just a chirp—it doesn’t mean anything. Rozanov is taunting him, pressing at his buttons until he gets the reaction he’s used to. He’s initiating the same sequence of steps they follow every time, the dance they have performed so many times it’s worn into their bones. Rozanov antagonizes him, Shane takes the bait, and they fall into bed together. Rozanov flirts and teases, and Shane is left giddy and reeling in the wake of it all.

Shane wants more than anything to give Rozanov what he wants. In fact, in the small, fleeting moments like this, Shane exists for nothing and no one but Rozanov and his desires. And the reminder, however small, that this Rozanov does not exist for him in the same way, breaks him.

Whatever weak hold Shane had on his self-control collapses, and the following swell of grief, shame, and guilt sends him to his knees. He hunches over himself on the floor with tears streaming down his face, certain he must be the most rotten man on the earth.

How dare he want so much? Rozanov is complex and fiery and succulent; he has everything. Shane is boring and plain and greedy; he is nothing. He is bad, deep down in his soul, because all he does is take and take, and want and want. Even when there is nothing left, Shane Hollander will still be on his knees, begging for more. He’s ungrateful, disgusting, and pathetic. He doesn’t know how Rozanov puts up with him, even for these scant stolen hours every month. Why does he keep coming back when Shane takes everything and gives nothing in return?

Even when Rozanov ignores him, he always comes back. Even tonight, Rozanov followed him into the bathroom after performing that stupid sketch with him onstage, on live television, and told him to suck his dick. Rozanov cupped him through his slacks and melted his brain and reminded him that all he will ever do is want.

Shane wants more. He wants to be kissed because he is special, and cherished. He wants to go back to when he was fucked into the bed, safe and desired and good. He wants Rozanov behind him, pinning him down with a hand between his shoulders and a hand squeezing his hip. He wants the loud slap of Rozanov’s groin against his ass, the thrust of his cock so deep inside of him that he can't breathe.

He wants Rozanov. He wants the moaned phrases he can't understand, the broken ones he can, the muttered expletives that sparks heat deep in his gut because he is being good, so good, so fucking good, such a good fucking boy—

But, he shouldn’t. He will never, ever have Rozanov. Not because of their careers, not because of their countries, and not even because they are both men. No, it’s because he is Shane Hollander—Montreal’s boring, awkward, golden-boy, who wants more than he should—and he will never, ever be enough for Ilya Rozanov.

Shane sobs into the silent, cold room. His body is acting without his permission, and it’s just another blemish in his long record of failures. Each ragged breath, each heaving cry, and each uncooperative muscle is proof that he is so bad, so deeply wrong, that his own body has betrayed him.

Sheets rustle as an object clatters across the room. Even through his thick distress, white-hot panic flares in his chest. He cannot face the consequences of his breakdown—not here, not now, and preferably not ever. Shane tries to heave himself up by scrabbling at the back of the couch to no avail. It’s fine. In the wake of this mortifying failure, what’s one more?

Rozanov did not sign up for Shane’s dysfunction, for his failure. He only signed up for a good, simple fuck, so why is it so hard for Shane to just give him that one thing? He is fucking pathetic. He is worthless and vile and repulsive, and he deserves every second of this suffering and more.

A warm hand settles against the back of his neck. On instinct, Shane leans into it and basks in the hard squeeze it earns him. It’s grounding enough to help him back into his body, but not enough to clear the thick fog of bad that nearly suffocates him.

“Hollander, breathe.”

Shane wrenches himself away from the comfort he wants so badly because Hollander is just another reminder of his place here, of what he can’t have. Shane tries to stumble in the vague direction of the door. “I'm sorry! I'm going, 'm sorry,” Shane hiccups, each word tumbling out of his mouth before he can choke them down. He tries to move faster, walk better, go further, and only manages to trip over his own feet.

With a crying yelp, he crashes to the ground—or, at least, he almost does. Before he can collide with the cold, unforgiving tile, strong arms wrap around his waist and haul him back up.

“Hollander,” Rozanov grunts, struggling to keep hold of him. Shane tries to squirm and get away, but he’s too weak and exhausted, and Rozanov is always so strong. So much stronger than him.

“I‘m sorry,” Shane cries, choking back the sobs rattling through his chest, “‘I‘m sorry, ‘m sorry. Jus–just gimme a minute ‘n I‘ll go. I‘m s’sorry…”

Rozanov spins him around and Shane’s breath hitches when he catches sight of his expression. The cold, detached facade from earlier has shattered into devastated concern. Rozanov grips Shane’s jaw to hold him in place while his eyes roam over Shane’s face. Wide, blue eyes catch on his red, tear-stained cheeks, his hitching sobs and rumbled clothes, and widen with a horrified realization.

