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Shane is not looking forward to today.
That’s the first thought he has when he wakes up in an unfamiliar bed in a hotel in LA, exhausted from a night of tossing and turning, unable to shut off his brain and put an end to his spiraling thoughts. No matter how hard he tries, he just can’t figure out how he ended up here.
It’s been nine months since he’s spoken to Rozanov. Nine months since Shane walked out of his house, Rozanov’s cum drying on his stomach and Shane still wearing the clothes he borrowed. Nine months without a single text from the man. Nine months of complete no contact - except for when they see each other on the ice, and even then Rozanov barely looks at him, let alone speaks to him.
(Well, nine months and 13 days, but who’s counting?)
Shane still doesn’t understand how things went so wrong between the two of them. He knows he panicked and ran away, leaving Rozanov with Shane’s cum drying on his stomach and his dirty clothes littering his bedroom floor. He knows he jumped into a very public (and very stupid) relationship with a woman, probably hurting Rozanov in the process. But he tried so hard to fix things.
He had a grand plan to try and fix things in Tampa. Rose took him shopping for new clothes that made him look “irresistible” and “totally fuckable” and “unable to not forgive-able,” according to her. (Getting into a relationship with her may have been stupid, considering he’s gay and in love with his rival, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. Rose has become one of his closest friends and, despite everything, he’s grateful that she was brought into his life.) He practiced what he was going to say in front of the mirror - he would start with apologizing for running away, explain why he did (without trying to excuse it), and then tell Rozanov how he feels about him and that he is willing to do whatever it takes to earn his forgiveness and be with him, for real this time. Then he would ask Rozanov how he feels about Shane and hope for the best.
But then Rozanov dropped out of All Stars at the last minute and Shane never got to execute said grand plan. He understands why he did - his father died, after all, forcing Rozanov back to Russia to pick up the pieces. But he couldn’t help feeling disappointed, desperately wanting to fix things with the Russian.
So he texted Rozanov once he heard he was back in the US, not wanting to contribute to the mess Shane knew he would be dealing with back home. Shane offered his condolences and asked if they could meet up to talk after their next game against each other.
When two weeks passed without a response, he chalked it up to Rozanov still processing the death of his father. So he tried again.
And again.
And again.
(There may have been a few drunk texts mixed in as well, Shane revealing more of himself than he ever would have if he was sober, but he likes to pretend that never happened.)
And still, to this day, nine months and thirteen days later, he has not heard from Rozanov. Not even when he was injured and laid up in the hospital by Marlow. (Shane would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little happy when he ended up in the hospital after a game against Boston, hoping it would be the push Rozanov needed to finally reach out. It wasn’t.)
Eventually, Shane got the hint, accepting that Rozanov doesn’t have the same feelings that Shane has for him. But he’s not fooling anyone (i.e., Rose, as she's the only person who knows about Shane being gay and his mysterious lover) when he says he’s moved on. He’s not fooling himself either, in all honesty - it became impossible to deny when he found himself laying on his kitchen floor at 3am, unshowered and in two-day old clothes, eating a Snickers bar.
So no, Shane is really not looking forward to today. But his mom agreed for him to do the BarkFeed Puppy Interview with Rozanov, stating it would be good to get back in the public eye after his season being cut short, and Shane is not one to back out of a commitment, even ones made on his behalf.
Which is how Shane finds himself here, in a hotel in LA, with Rozanov next door (he would laugh if he wasn’t about to cry), waiting for the car to pick them up to head to the studio.
Rubbing his eyes, Shane takes a deep, steadying breath and hauls himself out of bed. He makes his way to the bathroom, hoping he can make himself look better than he feels. When he catches his reflection in the mirror, he knows he has his work cut out for him. After brushing his teeth and stripping off his pajames, he hops in the shower, hoping it’ll revive him. But hotel showers always bring back (now-painful) memories, and next thing he knows he's sitting on the shower floor, arms wrapped around his legs and eyes pressed into his knees. He uses the techniques he’s learned from years of meditation to try to stop the tears from falling, but he’s unsuccessful. Maybe if he gets it all out now, he tells himself, he’ll make it through the day without incident.
