Chapter Text
———
I don’t have a toothbrush.
The thought had been swirling around in Shane’s head for the last ten minutes after the high of his second orgasm left him. He’s tucked back into Rozanov’s side, just like before, staring sightlessly at the television. Because Rozanov hasn’t asked him to leave yet. He also hasn’t cleaned up the dinner plates. Shane is starting to get the impression that when he asked him to stay, he meant the whole night.
But Shane doesn’t have a toothbrush.
Rozanov’s hand moves to his hair, stroking absently like this is something they do all the time and not what it really is: both of them standing on the other side of an invisible barrier. Shane shrinking and unsure, Rozanov pretending nothing is wrong.
He doesn’t have a toothbrush.
“It is late, we should sleep,” Rozanov says suddenly.
Shane’s heart jumps uncertainly as he nods. Sure, yeah. It’s late. Rozanov’s hand is firm when he grabs Shane’s wrist, tugging him upright, giving him a careless smile before starting to lead back to the bedroom. Where they had sex already. Where Shane’s cum stains the sheets.
“I don’t have a toothbrush,” he blurts out, toes digging into the soft rug underneath his feet, resisting Rozanov’s tugging.
“What?”
“I don’t have a toothbrush.”
“Okay, so you use mine.”
“No!” Shane says, scandalized.
Rozanov is facing him now, one hand reaching up to cup Shane’s jaw. His tone is teasing, but the grip on his face is firm, his eyes a little… wary maybe.
“Then use toothpaste and your finger.”
Shane’s nose wrinkles.
“Oh my god, Hollander,” Rozanov says. “Is not a big deal, I will get you stupid toothbrush.”
“What?” Shane blinks. He’s not going to share Rozanov’s toothbrush—
“There is store down the street, I will go get one.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. That’s um. I could just—”
I could leave.
Rozanov's expression shifts, like he heard him. Shane stares at him, waiting. Then Rozanov pats him lightly on the cheek, pulling away.
“Stay right there,” he says. “I will be back in few minutes. Do not move. Is not big deal.”
Helplessly, Shane watches him move away, hands hanging stupidly by his side as he sees Rozanov grab his wallet and head for the door. He turns before he leaves, like he’s checking to make sure Shane is still there. The serious expression on his face snaps away as soon as he sees Shane is looking back at him. He sends him another smile, then leaves. Leaves Shane in his apartment.
Alone.
He’s standing stalk still in his living room in front of the couch they had sex on. Not moving a muscle. Because Rozanov said “do not move”. Shane is pretty sure he didn’t mean it like that. But for some reason it feels safe to just stand exactly where Rozanov left him, listening to the television which is still on, thinking about the uncertain expression on the other man’s face that had been quickly wiped away by a teasing smile.
Shane doesn’t really know what’s going on. Is stuck somewhere between, this is a perfectly normal thing and this is not normal for us. People sleep over with their hookups. It’s a normal thing to do. Not that he’s ever done it. But that’s what the walk of shame thing is, right? Suddenly, his cheeks flush hot. That’s what he’ll be doing in the morning. Wearing yesterday's clothes, a pleasant ache in his body, showing back up to his hotel room. Hayden will tease him. Then he’ll go to the shower and—
Shane squirms, hand fluttering to the front of his pants. Rozanov will fuck him in the morning again. That’s what he pretty much said. That’s why he wants him to stay. Shane’s mouth starts to water, stupid pathetic dick already interested. He wants that. Wants to wake up and be fucked through the mattress and then see him later and beat Rozanov on the ice.
His body feels a little stiff from staying in one place, so he bends his knees slightly and then straightens again, not moving his feet. He’s staying exactly where he’s supposed to. Not moving an inch. Shane breathes in slowly, not touching himself—
There’s a sound outside and then the door clicks open, Rozanov hurrying inside, eyes frantically darting around before landing on Shane. He stops short, the door closing behind him.
“You— you did not move,” he says, mouth slightly parted.
“You told me to stay here,” Shane whispers, feeling kind of dumb and embarrassed. But also not, because Rozanov looks like he wants to bend him over the couch and make him scream in a way that always makes Shane blush with mortification when he remembers it later when he’s alone. And then frantically get off to the memory. Fuck, he wants to touch himself so damn bad.
Rozanov says something in Russian, dropping the plastic bag on the ground and rushing towards Shane, hand cupping his face, looking elated.
“Of course, and you listen because you are a good boy.”
“Shut up,” Shane says weakly, traitorous cock twitching, mouth so fucking empty.