Shane can only assume he’s finally caught onto the incessant, putrid want that oozes from his every pore. He braces for anger or disgust, maybe pity, but he was not prepared for remorse.

Rozanov’s expression crumples as he yanks Shane to his chest. Shane wants to fight it, he really, really does, but more than anything, he wants Rozanov. So, because he is weak and wretched, he clings onto Rozanov and weeps.

Rozanov murmurs under his breath and hooks his arms under Shane’s thighs before scooping him up into the air. Shane tries to fight it, tries not to melt into the embrace or tuck back into his neck or hold on. He fails at that, too.

“I'm fine, 'm fine,” Shane protests weakly, “I'm sorry, 'll leave—'ll go.” Rozanov holds onto him tight and walks them back towards the bedroom. “No. Hush,” Rozanov says, shaking his head, “You will stay.” The decisive order digs into Shane’s chest and tugs. He has, needs, wants to be good, this pitying obligation Rozanov feels towards him has to stop. He doesn’t deserve this morsel of care and he won’t survive it being stripped away from him by morning.

“No, no—I can—I can go. I’ll be fine, I’m really sorry,” Shane insists, through hitching breaths and a heavy tongue. He doesn’t deserve to get what he wants so badly. Every second he spends leeching off of Rozanov’s touch and attention stains him with his filthy, depraved want. He has to be alone, and he has to suffer, because he was bad. He earned this, all the pain that comes with it, and more.

He tries to break free, but he doesn't even manage to make Rozanov stumble. “Shh, khvatit (enough), shh,” Rozanov hushes, squeezing Shane close, “Uspokoysya, ya tebya derzhu (Calm down, I’ve got you).”

The words pour over Shane, as sweet and decadent as warm honey. He has no idea what Rozanov actually says, but his voice is so gentle and quiet where it’s murmured against the top of his head, that he can’t help but be soothed.

This doesn’t make any sense. Rozanov wanted him to leave. He was clear about that from the moment they finished, even if Shane was too oblivious to pick up on it at first.

Normally, Rozanov pushes in deep, as deep as he possibly can, before collapsing on top of Shane with a husky moan of pleasure as he cums. Shane loves the pressure, loves being split open and pinned into the mattress with nothing but Rozanov–Rozanov–Rozanov all around him. Shane loves knowing that he made Rozanov feel that way, even if it’s just for the night.

For those few, precious moments where they kiss and catch their breath, let their hands roam and check in, Shane can pretend it's all for him. Only for him.

After every time they fuck, for a few, indulgent minutes, Rozanov wraps his arms around Shane and trails gentle kisses along any bit of skin he can reach. Then he pulls out, cleans them up, showers, and comes back. Even if it's just for a precious, stolen amount of time, they hold each other, kiss and talk, share chirps and grins, kiss even more and then leave, only when the real world inevitably catches up to them.

They didn’t do any of that tonight. They didn’t even kiss, when they usually can’t keep their mouths off each other. Rozanov still fucked him good, like he always does—pounded him deep into the mattress where he is meant to be. But then Rozanov pulled out before he even caught his breath. He went to the bathroom with nothing more than a solid pat to Shane’s side, left him with his legs spread and ass in the air to collapse against the bed alone. Time slipped through Shane’s hand like grains of sand, and it felt like an eternity before Rozanov came back. He was still dripping from the shower, and tossed Shane a cold, damp rag instead of gently parting his legs and cleaning him up himself. He sat on the bed next to Shane and lit up a cigarette without saying a damn word, without reaching to pull Shane into a kiss, a hug, or anything.

He didn't even offer Shane his reward. It took Shane a full minute of swallowing back his pride and arguing with himself before he eventually asked for a glass of vodka. Rozanov hadn't done anything but raise his eyebrows and study Shane with faint air of confusion, before pouring him a small glass. Shane tried to assure himself that Rozanov wouldn't have given him the reward if was entirely undeserved, but it being given so reluctantly still stung.

Rozanov made one thing very clear: they weren't anything. Shane was something easy, all tied up in a neat little bow of mutually–assured destruction, and would be cast aside the second something better came along.

Shane jolts back into the present as he's laid onto the bed. Rozanov pulls back, makes to walk away, and Shane can’t handle being left again. “No! Please!” Shane cries, grabbing onto Rozanov with all his strength. “Shh, milyy (sweetheart), I am not going anywhere,” Rozanov soothes, rubbing his hand down Shane's side. “I just need to take your clothes off, yes?” Rozanov leans back only enough to ease Shane from his neck and look at his face.

