Chapter Text
Shane Hollander is a man of permanence and pragmatism. Real. He likes it when things are tangible, controllable, and manageable. He grew up perfecting the art of controlling himself and developed a discipline so strict and tight that he scares other athletes with his dedication.
He is Shane Hollander, who plays by the book and straight on his skates. Live, breathe, hockey, Shane. Every movement on the ice comes with memories he has carved into his muscles and the control he has written into his cells.
Off the ice, he tries to be much the same, because it’s easier, it’s better, and this sinking feeling that life throws at him gets quieter when everything is under wraps. He likes things quiet, clean, and organized. Boring.
He shouldn’t like trouble, ephemeral sensations and non-substantial attachments. He shouldn’t want fleeting meetings and dangerous liaisons, a sword of Damocles over his head with a mouth to speak. He shouldn’t need, too much like air, an unstable presence in his life. Someone who plays him like an instrument, who lives in constant opposition to Shane’s rules and order.
But, to his dismay and shock and misery, Shane Hollander is the victim of the opposites attract rule. He wants, he wants so badly, and he’s unruly and dumb and really, really, weak for Ilya Rozanov and all the trouble the Russian brings into his life.
He likes it. He likes it when Ilya Rozanov texts him in the middle of the night to ask if he used his stupid didlo today after weeks without talking, or when he sends little inappropriate comments all through some of Shane’s games in the middle of the season. He even likes the unprompted dick pics, and he likes to pretend they don’t make his mouth feel empty.
He likes it when Ilya faces him off with a smirk, and a chirp making half-veiled references to their activities outside the rink. Calling him ‘pretty boy’ with the same drawl he uses to kiss it into Shane’s mouth, asking if he’ll do good, and simply teasing Shane’s fighting spirit like a mating call.
He likes being in the rink with Rozanov, rarely does he play as good, as hard, as consumingly as he does with anyone else but the Russian nightmare. Rozanov has this power, he brings out everything out of Shane.
The good, the sport, the best.
The bad, the secret, the quilt, the fear, the worst.
Shane Hollander likes his rival. Likes him too much, he realized one night after the Russian left his hotel room and all Shane wished was to follow. To be a part of his house, his home. Shane wanted more time, he wanted it to the point it hurt. He didn’t cry, but his reflection was blurry when he looked at it.
And the next day, Rozanov was making headlines for being seen making out passionately with the coach’s niece. Pictures attached, hands on hips and tongues in mouths. Shane guesses Ilya has a thing for coaches’ relatives.
A taste for the thrill, things that are locked under unspoken rules. Like Shane.
Listen, the Canadian knows, alright, that this arrangement of theirs is nothing exclusive. He knows Ilya is notoriously known as a bit of a player.
They fuck because it’s hot, because Shane realized he liked boys while Ilya Rozanov was wrapping his lips around a cigarette and that horror followed him under a shower jet and Rozanov decided to give Shane a taste of actually good sex. Because Ilya likes risks, a bit like a gambler, and fucking Hollander was certainly some hot and forbidden fantasy.
That’s what Shane is. A hot forbidden thing that Ilya indulges in every now and then, before moving on to another craving. The most fun Shane can be is naked and prohibited.
He knows exactly what he is to Rozanov. He knew it from the start, and truly it was fine. Sure, he felt a bit like a cheap whore putting his clothes back sometimes, but he kept coming back. Behind the shame, this was just as much of an indulgence to Shane.
He gets in, and for however long Ilya has him, Shane can be wild. He can go limb and stupid and think with his dick, he can be pathetic and whiny and feel too much without his heart locked in his throat. And yes, the whole rivalry-to-bed thing certainly could be sexy, but what Shane likes is the way Ilya understands every effort Shane puts into his body, and he treats it with care.
He doesn’t damage Shane, he is caring. He asks, he checks in with every shift of positions, every moan that echoes too loud. Ilya is good to him, Shane is never afraid that Ilya is going to humiliate him by telling everyone about the tears in Shane’s eyes when he begs. There is trust, so much of it.
Shane trusts Rozanov with a part of him he has never been strong enough to show anyone. The whiny, needy, very attracted to guys part. The ass-fucked and loose part. The dumb on sex part. It started because Ilya was risking as much as Shane in their stupid game, some kind of agreement to not ruin the fun as well as each other’s lives.