“Knees, Hollander.”
Shane moans, immediately buckling to the floor and pressing his open mouth to the bulge in Rozanov’s pants. Sucking at him eagerly through the rough denim, begging.
“Fuck.”
Shane fumbles for his button and zipper, ridiculously happy to get Rozanov’s cock back in his mouth.
“Sit back, mouth open.”
He obeys, looking up, a little confused. He wants to suck it. Rozanov’s eyes are wide, his face flushed, mouth parted, one hand wrapping around his cock, the other going to Shane’s hair.
“I am going to fuck your face.”
Shane’s eyelashes flutter, mouth immediately opening wider, knowing Rozanov isn’t going to give him too much. Trusting that it’s going to be okay. Rozanov groans, moving forward slowly, feeding his cock into his mouth, the fist wrapped around his shaft bumping into Shane’s lips. He starts an easy rhythm, never shoving too far in, just rocking into Shane’s mouth easily, filling him up over and over.
Shane’s eyes close, accepting the slide of Rozanov’s cock, messy saliva starting to drip down his chin, breathing shakily through his nose, calmed by the gentle drag of Rozanov’s fingers through his hair, the soft hitching sound of Russian words, floating above him as he’s fucked so nicely. His mind is perfectly blank, cock hard and aching and untouched between his legs. There's nothing else. Just Rozanov’s cock stretching his mouth wide.
He kind of never wants it to end.
———
They get back to the bedroom eventually. Because after his third orgasm and almost falling asleep in Rozanov’s arms after, Shane really is ready for bed.
“The bed is dirty, I know,” Rozanov says, teasing. “I will change sheets. Do not worry, Hollander.”
Rozanov moves out of the room, leaving Shane standing stupidly alone, fingers tightening on the cheap plastic he’s holding like a lifeline. He looks at Shane briefly when coming back, a casual smile immediately leaping back onto his face, hands full of bedding.
“Do you want help?” Shane asks quickly, trying to ease the buzz of nerves running through his body.
“No,” Rozanov says simply.
Shane stays rooted to the spot.
He doesn’t have his pajamas. He doesn’t have anything. Except for the new toothbrush he’s clutching in his hand. It’s fine. He can borrow some. It’s not a big deal. He doesn’t need his pajamas. Or his socks. Or his underwear. Or his own toothbrush that’s sitting safely back in his hotel room.
“Can I borrow pajamas?” He asks, watching Rozanov tuck in sheets and toss the comforter carelessly back onto his big bed.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says, straightening and turning towards him with a shit eating grin on his face.
Oh shit. Shane’s cheeks flare with heat.
“You wear pajamas?” Rozanov asks, delighted. “What color are they? Do they have little buttons that go down the front? Do you wear one of those hats?”
“Fuck off, I meant like sweats or a t-shirt or something.”
“No! You wear actual pajamas, yes?”
“Can I borrow some sweats and a t-shirt?” Shane asks, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth despite himself. He should throw the toothbrush at Rozanov, see if he can dodge it.
“I want to see your little pajamas.”
Shane tries to glare. Rozanov moves to his dresser, pulling out some sweatpants and a t-shirt, then opens another drawer and grabs some underwear and a pair of socks. Shane accepts them and moves to the bathroom, feeling strangely self-conscious. Quickly, he showers, cheeks a little warm when he slips into Rozanov’s clothes. They don’t fit quite right, but the socks are soft and comfortable. He brushes his teeth with maybe too much vigor, staring at himself in the mirror, trying not to think too hard.
He’s never actually slept in the same bed as someone else. Shane had a girlfriend in high school, but obviously she never slept over. His parents wouldn’t have allowed that. Shane spits out the toothpaste, straightening the black t-shirt, trying again to convince himself this isn’t a big deal. It’s not. It’s just. A thing. So they can fuck more. And then fuck again in the morning. Are they going to fuck now? Should he have not taken a shower yet?
Shane wipes his hands on his borrowed sweats, turning to face the door back to the bedroom. Rozanov is under the covers, looking down at his phone. He flashes Shane a smile before rolling out of bed, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. Because Rozanov doesn’t wear pajamas. He grabs something from the dresser, then passes Shane into the bathroom and he’s alone again.
Shane slides under the sheets, folding his hands carefully, staring up at the ceiling, heart thumping in his chest. He counts his breaths, listening to the sound of the shower in the other room. This is so normal. He’s normal. This is fine. Should he be getting naked right now? Are they going to fuck again? He’s kind of exhausted. Shane doesn’t move.