Oh. Right.

Shane doesn't know why he thought it would be any different. This is what he wanted, to go back to earlier where he was good. He just didn't know it would hurt so much.

Shane nods and reluctantly loosens his grip. Rozanov nods back with a faint, worried smile and brushes his thumb along Shane's chin. Shane feels like a layer of his skin is peeled off when Rozanov eases himself out of his weak, stiff grasp. He lays there, limp, as Rozanov peels off his clothes with quick, gentle tugs. He even takes the time to fold them. Shane’s heart pangs at the sight and the wave of affection and fondness that swells in his chest is almost too much to bear.

Shane knows what he has to do. So, clad in nothing but his underwear, he shifts into his earlier position in the middle of the bed. Rozanov looks up and sucks in a sharp breath. Shane presses his cheek into the sheets and wiggles his hips, ass up in the air the way Rozanov likes, and tries to school his expression into something less wounded than he knows it is.

“Hollander, what are you—?”

Rozanov's jaw goes slack, something painful flashing over his face, before it's gone. Shane doesn't know what it means, but he can't make himself care. He's in Rozanov's bed like he wanted, so it doesn't matter if it's only to be used all over again. Shane will always crawl back to Rozanov, even if it breaks him every time.

But then, Rozanov’s hands are all over him again, soothing and caressing and firm. “—no, no, solnyshko (sunshine). None of that. Prosto bud’ khoroshim mal’chikom i rasslab’sya. Prosto otdokhni (Just be a good boy and relax. Just rest)." He’s so overwhelmed by the relief of Rozanov’s touch, that he doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s on his back and being covered by a soft, clean blanket.

Shane should be relieved. He didn't really want to have sex, but at least it meant he would be with Rozanov for just a little longer. Tears spill down his cheeks before he can blink them away. “I'm sorry,” Shane whispers, sniffling quietly. Rozanov pauses, his hands twitching briefly against Shane’s skin, before he resumes his soft, petting motions. “Don't be,” Rozanov murmurs, shaking his head. Shane doesn’t understand why he shouldn’t be sorry, but he nods anyway. All he knows is that he has to keep being good, being perfect so that Rozanov might let him stay.

Rozanov smiles that soft, boyish grin that Shane has only seen flashes of, and cups his cheek. “Khoroshiy malchik. Good boy,” Rozanov praises, dragging his thumb across Shane's damp freckles. Shane freezes, his heart pounding in his chest. “I'm…good?” Shane asks, so giddy with hope he feels like he could fly. There's another flicker of something he can't name across Rozanov’s face before it's gone again. “Sheyn, ty vsegda khoroshiy mal’chik. Moy khoroshiy mal’chik (Shane, you’re always a good boy. My good boy). Always, Shane. Always,” Rozanov whispers, pushing his hand back until it cards through Shane's hair.

Shane. Shane, Shane, Shane. Shane.

A piece of his heart he didn’t even know he was missing slots into place when his name leaves Rozanov's—Ilya’s—mouth. Shane always thought hearing it would hit him hard and painful, like a punch to the face or a gunshot to his chest. He’s thought about it more times than he can count. But nothing breaks, shatters, or collapses. The tightness in his chest eases, like Ilya's whispered Shane actually reached inside of him and unwound the knot wrapped around his heart.

Ilya pets through Shane's hair and bends down to his eye level. “I will get you water and a snack now, yes?” Shane just smiles at being so close to him again. “M’kay,” Shane agrees, leaning forward into his space.

Except, their foreheads don’t press together, and Ilya’s hand isn’t in his hair anymore. Shane watches helplessly as Ilya walks away. His eyes water, but Ilya’s back is to him. He can’t see the way Shane weakly reaches out, grasping for him. Shane sniffles and buries his face in the mattress and tries, fruitlessly, to ease the hollow ache in his chest with the smell of Ilya’s expensive cologne and cigarette smoke.

A moment later, Ilya’s warm, gentle fingers curl against his scalp, and he sags with relief. He came back.

“Hey, moy lyubimyy (my beloved), can you sit up for me?” Shane sniffles and pushes himself up, wiping away stray tears, before pulling his knees up to his chest to negate the persistent ache in his limbs. Ilya’s hands follow his every move, guiding and careful. It does more than he will ever know.

“Good. That is it, Shane. Very good,” Ilya murmurs quietly, and slips into bed next to him, “Ya znayu, eto tyazhelo, no ty takoy khoroshiy mal’chik dlya menya (I know this is hard, but you’re being such a good boy for me).” Shane basks in the praise and attention, even if he can’t understand it all. The fog wrapped around him is starting to clear. Each scrap of Ilya’s attention is a breeze, gently blowing it away.