Once he’s all cried out, clean, dressed, and as ready as he’ll ever be, Shane makes his way downstairs to wait for the car.
Rozanov isn’t in the lobby when Shane gets there, but that’s not surprising. What is surprising, though, is Rozanov suddenly materializing out of nowhere the second the car pulls up, almost like he was waiting out of sight to avoid having to talk to Shane. When they climb into the car, Rozanov offers Shane a nod in greeting without ever actually looking at him. He wasn't expecting anything different, but he can't help the pang of disappointment he feels.
Shane doesn’t think he’s ever felt so awkward in his entire life, which is really saying something. They sit in the backseat, side by side, staring straight ahead and not speaking to each other for the entire ride. What is there to even say to your rival / ex-situationship / secret-love-of-your-life, who you haven’t spoken to in nine months and thirteen days?
Shane’s not one for music, but he wishes the driver would turn on the radio so the silence doesn’t feel so deafening.
When they pull up to the studio, Rozanov is out of the car before it even comes to a complete stop, beelining for the entrance and disappearing inside before Shane even fully unbuckles his seatbelt. He takes a second to center himself, using his meditation techniques once again (he thinks he’s going to be doing a lot of that today), then climbs out, forcing himself to follow after Rozanov.
When he finally makes his way into the dressing room, Rozanov is already seated and chatting with the stylist. (So he can talk, Shane thinks to himself bitterly.) He takes a seat on the other side of the room and begins the process of getting “camera ready,” which requires a lot more under eye concealer than usual. Once satisfied, the stylists release them to the producer, Ben, to go over the set up for the interview.
“So!” Ben exclaims, clapping his hands together loudly and causing Shane to jump in surprise, a stark difference compared to the quiet of the day so far. “You two can take a seat on the floor while we get the cameras ready,” he continues with a big smile, far too many teeth on display. “Once we’re rolling, you’ll both introduce yourselves and what you’re doing here today. Then one of my assistants will bring out the puppies and we’ll begin!” he finishes.
Shane and Rozanov head to the filming area and sit on the floor, cross-legged and closer than they’ve been in months, knees almost brushing. Ben makes his way over and hands Rozanov a fishbowl filled with scraps of folded paper. “Here are the questions - nothing too juicy, I promise! You’ll take turns picking one at random and asking the other person. Nice and easy!” Ben exclaims, clapping loudly once again. “Are you ready?” Ben looks back and forth between the two hockey players, an overly cheerful expression on his face.
“If that means you will finally bring puppies out,” Rozanov says, voice flat, “then yes, I am ready.”
Hearing the Russian’s deep voice for the first time in so long sends a shiver down Shane’s spine, heart rate picking up and palms starting to sweat. Ignoring his body’s response, he takes a deep breath and nods at the producer.
Ben moves to stand behind the camera. After fiddling with the settings for a few minutes, he points to the two of them. “Action!”
The silence drags on for a few moments, the two of them staring straight ahead at the camera. Not able to take it any longer, Shane clears his throat and begins.
“I’m Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Metros.”
“And I’m Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Raiders and greatest hockey player of all time,” Rozanov introduces himself, the cocky smile he usually uses in interviews back in place.
“Yeah right—” Shane begins, never able to hold himself back from an argument with the other player, but Rozanov cuts him off.
“And this is the BarkFeed Puppy Interview!” Rozanov exclaims excitedly, clapping his hands like Ben did a moment ago.
“Release the hounds!” Ben shouts from behind the camera, hands dramatically thrown in the air. Shane can practically hear Rozanov’s eye roll at the producer’s dramatics, and a small smile makes its way onto Shane’s face, despite his best efforts.
