Work Text:
Shane is about to heat up his evening meal (chicken prepped by his chef and frozen in a portion-sized container ready for when he is back late from travelling or, as in this case, too lazy to cook whatever is on his meal plan) when the text comes through.
He’s not expecting any messages. It’s a random Tuesday evening mid-season so, realistically, the only people who are going to text him are his mother or maybe Hayden with a photo of one his kids doing something cute but vaguely gross, like finger painting.
He puts his chicken dinner in the microwave and gets the pre-made salad out of the fridge before grabbing his phone from the counter and looking at the text. His heartrate immediately speeds up when he sees who is texting him.
Lily: You are free tomorrow?
Shane thumbs at the side of his screen as he reads and re-reads the short message. Straight to the point as it always is with Rozanov, but also gut-wrenchingly unexpected.
Shane: We don’t have a game tomorrow?
It’s true; Shane has their team schedule memorized and has played particular attention to their match-ups against Boston. They’re not just due to play each other for another 10 days. They only ever meet up when their teams play against each other.
Lily: I am in Montreal tomorrow. Want to meet up or not?
Shane navigates to his phone calendar. He’s certain he has nothing on after practice tomorrow besides another chicken dinner and probably reviewing some game footage, but better to check anyway, just in case.
He clicks on the next day, Wednesday, February 14th, and sees that his schedule is indeed completely clear. Then he notes the little holiday notification in italics underneath the date: Canadian Holidays - Valentine’s Day.
Huh.
Maybe Rozanov doesn’t know about the date. Maybe they don’t have Valentine’s Day in Russia and he likely doesn’t pay attention to North American holidays in general. Shane himself hadn’t remembered about tomorrow’s date until just now, though that was more to do with him being chronically single than ignoring or rejecting the holiday.
Or maybe Rozanov did have plans with one of his many adoring conquests, but whatever his reason is for being in Montreal has ruined them. Maybe Shane is just something to do tomorrow evening, an okay last option without the hassle of having to go out and find someone else. He doesn’t analyze the way that makes his stomach roll unpleasantly; it’s probably just hunger for his chicken dinner.
Regardless, he really doesn’t have plans and the idea of getting to see Rozanov, to be touched like that again, ten whole days earlier than he thought he’d next be able to, is too good of an opportunity to pass up.
Shane: Okay. 7.30pm?
‘Lily’ thumbs up the message without providing any further information or attempting to make any other conversation, which Shane should be used to by now. But with such little info to go off and their usual routine completed shattered, he feels off-kilter for the rest of the evening. He forces his dinner down (he needs the protein) and reads a chapter of his book before bed, tossing and turning until well past midnight despite his early night.
The next day is no better. He goes to practice like normal, but is on edge all day, becoming the weak link in plays that he should have been leading easily, and having to work hard to keep a straight face when his teammates chirp at each other about their valentine’s plans or lack thereof. He is practically vibrating out of his skin by the time he comes home to eat dinner and get ready, taking extra long in the shower so that he’s ready for his evening visitor.
Then, he does something very stupid.
He orders flowers to be delivered. He doesn’t mean to, really, but somewhere between freaking out over whether he should ask Rozanov if he’s still coming, whether he should buy them some kind of romantic dinner, and what he should wear that would somehow scream both casual and be my valentine, please, he had clicked order on a fancy, horrendously expensive bouquet from the online florist he usually orders from for his mom’s birthday and Mother’s Day.
He freaks out when they are delivered one hour before Rozanov is due to arrive, having paid even more for fast delivery. No note or special giftwrapping come with them because he had been too frozen with fear to type anything in the message box on the website, but they do come with a giant fancy red bow tied around them.
He immediately feels hot with embarrassment despite there being no one else home to witness his lapse in judgement and carefully places them in the pantry room off the kitchen, shutting the door to hide them from view. Thirty seconds later, he sighs and rescues them again, placing them casually on the coffee table, still with the cellophane and bow on, but placed in a vase of water to keep them nice.
He can always pretend that he bought them for himself, he reminds himself as he hurriedly gets changed, puts on one of his nicer athleisure sets which he hopes looks both casual and comfy, but also like he made a slight effort due to the matching nature of the fit.