Ilya pulls him between his spread legs, rearranging them to lay with Shane’s back to his chest. Shane hums happily and sinks against Ilya’s warm, strong body. “There. Good boy. I have you now,” Ilya murmurs. The kind words coax him into eating a stale protein bar and drinking some cold water. He hadn’t even realized how hungry and thirsty he was until Ilya was satiating it. Each small bite and slow sip coaxes him back to the surface, disperses the fog in his mind, and eases the ache in his chest.

He’s not sure when Ilya discards the food and water, if he even ate and drank it all, but that’s okay. He doesn’t need to know. He is full, warm, and sleepy. Ilya shifts them onto their sides, and they slot together under the covers in the safety of the dark. Shane thinks he must not be so rotten, so bad, if Ilya is still with him.

“Da, spi, milyy mal’chik. Vs’o v poryadke. Prosto spi. Mne ochen’ zhal’ (Yes, sleep, sweet boy. Everything is alright. Just sleep. I’m so sorry).”

Just the sound of Ilya’s voice is enough to make Shane’s eyes flutter shut. He’s safe here, in Ilya’s arms. This is everything he wanted and more. He doesn’t have to be or do anything in this moment. He is just Shane, and Ilya is just Ilya. He can let go.

“You’re so good, Shane. You can rest now. I’m here,” Ilya whispers, kissing the top of his head. Ilya rubs his palm over his chest, squeezing at one of his pecs, before settling again. Shane smiles and sinks against Ilya with a content sigh, and falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Early morning sun streams through the windows when Shane wakes up, sleep-mussed and tangled in the blankets. His body aches like he was ran over by a truck. He pushes himself upright and wipes the sleep from his eyes. He’s alone.

Where the hell is Ilya? He didn’t leave for his flight without saying goodbye…did he? Could he? Shane slips out of bed and shuffles around the corner to find out.

A warm chuckle greets him as he steps into the main room. “Good morning, sonya (sleepyhead).”

Shane’s face flushes as he startles, eyes widening as he takes in the picture Ilya makes, sprawled out along the leather couch in nothing but sweatpants. Ilya grins knowingly and winks, tucking his arm behind his head to mess with his sleep-touseled hair as he returns to scrolling on his phone. His golden necklace glints against his bare chest. He’s absolutely breathtaking, just like always, and Shane feels almost feral with want. His heart aches with it.

He’s not trapped in the same thick, terrifying fog he was last night, but he still feels…off. Everything is a little dull and bland, like someone took everything in the room and wrung them out. He’s not sure where he stands with Ilya. He saw a side of himself, and Ilya, that he didn’t even know was there. He was spiraling, lost in self-deprecation, and out of control, and it was scary. But it was also nice to be taken care of.

Now he doesn’t have that fog to justify wanting more. Now, he is back to being his selfish, gluttonous self. He has no real claim to Ilya, even the one he had the night before was flimsy at best. Ilya’s tender, gentle care was given out of misplaced generosity and obligation. Was that Ilya a glitch? Or, does he only get that side of Ilya when he is lost to despair? He hopes not, but he understands. It’s more than he deserves.

Ilya clears his throat, dragging Shane back into the present. Shane flushes even darker with embarrassment, realizing he’s still in the middle of the room. An awkward beat passes before Ilya sets his phone aside and gestures for Shane to come closer.

“How are you feeling?”

Shane, mortifyingly aware of every inch of his exposed skin, gingerly sits down. Ilya smiles like he’s equal parts amused and concerned, and quirks an eyebrow after another long, silent pause.

“Shane?” Ilya probes, shifting closer.

“Oh, uh, I’m fine? Yeah, fine, I guess,” Shane stammers, internally wincing at his fumbling words. This is almost as humiliating as last night’s breakdown. Ilya laughs through his nose, and tilts his head as if to say really? Shane rolls his eyes and takes a long, deep breath in an attempt to calm down. His heart pounds away in his chest, threatening to break through his ribs, and shivers run down his spine as nerves prickle the hairs on the back of his neck. Nothing has to be any different, it’s just Ilya. Or, is it Rozanov again? He’s not sure, but Rozanov called him Shane so…maybe he’s still Ilya?

Shane exhales deeply and straightens his shoulders. It’s time to be brave. He looks over to find Ilya already watching him. He’s leaning back with his legs splayed comfortably apart and an arm thrown across the back of the couch. He’s a picture of casual, calm, and composed. Shane seethes with jealousy and want. Ilya scratches his bare chest, the only hint that he’s less put-together than he appears. Shane ogles the span of his pecs as he does, tracing the path of his fingers with greedy eyes. He burns with the urge to lean forward and bury his face against them.