Before he knows it, a sleepy puppy is being placed in his lap. Shane stares down at the tiny fuzzball, eyes wide and hands hovering, unsure of what to do. He’s never had a pet before, and neither have any of his friends or family, so this is a new experience for him. When he looks up, he catches Rozanov looking at him with a quirked eyebrow and soft smile, a second puppy cradled in his arms like a baby. Three others waddle around them, sniffing at the two strange men, unsteady on their little legs, like baby deer. Shane and Rozanov stare at each other for a beat too long, too many emotions behind both of their eyes for either of them to decipher. Then, Rozanov seems to catch himself, smile falling away and a carefully neutral expression taking its place, eyes shifting to the puppy in his arms.
“Shane, the one you are holding is named Cuddle Bug,” Ben explains. “Ilya, yours is named Smurf. The light brown one sniffing at your shoe, Ilya, is Crouton. The white one is Momo. And the chubby, dark brown one is Meatball.”
“Meatball!” Rozanov exclaims in delight, a bright smile lighting up his face, a stark contrast to the neutral expression from a moment ago. “Oh my gosh, you are so cute!” Rozanov gushes. “All five of you!”
“We believe them to be Australian Shepherd mixes,” Ben continues. “They were found in a box on the side of a highway, scared and malnourished. They were most likely abandoned by someone whose dog gave birth and didn’t want to deal with them.”
Rozanov’s smile disappears once again, a dark expression taking over. “How could someone do such a thing?” he asks, voice low and angry. “If I ever meet the monster who abandoned you precious babies, I know big, strong hockey players who would be more than happy to avenge you.”
Smurf starts to rouse, tumbling out of Rozanov’s arms to start investigating with his siblings. “Okay, you are all coming home with me!” Rozanov proclaims, his tone back to being happy and excited, unable to stay upset in the presence of puppies. “It has been decided. I have big house and big yard where you can run around and live like kings. I will spoil you all so much. Only the best for my precious babies.” He pets each of the dogs on the floor, a big goofy smile on his face, mouthing their names to himself as if trying to commit them to memory.
“Okay Ilya, why don’t you begin?” Ben encourages.
“Yes, yes. We are here to do interview too, not just play with cutest puppies in whole world.” Rozanoz huffs, dragging the bowl towards himself and pulling out a question. “Okay Hollander, are you ready?”
“I guess so,” Shane responds cautiously, voice a bit rough from the wave of emotions he’s trying to contain, overcome by the sight of Rozanov being so sweet and gentle with these tiny creatures.
“Okie, first question!” Rozanov grabs Meatball and plops him on his lap before unfolding the piece of paper. “What was the first purchase you made with your first NHL paycheck?”
Shane has to think for a second. “I tried to buy my parents a house, but they wouldn’t let me. So instead, I bought myself a car. Something practical and good in the snow, so I could still make the trip to Ottawa to visit my parents in the winter.
“Oh my god, Hollander. You are so boring,” Rozanov groans, head thrown back and eyes to the ceiling.
“What was your first purchase, then?”
“A 1970 Plymouth Barracuda HEMI ‘Cuda in lime green.”
Shane stares at him blankly, blinking in confusion. “I don’t know what that is.”
Rozanov lets out another dramatic groan. “Is a car, Hollander.”
“Wait, why am I boring for buying a car but you’re not?!”
“Hollander. I bought rare, vintage sports car. You bought, what, a Jeep?” Taking Shane’s silence for the confirmation that it is, Rozanov points a finger at him, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “Ha! I knew it! Boring car for boring hockey player.”
“Alright, give me that,” Shane snaps, rolling his eyes and reaching for the bowl. Rozanov chuckles, sliding the questions over. “Okay. If you weren’t a hockey player, what do you think you’d be doing?”
Shane begins to relax as the interview goes on, surprised by how quickly they fall into their usual banter. The questions are interesting, and Shane likes hearing Rozanov’s answers, excited to learn more about the other man. And the puppies, of course, are adorable. Cuddle Bug has made her way onto the floor, but she hasn’t left Shane’s side, pressed against his shin and playing with his shoelace. All of the others love Rozanov, of course, who seems to be a natural when it comes to animals.
Shane should have known that things wouldn’t stay this good for long, though. His turn to ask the question, he sticks his hand in the bowl and pulls out one of the few slips of paper remaining, the interview coming close to its end.