The door opens and Rozanov yawns loudly. The light switches off and the bed sinks on the other side. Shane slowly rubs his feet together, listening to the deep, even way Rozanov breathes in the darkness.
“Hollander, you think so fucking loud. Shut up.”
Shane huffs out a laugh.
He closes his eyes.
———
He doesn’t know where he is, who’s touching him. It’s dark. This isn’t his hotel room with Hayden—
Shane’s heart is beating frantically in his chest. He sits up abruptly. Rozanov is in bed with him, arm stretched out across the sheets, fingers brushing Shane’s hip, eyes closed in sleep. Because Rozanov asked him to stay. Had carefully made him a tuna melt and watched him drink the ginger ale he got specifically for Shane. Had— had gone out to buy him a toothbrush, had changed the dirty sheets, had given Shane socks.
This isn’t. He doesn’t know what it is. His stomach feels weird, body flushing hot like he has a fever. Fuck. He can’t get sick before tomorrow’s game. He feels like he’s going to faint or something. This isn’t how it is. It can’t be. Because they don’t do this. Because Shane kissed him on the forehead and then Rozanov didn’t speak to him for six months. Because they aren’t. They destroy each other on the ice. Shane can’t. He can’t. Because Rozanov doesn’t. But also Shane can’t—
His feet make a loud thumping noise as he rolls out of bed, slightly dizzy. He hates throwing up. There’s a sound of rustling sheets behind him.
“Hollander?”
“I— I think I have the flu,” he blurts out, moving quickly towards the bathroom.
Shane flicks on the light, eyes meeting his own panicked expression in the mirror. He’s not exactly going to throw up, but he probably has a fever. He feels so hot. Shane pulls at his shirt, hating the way his heart is beating. He slumps onto the floor, pressing his hands against the blessedly cold tiles.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says sharply, appearing in the doorway, dropping to the floor in front of Shane, still in just his underwear.
I can’t suck your dick now, I’ll throw up on it.
“I’m fine,” Shane says. “I think I’m just sick or something.”
“You are not fine, you are panicking,” Rozanov says.
Shane’s brows furrow, breath coming out short and sharp as if to punctuate Rozanov’s blunt statement.
“It is okay, Hollander,” he says softly, fingers curling into fists by his side like he wants to punch something. “You are okay.”
Shane shakes his head. This isn’t okay. He needs to think. How could he let this happen?
“You are breathing too fast, slow breathing.”
“Easy for you to say, asshole,” Shane snaps.
“Yes, I am asshole, tell me more.”
Shane’s mind stumbles on his racing thoughts. Tell me more. Well there’s lots more. Rozanov is irritating and just—
“I don’t— um you just aren’t nice.”
“Nice?” Rozanov snorts. “No, I am not nice good boy like Canada's Shane Hollander. I do not make perfume commercials and look pretty on freeway posters and—”
Shane laughs, the tight squeeze in his chest lessons slightly as his breathing starts to settle. Rozanov’s shoulders lower, a soft almost boyish smile coming to his face. The silence starts to stretch between them. Because they shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be doing this.
“What is wrong?” Rozanov asks immediately, like he sees the change in Shane’s expression.
His heart isn’t squeezing in his chest anymore, but some other emotion is welling. One Shane tries not to touch. Because it burns. He tries not to think about those long months, staring at one sided text messages, stomach twisting with shame and loneliness and hurt. And since then, how he’d been so careful after that night in Vegas. To not let something like that happen again. Because he doesn’t want to lose this. Whatever sliver of Rozanov he gets. Because he needs—
“Are you–”
He stops. Humiliated. Frustrated by how close he is to tears. He hates how easily he cries. Hates how Rosanov is looking at him, face guarded and distant now. Like maybe he knows what he’s going to ask. Shane bets he never cries.
“What?” Rozanov asks. “Tell me, Hollander.”
And he will. Because he’ll do whatever Rozanov asks, for as long as he asks it. Which is so fucking pathetic. Shane should have realized it was this bad earlier. But it feels too good and he doesn’t want to let it go. Can’t let it go.
Shane takes a breath.
“Are you going to not talk to me for six months after tonight like you did last time it– it was like this?” Shane whispers, unable to say it louder.
Last time it was like this. In my bed, after my first time. When it got too– too. Shane doesn’t know what word to use. Knows that Rozanov would balk at any of them.
You asked me to stay tonight, he thinks mutinously. You did.