“Shane?” Ilya says, placing his hand just above Shane’s knee and squeezing gently, “What is it? Is okay, you can tell me.” The soothing gesture is exactly what he needed, a balm that settles his nerves and softens his rough edges. Ilya squeezes his leg again, dragging his thumb back in forth in soft, slow strokes.

“I’m tired. And…embarrassed,” Shane admits. “I don’t know why I—or–or really what even happened.” Ilya stiffens, stops smoothing his thumb over Shane’s skin, and turns towards him. “You don’t know what happened last night?”

Shane shrinks under his scrutiny. “No. Not—not really,” Shane mumbles. He wraps his fingers around the edge of the couch cushion and balls his hand into a fist. He squeezes his hand until it hurts, until his knuckles creak, and then he squeezes harder. He channels as much of his emotion into his fist, into the pressure, the give, and the force, before releasing it. It helps him cope when too many feelings crowd in around him and he wants to punch and scream until they go away.

He wishes he hadn’t gotten so lost last night. If he had just made it out the door, none of this would be happening. He would’ve never gotten a real taste of what he can’t have. It would’ve stayed a distant, unobtainable thought, rather than a tangible, ravenous pit of hunger inside of him. He wouldn’t be another problem for Ilya to deal with.

Ilya sighs and scrubs his hand over his face, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Hurt claws its way up the back of Shane’s throat, but he can’t blame Ilya for being annoyed with him. Ilya’s had to pick up all the pieces of Shane’s mess and now he can’t even tell him why it happened.

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “No, Sha—”

“—Ilya, please, just let me…let me say this. I know last night was a lot. That I was a lot,” Shane says, shame curdling in his gut. “You wanted to sleep, but you ended up taking care of me and I shouldn’t have…put all of that on you. It wasn’t your problem to deal with. I’m sorry.” Shane sniffles and wipes at the tears pooling in his eyes. He hopes Ilya can forgive him.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya curses weakly, burying his head in his hands. Shane opens his mouth, unsure of what to say, when Ilya’s shoulders heave and he curls forward over his knees. Is he…crying? He made Ilya cry? Shane could choke on how horrified he is.

“Hey,” Shane soothes, a bit awkwardly, as he scoots next to Ilya. They’re only a hair’s breath apart, one miniscule shift away from touching. He stills with his hand hovering over Ilya’s shaking back, unsure if he is allowed to comfort him or not. Would that help? Would it make it worse? He doesn’t know the rules he’s supposed to follow in this situation because he’s never been in it before. He doesn’t know what to do, and he feels helpless.

“I’m sorr—”

“No! No, no, stop it,” Ilya yells. Shane flinches back, shocked at the loud and sudden outburst. Ilya’s eyes are red and watery, his cheeks flushed with emotion, but the curl of his mouth is angry. “Stop it, Shane! Please, you are killing me!” Ilya begs, and his voice gives out at halfway through, making his words come out raspy and weak. “I—I…uh,” Shane breathes, mouth hanging open uselessly. He doesn’t understand what is happening right now. What did he possibly do or say that made Ilya feel so much he cried?

“What? What is—I–I don’t know…what to say,” Shane croaks. Ilya’s anger turns pained, and he looks away as a lone tear streaks down his cheek. Ilya shakes his head, then turns back to Shane with a soft sniffle. “How can you possibly think this is your fault?” Ilya says, reaching out and clasping Shane’s hands with a desperation Shane has never seen before.

Shane swallows harshly and glances away. Ilya squeezes his hands, but he refuses to look at him. He can’t have this conversation. Not here, not now, not ever.

Ilya grasps his chin to guides his face back towards him. Shane squeezes his eyes shut and fights every single instinct in his body that screams at him to sink into the firm, claiming touch. He can’t give in. If he opens his eyes, he will fall apart. The thin thread that’s keeping him together will snap, and all his layers of protection will slough off to reveal his bleeding, aching heart. His wants—his impossible, selfish wants—will be out in the open, exposed for Ilya to see. Ilya will leave when he confronts the reality of all that Shane entails, and he will never survive the rejection. He can’t lose Ilya. He just can’t.

“Look at me,” Ilya says, swiping his thumb across Shane’s chin. Shane shakes his head as much as he can. “Shane. Shane,” Ilya pleads, leaning in close. Shane’s bottom lip wobbles as he fights with himself, but in the end, Ilya wins. He will always win.