“Have you ever—" Shane freezes, back going ramrod straight and heart rate picking up. Arranging his face into a neutral expression, he clears his throat and tries again. “Have you ever been in love?” Shane manages to get out, and he’s proud of how steady his voice sounds.
Rozanov, who just placed a sleepy Crouton in his now-empty lap, whips his head in Shane’s direction. “That is what it says?” he asks, eyes wide and voice sounding panicked.
“Yes, that’s what it says.”
Rozanov stares at him for a beat too long. “Give, let me see,” he demands, snatching the paper from Shane’s grasp.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles under his breath. (As if he would ever ask this question himself, knowing the answer has the power to destroy him.)
“Ah,” Rozanov croaks after confirming that Shane was telling the truth, not looking up from the paper gripped tightly in both hands. He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out shaky. “Yes, just once,” he admits softly, folding the paper over and over until it’s a tiny little square, a slight tremble noticeable in his hands.
This time, Shane’s head whips in Rozanov’s direction, eyes wide and heart beating even faster, thoughts racing. Rozanov’s been in love? He didn’t think it was possible, what with his long list of conquests. He’s probably fucked his way through half of North America by now, and Russia as well. And it’s not like he tries to hide it, earning himself the moniker “Russia’s Greatest Love Machine.” When would he have even had the opportunity to fall in love, what with his three-meet rule? (A rule which never applied to Shane, his traitorous brain reminds him.)
Surely he’s not talking about…
No, he can’t be.
“What happened?” Ben pipes up from behind the camera, noticing the awkward silence and trying to get the interview back on track, startling Shane out of his spiraling thoughts in the process.
“Hmm.” Rozanov stalls, petting the now-sleeping Crouton, eyes glued to the puppy. “I wanted more than they were willing to give,” he says quietly, brows furrowed and voice sounding pained. “So, they left me. Started dating someone else a week later. I have not heard from hi— them since,” he finishes.
Shane can’t believe what he’s hearing. None of this makes sense. Rozanov hasn’t heard from him? Shane has texted him so many times over the past 9 months, and not once did he get a response!
Then an uncomfortable thought hits him - maybe he’s talking about someone else?
But Shane heard the slip up, when Rozanov almost said “him.” Otherwise, he never specified gender. And as far as Shane knows, he was the only man on Rozanov’s roster, considering the danger it put him in.
If he is talking about Shane, though…
Rozanov lets out a deep, shaky breath, snapping Shane back to reality once again. “Okie, my turn to ask question,” he says, fake smile plastered on his face and faux cheerfulness in his voice. He grabs the bowl from Shane’s slack grip and pulls out another slip of paper. “What is your drink of choice?” He sticks out his tongue, blowing a raspberry. “This is boring question, everyone already knows answer.”
“What? No they don’t—“ Shane starts to protest, but is interrupted again.
“Canada Dry ginger ale, yes?” Rozanov asks with a quirked brow.
“Well, actually—”
“Yes, yes,” Rozanov cuts him off, waving his hand in the air like what he’s about to say is common knowledge. “Your actual favorite is the limited edition cranberry flavor that comes out during the holidays, but since you cannot get that all the time, you mainly drink regular ginger ale.”
Shane stares at him, wide-eyed and lips slightly parted.
“I am right, yes?” Rozanov prods.
“Yeah,” Shane manages to get out, mouth suddenly dry. “That’s right.”
“See? Everyone knows this already! So, I get to ask another question.”
“What? No!” Shane protests again, trying to grab the bowl back.
“Ah ah,” Rozanov says, moving the bowl out of reach. “You and the interviewer both asked me a question last round. So is only fair that I get to ask you two this round.”
“Fine.”
Unfolding the next paper, Rozanov dramatically clears his throat as he takes a second to read the question. “Ah,” he says, voice now awkward and his bravado disappearing. “Do you want kids?”
Now it’s Shane’s turn to avoid Rozanov’s gaze, looking at Cuddle Bug chewing on his shoelace, which he hasn’t been able to bring himself to put a stop to. He may be a cat person, but he’s starting to see why Rozanov loves dogs so much.