Rozanov scoots across the bathroom floor, an expression Shane can’t read crossing his face.
“No,” he says, hand half reaching out, almost touching Shane’s socked ankle. “No. I am not going to do that. Is different now, yes?”
It is?
“What do you mean?” Shane asks, too exhausted to think ahead. To calculate his words and how they might make Rozanov pull back.
“Just–”
Rozanov moves closer still, one hand going to cup Shane’s jaw in a familiar action. He feels himself let out a little sigh at the contact. Desperately relieved, even though Rozanov hasn’t actually given him an explanation. The hand slides to his neck, pressing down, encouraging Shane to lean on his shoulder. He drops there easily, inhaling Rozanov’s scent, slumping against his warm chest when he feels the other man’s arms wrap around his back, his fingers threading softly through Shane’s hair. Just holding him on his cold bathroom floor. And Shane doesn’t want it to stop. Although it will have to. Because they don’t do this. And Rozanov will pull back and Shane will have to wipe his eyes again and pretend it doesn’t hurt.
“You think too much, Hollander.”
Shane doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nuzzles closer, ridiculously pleased when Rozanov turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to his temple. His heart does something funny. Not in an unpleasant way like it had been a few minutes ago.
“I like this, you like this. Is not so complicated.”
Shane thinks it sounds pretty complicated.
“Okay, sweetheart?” Rozanov says.
Shane’s breath hitches a little. Sweetheart. He said that while they were fucking earlier. Shane had thought it had just slipped out. Maybe he hadn’t meant it. But his voice sounds a little stiff now, fingers stalled in their stroking of Shane’s hair. Shane pulls back, looking him in the eye. He looks tense, like he’s waiting for a punch.
Rozanov meant to say it.
Shane has misunderstood him before. A lot probably. But he doesn’t think he is misunderstanding him now. It feels like a dream or something. Not one he ever thought would happen. Rozanov’s eyes drop suddenly, his body going stiff against Shane’s. He’s scared, Shane thinks, shocked. When Shane was ten, he had a bunny. And it had done the same thing when people walked too quickly into the room. Stiffened like a predator was near. I think he’s scared.
“Okay,” Shane says quickly. “Okay, Ilya.”
Rozanov’s eyelashes flutter, gaze snapping up, his mouth parting. He looks really young right now. Shane always forgets he’s a month older than Rozanov, because never in his life has he had the confidence off the ice that Rozanov walks around with on a daily basis. But he doesn’t look confident right now. He looks stunned and—
Rozanov’s mouth is desperate and messy against Shane’s, fingers tight in his hair as he pulls them closer together. Oh. Okay. Shane understands. He makes a small, encouraging noise against Rozanov’s lips, kissing him back fervently. I understand, Ilya.
When they break apart, Rozanov knocks his head against Shane’s forehead, eyes still closed like he isn’t ready to look at him yet. It’s okay. Shane feels warm and fluttery, the tangled knot of emotion inside of him starting to unwind slowly. He wants to tell him he understands, but the moment feels as fragile as a soap bubble. He slips a hand down to Rozanov’s chest, touching his necklace softly, bumping forward to peck a short kiss to his lips. He hopes it’s okay. Rozanov lets out a shaky breath, before giving him an answering kiss that’s just as short, but so much more desperate.
It’s okay.
“The floor is uncomfortable,” Rozanov says suddenly, pulling back and rising quickly to his feet.
Shane blinks up at him, accepting his hand and allowing himself to be pulled upright. He stands there, head a little light from moving so fast. Rozanov is studying his face, hand still twined with Shane’s. His fingers move, brushing up against Shane’s wrist like he’s asking something. But he doesn’t know what. It’s stupid, but he kind of wants Rozanov to pick him up like he’s done a few times. He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but he likes it. Likes wrapping his arms around Rozanov’s neck, being carried like he weighs nothing, slumping against the other man.
Rozanov switches off the bathroom light, tugging Shane back towards the bed. When they crawl under the covers, he wastes no time pulling Shane into his arms. He goes willingly, resting his head on Rozanov’s chest and closing his eyes, steadied by the solid thump of his heartbeat.
Maybe Shane will wake up and be more scared. Or maybe Rozanov will look at him in the morning like nothing even happened in his bathroom tonight. Like no tentative declarations were made. Because were they?
They were made. Shane thinks they were. He’s starting to drift.
“Shane,” he hears softly, barely audible.
He smiles, turning to press a kiss to Rozanov’s chest.
They were.
———