They lock eyes, and Shane breaks. The concern and care in Ilya’s gaze is too much. He can see right through Shane and into his very soul. Shane waits for the moment it clicks, for when Ilya sees who he really is and what he really wants, and sees that he is flawed right to his very bones. It never comes. Ilya looks right into his heart, his soul, and stays.

“Oh, kotyonok (kitten)…” Ilya murmurs sadly, “Here, come here. Let me hold you.” Ilya wraps his arms around Shane and pulls him into a warm, soothing hug. Shane buries his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck and cries quietly, muffling the sad sobs against his warm skin.

“This isn’t your fault, Shane. You did nothing wrong. Nothing,” Ilya whispers, rubbing up and down his back as he gently rocks them back and forth. Shane shakes his head, but Ilya is already there, shushing him quietly.

“No, it’s true. Last night wasn’t your fault, it was mine. All of it.”

Shane makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, and Ilya sighs, burying his face in Shane’s soft hair. “We did something new last night, yes?”

Shane nods hesitantly. It was a little scary at first. He didn’t know what to do or even why Ilya would want to see him like that, but then…it was nice. Under Ilya’s sharp, heady attention, he felt sexy and coveted. He’s not used to arousal being shown so plainly, just through the act of watching. It was a lot, but in a good way. He got lost in it, swept up in the tsunami of pleasure that is Ilya Rozanov. Then it was over, and everything changed. Ilya didn’t want him anymore, and he started doubting if he ever really did. He felt so ashamed for ever thinking he did a good job, when it was so clear he didn’t.

“I didn’t give you what you needed after. I made you feel low, very low, because of that. It was my fault, not yours,” Ilya explains. Shane gnaws on his bottom lip and hides against Ilya’s chest. “But…I liked what we did. I just overreacted. I shouldn’t have expected to get it right on the, uh, the…well, you know.”

Ilya pushes Shane out of his arms, his face slack with disbelief. Shane sniffles and wipes off his damp cheeks, feeling more and more pitiful by the minute. Ilya softens and shifts closer, taking over his movements with a gentle swat. “You did not overreact,” Ilya corrects, pursing his lips consideringly, “But, I do not know what you mean by ‘get it right’. I told you, you did nothing wrong.”

Shane flushes as humiliation prickles under his skin and spreads across his whole body. “I just meant that I know I didn’t really…perform…very well.” He pauses, hoping that is clear enough. Ilya raises an eyebrow, so Shane sighs and grits his teeth. “I didn’t live up to your expectations or whatever. When I was touching myself.” Ilya’s jaw drops as he begins to shake his head, but Shane keeps going. “And then when we had sex after I kinda just…laid there. I just wasn’t good at it, at, uh, pleasing you. I really did try, but it’s—it’s fine. I’ll get better for you. If—if you still…want that. Me, I mean.” Shane clears his throat and, mortifyingly, finds himself on the verge of tears again. While the words might be true, it doesn’t mean he’s any less ashamed of them.

Ilya exhales shakily, and Shane’s heart stops as he watches a tear slip down his cheek. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Shane says, “Please don’t cry—”

“—You really think that?” Ilya asks, voice breaking. Shane hesitates before waving the question away. "It's fine. It’s—it’s okay. It’s just the truth.”

“No!” Ilya argues, “No, this is not okay. None of this is okay.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say. Sure, Ilya told him he was good when he was having a literal breakdown, but that doesn’t mean anything. Ilya was just trying to calm him down, he didn’t actually believe what he was saying. Ilya can deny it all he wants, but Shane knows the truth.

“Shane,” Ilya says, “You are so good for me, you have no idea. You are—you are too good for me. I don’t ever want you to think differently. I need you to tell me what I did, what I said that made you feel this way so I never do it again. Please, tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Shane mumbles, “I just wasn’t good enough. I didn’t—I didn’t earn it.” Ilya tilts his head and furrows his brows. “Earn it? What are you talking about?” Ilya asks incredulously.

“The vodka,” Shane snaps, “I had to ask for the stupid vodka.”

Shane slams his mouth closed and pulls away, out of Ilya’s grip. “I…I do not understand,” Ilya whispers, “...you don't like vodka, so I did not offer. This is what made you think you were not good?” Shane squeezes his eyes shut and braces against the humiliation rushing through his veins. “It was my reward. I had to ask for it. I…I wasn’t good enough to earn it.”