“Yeah, I do,” Shane finally admits wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to be a dad, but I don’t think that’s in the cards for me.”
“Why not?” Rozanov asks, sounding surprised. “Rose Landry does not want kids?”
“What?” Shane asks, finally looking up at Rozanov, brows furrowed in confusion. “We’re not—“
Before Shane can finish telling Rozanov that he and Rose aren’t together, Smurf runs at Rozanov, jumping onto his chest and barking in his face. Ever the drama queen, the large Russian falls backwards, acting like he’s being tackled by a wolf that he can’t fight off. Soon, Meatball, Crouton, and Momo join in, Cuddle Bug content to stay where she is by Shane’s side.
“Ah! Am being attacked by ferocious beasts! Hollander, help!”
Despite himself, Shane can feel a fond smile growing on his face. “You’re ridiculous,” he chuckles, plucking the puppies off of Rozanov’s chest, giving them all a chin scratch in the process.
Rozanov sits up and acts like he’s checking himself over for injuries. “Okie,” he says once he’s satisfied. “Hollander, is your turn to ask question now.”
Shaking his head, Shane grabs the bowl back to continue with the interview, grateful for the “ferocious beasts” breaking the tension the last two questions caused. He pushes aside his racing thoughts for closer evaluation later, when he’s alone and not sitting next to the man his thoughts are about, and grabs a paper.
“How did it feel to hold the Stanley Cup for the first time?” Shane asks, relieved to be back in safe territory, knowing Rozanov would never pass up the opportunity to brag about winning the Cup before Shane. He still feels shaken, but he didn’t go through intense media training for nothing.
The rest of the interview goes smoothly - no more deep and prying questions, and no more bombshell answers. Once all of the questions are finally answered and information about adopting the puppies is shared, Shane gives all of them one last pet, giving extra attention to Cuddle Bug before placing her in Rozanov’s lap and standing up, needing to stretch after sitting on the floor for so long.
“See? That wasn’t so bad!” Ban exclaims, walking over to remove their mics. “We’re all done here now. Thank you both for taking the time to do this interview, we know the fans are gonna love it, and these babies will be adopted in no time!” That last sentence makes Rozanov pout, wishing he really could adopt them all himself but knowing it would never work with his schedule. Shane thinks his pout makes him look almost as cute as the puppies.
(Who is he kidding, it’s a hundred times cuter. Shane is so fucked.)
If he thought the car ride this morning was awkward, the ride back to the hotel is even worse. Shane can feel the tension radiating off of Rozanov, posture rigid and gripping the door handle with white knuckles. Unsurprisingly, he’s once again out of the car and through the hotel doors before Shane is even unbuckled.
Once in his hotel room, Shane quickly strips, showers, and climbs into bed. It’s too early to go to sleep, barely even dinnertime, but he’s exhausted from the whirlwind of intense emotions he’s been feeling all day. He quickly shoots off a text to his mom, letting her know the interview went well and he’s calling it a night, then turns off his phone and pulls the covers over his head, finally alone with his thoughts.
He tries to unravel them, analyzing them one by one, but he can’t make sense of anything. His brain keeps getting stuck on Rozanov claiming that he hasn’t heard from Shane in months, when Shane has receipts that prove otherwise. And he hasn’t even begun to think about the first half of the answer to that question.
Hours pass, and Shane hasn’t made any progress. Unable to take it any longer, he throws the covers back and jumps out of bed, tossing on a pair of sweats, not bothering with shoes in his haste to get some answers. He makes his way out of his hotel room and, before he knows it, he’s banging on Rozanov’s door.
After knocking for what feels like an eternity, but was probably thirty seconds in reality, Shane hears shuffling inside the room. Finally, the door is being yanked open, a confused and rumpled Rozanov squinting into the brightly lit hallway.
“Shane?” he croaks, rubbing his eyes.
“Did you mean it?” Shane blurts out, ignoring the use of his first name - that’s a thought for later.
