Chapter Text
Shane closes the door behind him. He’s breathing heavy, like he’s just stepped off the ice. His chest is tight, skin prickling. He glances down at the phone in his hand, clenched in his fist and the screen blurs. His leaden limbs just manage to bring him to the elevator, arms rigid, his whole body aching with exertion and something else.
He watches the numbers above the elevator roll up up up, before he presses the button. The door opens and it’s empty. Thankfully, empty. Though as he gets on, the relief doesn’t come. The relief of getting away. The air is even warmer in here than in the corridor. The bedroom. Is it too late to take the stairs?
His skin tingles, his eyes dry, his cheeks are burning. The embarrassment sets in quickly. He feels empty, like a gaping wound. Like he’s been torn open.
Pathetic. Fucking pathetic. Easy enough with one kiss. Shane went from angry to adoring in minutes.
Nothing but a desperate, pathetic fucking -
His fingers play over his phone, the screen bright in his eyes. His palms are sweating, damp cloudy fingertips rise on the glass.
The elevator begins its descent and his stomach swoops, whatever little left in his stomach churning.
See you next season :)
Stupid. He’s so fucking stupid. He’s not a child, not texting his schoolmate that they’ll see each other in a few months. It’s wrong, it was all… wrong. He feels unmoored, like he’s descending quicker than the elevator beneath him. Like he’s sinking.
He backspaces, deletes the letters. He can’t send it, send something so pathetic. Not when… not when Rozanov had been like that. It was good, amazing even, it always is. But it was different.
From the first time they met, Rozanov was interested. Not just interested but into it. Into it like he wanted to pour himself into Shane, like he wanted to make every interaction memorable, no matter how fleeting, and perfect, something for Shane to hold onto until the next time. Whenever it would be. Shane probably made too much of a big deal of it. Rozanov’s probably like that with all the girls.
Tonight, Shane left Rozanov’s room, for the first time, feeling empty. He had undressed like a hooker, like he was paid for; Rozanov watching him from the window, the ice clinking in his glass. Clinking loudly above the suffocating silence. Clinking against the glass, loud, louder than anything else in the room.
His head hurts, it’s heavy and his vision blurs. He lets it drop against the wall.
His fingers stumble over the screen. They didn’t even kiss.
We didn’t even kiss
Rozanov watched him, shark eyes revealing Shane’s most vulnerable parts. Shane couldn’t help but do what Rozanov wanted. What he was told to do. Touch himself. Simon says touch yourself, so he did it. Rozanov took pleasure in watching him, breaking him open. Shane spread his legs anyway. Desperate, longing. Watching Rozanov watching him. Sterile, empty.
He thought it was light, that they were playing a game, that Rozanov was just doing some kind of roleplay. Shane thought it would end, that he would pull Shane to him and kiss him and press his tongue inside his mouth like he was claiming him. Touch him with delicacy and reverence and break him apart with his fingers. Leave him sated and full and waiting for the next time, like it had been before.
The screen is bright, he’s spiralling. He closes his eyes, his head feels heavy. His temples throb, his eyelids scratchy against his eyeballs.
That’s even worse than the last text. He slowly backspaces again.
Fuck, fuck. Fuck. “Fuck.”
He breathes, deep breaths. In and out, in and out. In, out, in, in, in. He can feel it, the spiralling. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, the throbbing in his cheeks, and his skull feels like it’s going to burst of his head.
A bell rings, the chime of the elevator and he has to get out. He can’t go through the lobby, the thought of being seen, of being perceived, of seeing another person makes him want to disappear into a puff of smoke. Like if someone sees him, he'll just fall apart at the seams. The air around him is so warm it feels oppressive, like it’s pushing down on him.
I need you.
Shane said he needed him, needed Rozanov to fuck him, to take him apart. The control in Rozanov’s hands was hot, he liked making him hard, being the centre of his attention. His skin couldn’t contain it.
He came towards Shane, pulling off that white button-up and revealing his chest, his shoulders, that soft, smooth skin. Shane thought he would kiss him, end the game that was going. This game that Shane was playing. He could play along until Rozanov pressed soft lips to his own, breathe a smile into his mouth.
Shane said he needed him. And he did. Had needed him since the first time, and every day since.
Everything greys out a little, unfocused, like he’s looking through smoke.
Air can’t be tight, logically he knows that, he shouldn’t be able to feel it. But. Vegas is warm, hot, so much hotter than Montreal. He feels like he’s fallen into hell. He’s trying to breathe but the air is so thick, like syrup, and he’s getting hotter by the minute and he’s trying so hard to take in his surroundings, searching for a back door, an exit but he can’t see anything. He’s trying, he really is. He can’t see around him. He presses a hand to the marble wall as he walks, even the marble is warm and dry and his hand squeaks as he walks.
We didn’t even kiss.
A green light blurs through the grey around the edges of his vision, the familiar exit-green, bright like a beacon, and he rushes towards it on pained feet, rubbing in his damp socks, his dress shoes slipping on the shining floor. He can’t get a grip.
Shane finally pushes through the exit door but instead of the cool air he expected, it’s even hotter.
The air is still and hot and the lights are blaring, it’s noisy, cars speeding by, the pungent smell of Vegas. It’s a cacophany in his head, a flash of something red hot in his skull. He grips his head and looks around through squinting eyes, he needs to find somewhere quiet. Somewhere alone, he needs to get away.
His clothes are heavy and tight and rough and he’s losing it. Losing himself.. He squeezes his temples tight between his hands, turning right, anywhere to just get away, get away from what happened. From Rozanov’s disinterest, from his eyes, looking at Shane like a shark, like something that would consume him, break him.
We didn’t even kiss.
Shane falls against the hotel wall shoulder first, feels hot hot hot against his skin, his damp shirt the only thing between him and the wall. His stomach churns again. He’s going to be sick, he hates it, he can’t be sick. His oesophagus, his veins, it all burns like there’s lava coursing through him. He can’t be sick, what would they think? What if someone sees him?
He groans, the throbbing pain in his temples makes him feel physically ill. He turns away from the hotel entrance, using the wall to keep him upright as he scrapes his arm, his knuckles, his shoulder, where the line of his body meets the wall. To feel anything, anything else at all.
Shane crawled towards him with longing deep in his body, yearning that only Rozanov could fix, could fill. He breathed him in, his scent. Smelling Rozanov under the fresh dry-cleaning smell of his slacks.
Thick and heady, making his mouth water.
He needs a second, just a second. He needs to be sick and then be normal. He’s been caved out, his organs left behind in a penthouse with a man he won’t see again. He can’t. He just needs a minute but his head is pounding and it won’t stop. His temples feel like they’re pushing in, like his skull will splinter and pierce his brain, break it apart and he’s made of less than nothing.
Rozanov fucked him, fucked Shane like he wanted. Slammed inside him and made loud, breathy noises while he came. His cock moulded a space inside of Shane. Only Rozanov’s space inside him, in his hole. Like he was just a hole. He’s a hole. He’s a black fucking hole.
A noise like a wounded animal breaks from his chest. He can’t breathe. His weak knees give out from under him, the wall the only thing keeping him vertical. Another sound pulled from him, his lungs collapsing. He’s dying, he thinks he might be dying. His heart might explode out of his chest, he might be having a heart attack. He didn’t even get to kiss him.
We didn’t even kiss.
He needs to call someone, something. Anything. His mom, his dad. He needs to talk to them, tell them he loves them but his head is so painful, he’s going to explode. He pushes his knuckles into his head, pushes his fingers into his hair and pulls painfully. It hurts, let it hurt. It hurts.
I’m dying.
We didn’t even kiss.
“Hollander?”