But, without the Canadian noticing, it got out of his hands.
Trust comes with expectations, with vulnerability. Little confessions that Shane was too slow to catch before they got out of him. Emotions that used that trust as a foundation.
He expects Ilya to sneak into his room after a game, he expects an answer when he texts and he dies a little when he doesn’t get one. He trusts Ilya with bits and pieces of him, but most of what Ilya tells him — cigarette in hand, or a drink at his lips — it’s stuff Shane could have found out on the internet.
Okay, maybe not the thing about the coach’s son or the size of his dick, but not important stuff. And yet, Shane knows Ilya’s favourite food, both Russian and American, and his favourite colour, and his favourite sponsorship, and all his stats. And every little bit, he keeps them like treasures even when it’s nothing. When it’s off-handedly given to him for the sake of not making post-nut clarity too awkward.
He’s sure everyone of Roz’s other semi-regular hookups got the same list as him. Ilya doesn’t do vulnerable and needy, that's Shane’s stupid shit.
Just like Shane is the one who’s staying chaste and untouched between their ephemeral moments. He doesn’t have to, he could get fucked, run through like a roadway tunnel and Rozanov would just need him to stay tight enough to be enjoyable.
But he doesn’t because Shane likes comfort. Shane is boring and content in his routine, and he takes breaks every six months by getting railed by his rival. Because Roz scratches an itch, because he's the only dick Shane has liked so far and it’s too convenient. And maybe because Shane is a little bit in love and maybe he likes the idea of only needing Ilya to be satisfied.
Or maybe he doesn’t. He certainly doesn’t after, when he has been satisfied but he leaves empty. When he knows someone will hear that Russian accent whispering filth in their ear in the following hours, that he’ll never leave an empty space when he goes away. Not like the one Ilya leaves behind him.
He’s felt like this for a long time. Maybe after the first time, when Ilya left the loft and definitely after the silence and Soshi. He felt like absolute shit, like a tool that served its ugly purpose and that was no longer useful or any fun.
Ass virgin no longer worth the chase.
Ilya changed his mind, yeah, Shane was still good to get laid and still forbidden enough to be worth the trouble, but he made it clear — and Shane got that message so it must be crystal clear even — that this was just sex. Cuddles are only fun for a minute, then it’s over.
Shane still feels like shit. And he definitely has a thing for embarrassing himself, coming back again and again even when it makes him sick with shame. He’s pathetic. He’s stupid. Waiting like a good faithful bitch until the next time he can serve his purpose.
He stares at the picture of Ilya and the coach’s daughter.
Alone in his bed, with his glasses on and a book. In pyjamas on a rare Saturday off. Rozanov is surrounded by people, he’s living the fast life and having fun. He’s not dying, wishing someone would fill an empty spot in his bed, he doesn’t dream of brown eyes the way Shane dreams of blue. He doesn’t care, he enjoys it without guilt.
And Shane wishes it were him. He wishes he could kiss girls, or just a girl, and dance with her, and feel the spark like he does with the Russian. Like Rozanov is interchangeable with anyone else.
He wishes he were fun and carefree, wishes sex were currency and thrills without the mix of hidden disgust and repression. Taboo. To be kept quiet.
He wishes his heart wouldn’t hurt, wouldn't feel the sting of betrayal over vows and promises that don’t exist. He wishes he could forget all the ways his body pointlessly tries to be a perfect fit for someone who’s not bound to one shape, one person.
Shane Hollander wants to be casual about this, and he likes to mimic the way people act. That way, he’s sure he is doing it right. So when he lands in LA tomorrow for some ad and a guest appearance on a sponsored show, he promises himself he’ll do as Ilya does. Open an app and occupy his time casually.
Fight fire with fire, or whatever. Shane isn’t sure what he is trying to prove. That he doesn’t need to wait for Rozanov? That he doesn’t only need him? That he can be normal, casual and fun too? That he can treat Ilya amongst one of many too?
He doesn’t know. He just hopes he’ll stop feeling sick watching that picture. Or maybe Ilya will be sick too. And then that way, what Shane feels will be okay.
He doesn’t know. He still tries it.