His phone buzzes and he practically dives onto the bed to grab it, having to re-straighten the duvet as a result.
Lily: Here
Rozanov never rings the buzzer at the main entrance, knowing Shane’s preference to let him in the side way even if it means traipsing down the access stairs to manually open the door.
“Hollander. Being chased as usual?” Are the first words out of Rozanov’s mouth as Shane lets him in, admittedly out of breath from jogging all the way down from his apartment.
He merely rolls his eyes and lets the door slam shut behind them. He gestures for Rozanov to go up the stairs, noting that he only has a small backpack with him. Either he’s not in Montreal for long or he’s left his stuff at a hotel somewhere.
Shane huffs when Rozanov doesn’t move, rolling his eyes again when he merely raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes in challenge. God, he’s so fucking annoying; can never just do what he’s told.
“Can you hurry the fuck up?” He grabs Rozanov’s arm to physically drag him up the stairs.
“Someone’s in a rush.”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response, too busy pulling Rozanov along behind him until they reach his front door, then fumbling with his keys to unlock it as quickly as possible and shoving Rozanov up against it as soon as it’s shut.
They’re kissing before Rozanov can even put his bag down, both kicking their shoes off without detaching their mouths. Shane can arrange them neatly on the shoe rack later, it’s fine.
“Begging for it, aren’t you?” Rozanov mutters into his mouth and Shane inhales the words greedily, nodding then shaking his head, but still frantically sucking at his bottom lip. Rozanov gentles them after a moment, hands coming up to frame his face and pull him back just slightly. Shane stares at his mouth, dazed.
“Shut up.” Shane says, a delayed response that makes Rozanov smirk. “What are you even doing here anyway?”
“I came to fuck you, Hollander. Duh.”
“No, I know that.” He rolls his eyes yet again, shoving Rozanov away and stalking to the couch, only to have Rozanov grab him with his stupid lightning-fast reflexes, pulling him back into his chest so they have to waddle together over to the living area. “I meant in Montreal. You don’t have a hockey game.”
Rozanov is too busy kissing Shane’s neck with far too much tongue, the sensation wet and so unbearably good it makes Shane’s knees weak, to reply for a long moment. “Some stupid marketing thing.” He says eventually.
“Marketing? Like a photoshoot? Or game promo?”
Rozanov groans from where he’s still buried in the back of Shane’s neck, the huff of air tickling his skin.
“You ask too many questions. Less talking, more fucking now.”
“Ok, but –”
Rozanov tugs Shane around to face him, only to immediately push him down onto the couch, crawling over him. They kiss for a minute, tussling as they always do until Shane somehow ends up on top, perched on Rozanov’s lap as they lick and pant into each other’s mouths. Everything is always so heightened with Rozanov. Shane has kissed other people, sure, but it’s never been this visceral and all-consuming; he’s never enjoyed kissing just for the sake of kissing until they’d started hooking up. Now, all Shane can think about half the time is the way Rozanov’s tongue twists itself into his mouth, licking firmly against his teeth like it’s trying to catalogue them, sliding against his own desperate tongue, both trying to get impossibly deeper into each other with every movement of their mouths.
They pull back eventually for air, Rozanov exhaling noisily as he glances away from Shane’s face to the side for the first time, looking around the room. Shane immediately uses the opportunity to dive down and mouth at his cheekbone while pushing back into the hands Rozanov has gripping his backside.
He stops when he feels Rozanov’s whole body stiffen, sitting back to apologise for whatever was wrong with his ministrations, only to freeze up himself when he follows the other man’s gaze.
Rozanov’s eyes are frozen on the elaborate bouquet on the coffee table, still wrapped in that ostentatious bow, his jaw tight in that way it gets when he’s annoyed or uncomfortable. Shit. Thank God Shane didn’t actually give him the flowers yet. Maybe he can pretend they’re for something else entirely, remove the ammo from this disastrous misfire of judgment before it sets everything ablaze.
“Your girlfriend did not want to spend the night with you?” Rozanov says, voice flat. He’s still unconsciously kneading at the top of Shane’s ass like a cat making its bed.