“Huh?” Rozanov asks, brows furrowed in confusion.
Shane pushes past him, barging into the room. He hears Rozanov shut the door and follow after him, grumbling to himself in Russian. When Shane turns around, he sees the confusion on Rozanov’s face morphing into anxiety.
“Hollander, what is going on? Is very late—”
“Did you mean it?” Shane repeats, eyes wide and frantic.
“Mean what? Hollander, I don’t understand. Is very late and I’m very tired, so I need you to tell me what it is you are asking,” Rozanov says warily, running his hand through his sleep-mussed curls.
“The interview!” he shouts. When Rozanov flinches, Shane lowers his voice. “During the interview, when you said…” Shane trails off, a desperate look on his face. He hopes Rozanov understands what he's asking, unable to say the words himself. “Did you mean it?” he pleads.
Rozanov looks at him for a beat too long, panic clear in his wide eyes. Then he’s moving across the room, sitting heavily at the foot of the bed with a deep, weary sigh. He looks at the floor, hands clasped between his legs, trembling slightly. After a moment of silence, he finally responds.
“I would not lie about something like that,” he says, voice pained and so quiet Shane barely hears him.
Shane shoves his hands in his hair and pulls at the strands, pacing in front of Rozanov. “I don’t understand!” he says, frustration and distress clear in his voice. “What the fuck are you playing at?”
Rozanov pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hollander, I really don’t want to do this right now.”
“Well too bad, I do!”
“No, you don’t get to decide that,” he says, quickly standing and jabbing a finger in Shane’s chest, punctuating the end of each sentence with another jab. “You are the one who left. You made it very clear that you did not want to speak to me ever again. So no, you don’t get to barge in here and demand we talk about this.” His hand drops down to his side. “Please leave, now.”
“What do you mean, I made it clear?” Shane croaks, baffled and unwilling to leave.
“You fucking blocked me Hollander!” Rozanov shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I tried reaching out! To apologize for whatever I did to make you run. To ask if we could forget the whole thing and go back to how things were before. But then my texts stopped delivering. I know what that means, Hollander. I am not idiot. So, I took the hint.”
Shane stares at him with wide eyes, even more confused than before. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he manages to get out, voice quiet and broken. “I texted you. So many times,” Shane says desperately, voice shaky and vision blurry, tears threatening to spill over. “Hoping you would answer. Begging you to answer. I tried for months. But you never responded, and you refused to even acknowledge me in person, so I took the hint.”
“What?” Rozanov whispers, barely audible over Shane’s pulse pounding in his ears. “But,” Rozanov sputters. “What about Rose Landry?”
“We dated for like a month,” Shane explains. “She helped me figure out I was gay and encouraged me to reach out to you and try to fix things.” A tear finally escapes, running down his cheek. “And I tried so hard,” he says, voice breaking on a barely contained sob. “I wanted to apologize for running away. To tell you that I wish I had stayed, that I regretted it the second I walked out the door. I wanted—” Shane cuts himself off, unable to continue as the tears start falling in full, scrubbing them away in frustration.
“Shane.” Hearing his first name makes him freeze. When he looks at Rozanov, Shane notices the tremble in his hands and his quick breathing, chest rising and falling as quickly as Shane’s. “What number were you texting?”
“What?”
“What number were you texting?” Rozanov repeats.
Shane continues to stare at him, dumbfounded. “What do you mean, what number was I texting?” Shane’s voice begins to rise in frustration. “You only have one!”
Rozanov’s lips part, and he begins to slowly shake his head, disbelief and what Shane can only describe as hope taking over his features.
“Shane,” he repeats slowly. “I changed my phone number after my father died. I didn’t want my brother to be able to contact me anymore. But I texted you. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t stand the thought of you not having it, even if you were already dating Rose Landry.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “I saw that you read my text, but you didn’t respond. And then the next time I texted you, it would not go through. None of my texts have since January.”