Silence settles over them, thick and heavy. Shane feels pinned beneath it. Ilya exhales, and looks just as broken as Shane feels. His jaw is clenched tight, his brows are pinched, and his eyes are red with unshed tears. Ilya reaches out, slow enough so Shane can stop him if he wants, and wraps him up in another hug. Shane lies against him stiffly, sniffling and scrunching his face to choke down the urge to cry. It feels like all he can do now is cry, he’s done it so many times in the past few hours that he’s not sure how he has any tears left.

“I am so sorry,” Ilya breathes, pressing the words into the top of his head. “You are so good for me. Last night was incredible, sweetheart. You were so good. So pretty and so brave. You don’t know how much I think of you. Ne khvatit slov, chtoby opisat’, naskol’ko ty sovershenen. Ty svodish’ menya s uma, Sheyn, blyat’. Ya dumayu tol’ko o tebe. Ty dlya menya vs’o. Ty zastavlyayesh’ menya chuvstvovat’ bezopasnosti kogda moya zhizn’ rushitsya. Ya tak poteryan v tebe. Ya tvoy, a ty dumayesh’, chto ty mne dazhe ne nravish’sya? Mne tak zhal’. Ya nikogda ne proshchu sebe etogo. Mne tak zhal’ (There aren’t enough words to describe how perfect you are. You drive me fucking crazy, Shane. You’re all I think about. You’re everything to me. You make me feel safe when my life is falling apart. I’m so lost in you. I’m yours, but you think that I don’t even like you? I’m so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for doing this to you. I’m so sorry).

Shane loses the battle against his tears, again. He doesn't even understand half the things that were said to him, but the emotion in Ilya's voice did the talking for him. He holds onto Ilya as hard as he can, though he will never get close enough. The only way would be to fuse together into one mind, one heart, and one soul.

Ilya thinks he is good, pretty, and brave. Ilya called him sweetheart. Even in Russian, the words rolled off his tongue thick and sweet with passion and remorse. Shane’s overwhelmed just thinking about what he must’ve said.

“I was teasing,” Ilya explains after a beat. “You do not drink much or really like the taste. I shouldn't have said it, not when I know how much you like being a good boy. I wasn't thinking.” Shane swallows back the argument on the tip of his tongue because he’s right. He just doesn’t like to drink, not very often, and Ilya paid enough attention to him to know it. It means that Ilya makes the same little mental notes that Shane does whenever he unlocks something new about Ilya. It means that on some base level, even if it is not on the same as his own, Ilya cares about him.

“Yeah. It wasn’t about the vodka or—or even the reward,” Shane admits, “I just wanted to know I was good for you. That you…wanted me, too.”

Ilya cups the side of Shane’s face that isn't buried against his chest, and presses down with the perfect amount of pressure to keep him right where he wants to be. Shane loses himself in it for a moment, high off the drag of Ilya’s palm against his cheek and the brush of his fingers along his jaw, ear, and brow. Ilya caresses any other bit of skin he could possibly reach.

“You are very good for me, Shane. You always are. And…I do. Want you. Ya khochu tebya vso vremya. Ty—kazhdaya moya mysl’, kazhdoye moyo chuvstvo, kazhdyy moy vzdokh. Ya toskuyu po tebe kazhdyy den’ i mechtayu o tebe kazhduyu noch’. Ya ne znayu, chto s soboy delat’. Ya ne znayu, kak ot etogo izbavit’sya. Ya ne khochu, chtoby eto ischezlo (I want you all the time. You’re my every thought, my every feeling, my every breath. I miss you every day and dream about you every night. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to get rid of this. I don’t want this to go away).”

The softly spoken words rain over Shane like the soothing rush of a hot shower. He shivers under their unrelenting pelting, each word washing away the ugly feelings of the night before.

“Really?” Shane asks, his voice wobbling. All the time he wasted wrestling with his feelings, trying to beat them into submission, Ilya wanted him back. How many times did they wake up alone and think of each other? How many times did Ilya type out a message only to never hit send? How many times did they scroll through their texts at the same time, consumed with the memory of each other? He feels faint, weak, at the thought.

“Yes. Really,” Ilya says, thumbing away the stray tear that slips down Shane’s cheek. Shane’s breath hitches. “But…but you…we…” he trails off, too overwhelmed for words. Ilya tugs him into his lap with one smooth motion and tips his chin back up. “Tell me. Is okay.”

“You didn’t even kiss me,” Shane admits, with a hitched breath. Ilya’s expression crumples and for a moment he sits with the words, watching Shane with wide, distressed eyes. Shane wants to take it back. He should make a joke or say he was kidding—he should do something to make the hurt in Ilya’s eyes go away.