“What?” Shane is thrown by this topic change; he was sure Rozanov had been about to mock him for the flowers and now he’s talking about a non-existent girlfriend.
“Those are not from your girlfriend? Or your boyfriend perhaps?” Rozanov jerks his head towards the coffee table and, oh, he is talking about the flowers. For some reason, he thinks Shane is the recipient of them.
“Oh, no, I don’t have – uh, no.” He stutters in response, drawing in a breath when Rozanov squeezes particularly hard, nails digging into flesh through his sweatpants. “I bought them…” He continues, seemingly unable to stop talking. “For you.”
For me? Rozanov mouths soundlessly. For a moment, it could go either way. Rozanov could throw him off his lap and storm out, mocking him angrily for being too clingy, too weird, for crossing boundaries and buying him flowers when they aren’t even anything to each other, but then he grins widely, head settling back against the throw pillow under him.
“You bought me flowers for Valentine’s Day?” He looks amused, not angry, so Shane cautiously nods in response.
It’s the first time either of them has acknowledged the date, answering Shane’s unasked question of whether Rozanov even knew what day it was.
“Kind of. If you want them.”
“Hmm…” Rozanov’s hands are moving up his spine now, dragging his t-shirt up with the movement. He pauses long enough to pull the fabric over Shane’s head and set it neatly on the back of the couch behind them before yanking Shane down so that they’re chest to chest.
“Do you like them?” Shane tries again, needs to confirm he hasn’t pissed Rozanov off, that he’s still getting fucked tonight. Rozanov is petting at his neck and up into his hair now, their mouths mere centimeters apart, which Shane thinks is a good sign. He can never be sure with Rozanov, though.
“A pretty boy bought me pretty flowers. What’s not to like?”
Shane is ninety percent sure that’s a rhetorical question, and that he’s being teased, albeit in a nicer fashion than the ridicule he’d been expecting, so he stays quiet and opts to close the gap between them instead. Kissing leaves very little room for interpretation. Rozanov’s mouth asks and Shane’s mouth answers, easy as anything.
They make out for so long that Shane loses track of time, can’t tell if it’s been five minutes or fifty minutes when Rozanov finally heaves him off the couch, carrying him into the bedroom. He always puts Shane down so carefully on top of the bedding, though whether that’s because Shane is just a little too heavy to throw freely or out of genuine care, he’s not sure.
It doesn’t take long for the rest of their clothes to be discarded, for Rozanov to nudge between his thighs, to guide his leg to bend at the knee and give him better access as he drizzles lube onto his fingers and down onto Shane, always a little too cold, a little too wet in the most delicious way. Rozanov sucks him off for a bit as he preps him, just enough to have Shane whining and leaking embarrassingly before pulling off and sliding up his body to kiss him instead.
Shane moans at the taste of himself on Rozanov’s tongue. He’s tried to replicate it on his own, tried sucking his own fingers after jerking off and, once, attempted to roll his spine over his shoulders to taste himself direct from the source, but it’s not the same; he misses that unique blend of his own musk and Rozanov’s familiar, comforting taste. It’s disgusting and addictive and makes Shane feel like they’re designed to go together, like some rare perfume ingredients that only smell heavenly when mixed into one. It’s one of the many thoughts he has when furiously jerking off alone that he knows he cannot tell anyone under any circumstances, for fear of being declared medically insane.
The sensation relaxes him, anyway, and soon Rozanov is humming in satisfaction, rolling a condom on and angling himself just-so as he presses inside, one hand holding himself up while the other grabs at Shane’s hip, tilting his pelvis up for him.
“Okay?” Rozanov asks him, careful as always when they begin.
“Mhm…” Shane says eloquently, thoughts slurring into liquid in his head as Rozanov starts up a soothing rhythm with his thrusts.
“Feels good?”
“Y-yes. More.”
“You want more? Want me to – fuck – xочешь, чтобы я взял тебя как шлюху?”
He has no idea what Rozanov is saying, never does when he switches into Russian like this, but he likes the way Rozanov’s mouth shapes around the words, the wild look he gets in his eyes as he presses impossibly deeper into Shane’s body, pushes his legs towards his chest and then yanks them around his waist to get even closer.