“No,” Shane breathes, legs giving out and collapsing onto the end of the bed like Rozanov had earlier. “No, no, no.” He drops his head into his hands, tugging at his hair and shaking his head back and forth. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he says again, unable to think of anything else to say. Suddenly, he looks up at Rozanov, eyes wide and pleading, begging for Rozanov to understand. “I never got a text from you. From your old number, from your new number, nothing.”
“I don’t understand…”
“When did you text me?”
“In January, like I said.”
“No, I need to know exactly when you texted me. What was the date?”
Rozanov grabs his phone from the bedside table and opens up his texts, the light from his phone highlighting his own tear-filled eyes. “January 23rd,” he finally says. “8:08 pm.”
Shane wracks his brain, trying to remember where he was on January 23rd. He didn’t have any games that day, and they weren’t travelling. Rose was off in LA shooting for her new movie, and his parents were in Mexico. The only other person he could have seen was…
“Oh my god,” he whispers.
“What?”
Shane jumps off the bed and runs back to his hotel room, Rozanov calling after him. He grabs his own phone off his bedside table and turns it on as he makes his way back, Rozanov holding the door open with a bewildered expression on his face. Once he’s back inside and his phone is on, he quickly pulls up his contacts, hitting the call button and putting it on speaker, wanting Rozanov to hear both sides of this conversation, if his suspicions are correct. It rings three times before the call is answered.
“Hello?” Hayden’s confused voice comes through the speaker, rough with sleep, Shane having clearly woken him up. “Shane? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“Did you block Lily’s number on my phone?” Shane demands, not bothering with a hello.
The silence lasts for a beat too long before Hayden responds. “What?” he asks, voice filled with what sounds like apprehension.
“Did you block Lily’s number on my phone?” he repeats, frustration clear in his voice.
“Shane—”
“Answer the fucking question, Hayden!” he shouts, no longer able to contain himself.
There’s a deep sigh on the other end before Hayden starts speaking. “Shane,” he repeats, voice pained. “I did what I thought was best for you.”
Shane’s knees give out once again, this time landing on the floor in a heap. “What was best for me?” he repeats.
“Yes! You were so broken up over her, man. I’ve never seen you like that before - you came over to my house and got drunk for Christ’s sake! I’ve literally never seen you drunk before. You were crying and babbling about Lily, and you were so heartbroken. And you were already dating Rose! I saw her text come through while you were in the bathroom, and I knew you'd be wrecked if you saw it too, so I thought it would be best if I just,” he pauses, taking a deep breath. “Made it so that she couldn’t contact you anymore.”
“You had no right to do that, Hayden,” Shane seethes.
“I was trying to protect you!”
“Protect me from what, Hayden?! The love of my life?” He hears Rozanov make a choked noise somewhere nearby, but he can’t focus on anything other than getting the answers he needs. “Who I’ve been trying, for months now, to apologize to and fix things with? Lily wasn’t the one who fucked up, Hayden, I was! Fuck!”
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know.”
“No shit, you didn’t know! I never told you because it wasn’t your fucking business! Fuck, Hayden.” Shane’s voice breaks. “I’ve been a mess for the past nine months because I thought I ruined things for good, that she didn’t want me anymore. I know you noticed. And you never thought to tell me?”
“I’m sorry, Shane,” Hayden repeats, voice quiet and remorseful. “I didn’t know what to do, and I clearly fucked up. I’m so sorry. What can I do to make it right?”
Shane sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I don’t know, Hayd. But I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”
Shane hangs up before Hayden can say anything else, phone clutched tightly in his sweaty, shaking hands. When he finally has the courage to look up, he notices Rozanov has joined him on the floor at some point during the call. He’s sitting ramrod straight, practically vibrating with the tension rolling off of him in waves.
Shane nervously rubs his sweaty palms up and down his thighs, a habit that usually helps ground him when he’s feeling anxious, in an attempt to calm himself down so he can continue their conversation.
Rozanov beats him to it, his voice startling Shane. “Did you mean it?” he croaks, repeating Shane’s question from earlier.