Before he can, Ilya tugs him into a kiss. He gasps and shivers, humming into the firm press of Ilya’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” Ilya mumbles, only breaking away long enough to force the words out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Ilya’s next few kisses are fervent and searching, like he is trying to find solace with each soft slip of his tongue. Shane eagerly kisses back with everything he has, warmth buzzing under his skin.

Ilya’s lips are heated as they capture Shane’s again and again and again, until his cheeks are burning and his heart is pounding in his chest. With every kiss and caress, a jagged piece of his heart is eased back into place.

They break apart with spit-slick mouths and breathless gasps only when they absolutely have to, lingering with their foreheads pressed together. Ilya peppers a few more pecks across his cheeks and the corner of his mouth, and Shane thinks he might pass out from the euphoria singing in his veins.

“I didn’t kiss you because I wouldn’t have been able to stop.” Ilya shamefully admits the words in whispered breaths between dizzying presses of his lips and tongue. Shane bites Ilya’s bottom lip a little too hard in retaliation and grins at his hissed groan. “I didn’t want you to stop,” Shane says, soothing his sore lip with a soft kiss, “I don’t want you to stop.”

“Bozhe moy (My god),” Ilya murmurs, “Ya obozhayu tebya. Ya khochu tebya bol’she vsego na svete. Prosti, chto ya prichinil tebe bol’. Ya tebya ne zasluzhivayu (I adore you. I want you more than anything in the world. I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t deserve you).”

“What—what are you saying?” Shane asks, sucking in a deep breath as Ilya whispers and kisses down his neck. Ilya pulls back after a gentle nip and cups Shane’s face again. After a moment, he shakes his head. “Hey, hey. It’s okay,” Shane whispers, carding his fingers through the soft curls at the base of Ilya’s neck. Ilya smiles sadly, eyes brimming with tears, and Shane can’t take it anymore. He wraps his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and hugs him as tight as he can. Ilya lets himself cry into the safety of Shane’s chest, and clings back just as hard.

“I want you, too, Ilya,” Shane whispers against the top of his head. “I’ve wanted you for a long fucking time.” Ilya, if it’s even possible, squeezes him tighter. It’s difficult for Shane to breathe, but he doesn’t care. He’ll pass out before he tells Ilya to let him go.

“I don't deserve you,” Ilya mumbles. Shane’s heart shatters at the broken, hurt words. “Please don’t say that. That's not true.” Ilya pulls back with a skeptical huff, peering up at Shane through his tears. “I’m serious,” Shane whispers, thumbing away the wetness under his eyes with the softest touch he can muster, “If I deserve you, then you deserve me.” Ilya shakes his head slowly as a tear slides down his cheek. “You deserve much, much better than me.”

“Stop it,” Shane chides gently, shaking his head, “I want to be with you, that’s what matters.” Ilya swallows back whatever protests he must have, and softly pecks Shane's mouth. He keeps Shane close and whispers, “I want to be with you, too.” Shane smiles warmly, leaning in for another kiss. Ilya brushes their lips together, coaxing a soft gasp from Shane, and traces his tongue along the seam of his mouth. Shane slides his hands back to grasp at Ilya’s hair, moaning quietly at the languid drag of Ilya’s tongue against his.

Shane pulls back first, dazed and reluctant, but stops Ilya from chasing him for more with a hand against his chest. Ilya raises his eyebrows curiously, worry forming a slight pinch between them. Shane presses a kiss to his forehead to reassure him. “I’m good, I just…I’m not up for more, right now.”

Ilya’s face relaxes and he nods, rubbing soothingly up and down his back. “Of course, lyubimyy (beloved). Do you need anything?”

“I’m exhausted,” Shane admits, with a sheepish laugh. All of the emotions of the past twenty four hours have taken their toll on his body, and fatigue is setting in.

Ilya nods, hooks his arms under Shane’s thighs, and stands up from the couch. Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and lets himself be carried into the bedroom and laid on the mattress. Shane shifts onto his side and tugs at Ilya’s arm until he gets the message and curls up behind him.

“Can we stay like this, until we have to go,” Shane whispers, as his eyes grow heavy. Ilya hums and kisses the back of his neck, his soft exhale tickling the skin there. “Da, milyy mal’chik (Yes, sweet boy). I will wake you when it is time.”

Shane squeezes Ilya’s arm thankfully and lets his eyes flicker closed. It’s easy to drift off like this, with all of Ilya’s warm, bare skin pressed against his back, and his arm wrapped tight around his waist. He’s not sure he’s ever felt so content, so right in his entire life. He knows that soon he’ll have to get up and say goodbye, but for now he gets to lay in the arms of the man he’s wanted more than anything else, secure in the knowledge that he’s wanted right back.