Shane sometimes wishes he could be more intentional with his own movements, could undulate his hips in a more coordinated, experienced manner to give Rozanov maximum pleasure back. It’s a little easier when he’s on top and can set the pace as he rides him, but even then he tires quickly from the exertion and Rozanov ends up flipping them over once his movements slow, driving into him in long, dirty snaps of his hips until they’re both coming undone.
Like this, pinned underneath Rozanov’s body and scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, it’s useless to do anything other than take what he’s given. He clenches and moans and grabs and tries his hardest to get even closer.
When Rozanov gets close, the vein in his neck stands out and Shane is overcome with the sudden urge to bite it, to sink his teeth into the skin and feel the pulse of blood under his lips. He unclenches one hand and throws it around Rozanov’s neck, pulling him down until he’s close enough to reach, legs kicking up under his armpits at the sudden change in angle.
Rozanov grunts and his eyes look almost as hazy as Shane feels, strung out from such immeasurable pleasure as his brain chants nothing but more, more, more. He mouths uncoordinatedly at Rozanov’s face, down over his chin, and then finally reaches his target and bites at Rozanov’s straining neck. His jaw can’t latch on as strongly as he’d like, not with the unrelenting movement of their bodies, but it’s still nice, tasting skin and salt and warmth.
Rozanov is mumbling in Russian again and Shane nods drowsily, petting at unruly, sweat-drenched curls and biting at his favourite neck, and then Rozanov licks his cheek, more spit than tongue, and he’s fucking upwards against Rozanov’s abs and coming untouched between them, his one and only party trick that never fails to make Rozanov groan and follow him over the edge. He swears he can feel Rozanov twitch inside him as he fucks shallowly through his orgasm, fever pitch desperation sliding into softer, sated pleasure.
“Rozanov?” Shane asks as they both regain their breath, Rozanov lying like a dead weight on top of him, still inside, panting into his collarbone. Shane idly strokes his back, tracing the ridges of his shoulder blades. “Why are you really in Montreal?”
There’s a pause where Shane thinks he might make up some excuse again or maybe pull out and not answer at all, but then he turns his face to the side, so his cheek is against Shane’s shoulder. Shane can feel him staring up at his face; keeps his own eyeline carefully trained on the ceiling.
“I have a dumb fucking hockey player to see.” Rozanov murmurs, sliding out and then sideways so he’s lying right next to Shane instead of crushing him, sweaty skin pressed up against Shane’s side.
Shane nods at the admission, wiggles his arm behind Rozanov in some weird sort of half-hug. They don’t cuddle like this usually; it’s weird, but nice.
“Couldn’t wait ten more days to fuck me?” Shane prods, delighted and maybe a little smug.
“Could have,” Rozanov says, burying his face back into Shane’s neck. “But then those stupid, ugly flowers you bought me would have died.”
“You didn’t even know about the flowers –” Shane starts to point out, but Rozanov shushes him by smacking a hand over his mouth. He’s pretty sure said hand is still dirty from their combined bodily fluids which is beyond disgusting, but maybe a little bit hot too.
“Shut up. No more talking.” Rozanov orders and Shane only obeys because he wants to stay cuddled together like this a little while longer. They both need to shower and he has no idea what time Rozanov needs to leave to catch his return flight to Boston, but for now, he’s content to lie like this and let their breathing sync up as he wonders if this counts as his first ever Valentine’s date. Probably, if he squints a little.
Okay, there was no candle-lit dinner or heart shaped chocolates, but, honestly, Shane doesn’t even like that kind of thing. He does like the way Rozanov burrows into his side, though, lips resting against the still-hammering pulse in his neck and one muscular leg hitching up over his thighs. He does like the way he’s carried into the shower later, Rozanov gently washing the sweat and dried lube and flaking come off him before getting them both off again with his very talented hands.
He does like the way Rozanov wordlessly agrees to spend the night, disappearing downstairs to get water and, apparently, the flowers in their vase which he places gently on the bedside table before sliding into bed and spooning up behind Shane like this is something they do now. He does like falling asleep together, Rozanov’s hand resting on his chest, suspiciously close to the place his heartbeat emanates from.