He turns to look at him, Rozanov’s eyes wide and desperate, searching Shane’s face for an answer. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that,” Shane whispers. “Do you—” Shane clears his throat, stalling a moment before asking the question that he’s too afraid to know the answer to. That he desperately needs to know the answer to. “Do you still feel that way?” he finally finishes, trying not to sound too hopeful.
Rozanov’s gaze softens, his hand coming up to cup Shane’s cheek, thumb rubbing over the freckles under his eye. “I have felt that way since the moment I met you,” he confesses in a whisper. “I do not think is possible for me to not feel that way.” A tear finally escapes, running down his cheek and landing on the floor between them. “Believe me, I have tried.”
Shane lets out a tearful chuckle. “Ilya”, he whispers.
“Shane,” he responds, sounding just as wrecked.
“Fuck.” Shane falls forward, head landing on Ilya’s chest, the sob he’s been trying to hold back finally escaping.
Ilya’s arms wrap around him, hands rubbing soothingly up and down his back. “Shh,” he whispers, lips pressed to Shane’s hair, but he can feel Ilya shaking, silent tears falling on his head.
Shane sits back, clearing his throat and scrubbing the tears away. Looking him straight in the eye for what feels like the first time in months, Shane asks “What now?”
Both of Ilya’s hands cup Shane’s face this time. “I don’t know.”
Stomach dropping, Shane goes to pull away, thinking Ilya is about to tell him that, despite everything, they still can’t be together. But Ilya holds on firmly, forcing Shane to keep looking at him. “I don’t know,” he repeats, “but I can not lose you again. I would not survive it. That I know. I don’t know what the future looks like for us, but I want there to be an us. Besides,” Ilya smirks, thumbs wiping away the fresh tears Shane can’t hold back, “You are Mr. Plan Guy. I should be asking you, ‘what now?’”
A sound escapes from deep in Shane's chest, half laugh and half sob. He brings his hands up to hold Ilya’s arms, thumbs rubbing his inner wrists. “I love you,” he whispers, needing to say it for real, wanting Ilya to hear it said to him directly and not to Hayden. “And I will come up with a plan, if that’s what you want.”
“I love you, too,” Ilya whispers back, “so much. And yes, I want.”
Shane can’t hold himself back anymore. He surges forward, lips connecting with Ilya’s and hands grabbing desperately at his shirt. Ilya lets out a small, surprised noise in the back of his throat, and then he’s kissing Shane back, passionately and desperately, and suddenly all is right with the world. All of the pain from the last nine months disappearing, replaced with pure joy.
Needing to catch their breaths, they pull back and look at each other, cheeks wet and big, goofy smiles on their faces. They both break into giggles, falling into each other and arms wrapping tightly around the other.
“I’m so sorry,” Shane says, face pressed into Ilya’s neck. “I had no idea Hayden blocked your number. I promise I texted you, so many times. I wanted to fix things so bad.”
“I know, moya lyubov,” Ilya comforts, squeezing Shane tighter. “I’m sorry, too. I could tell you wanted to talk to me at our games. I should not have avoided you like I did.”
“We’re both idiots,” Shane says.
“Yes. But I am your idiot, and you are mine.”
Shane pulls away, looking Ilya in the eyes, bottom lip wobbling. “You’re mine,” he whispers.
“And you’re mine.”
Then they are both crying and kissing again, unable to keep their hands to themselves and the giddy smiles off their faces.
Later, after reacquainting themselves with each other’s bodies (as if either of them could ever forget), they find themselves under the covers, naked and sated and happy, Shane’s head on Ilya’s chest and Ilya’s hand gently carding through Shane’s hair. Curiosity getting the better of him, Shane props himself up on one elbow, looking at Ilya with a questioning look. “You called me something earlier, in Russian. What was it?”
“Ah, moya lyubov?” At Shane’s nod, he continues. “Is a, affection name?”
“Term of endearment?” Shane provides.
“Da, term of endearment. It means, ‘my love.’”
Shane smiles softly, eyes filled with so much love for the man in front of him. He cups Ilya’s face with the hand not being used to prop himself up. “How do you say ‘I love you’ in Russian?”
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says softly, eyes glassy.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane repeats. He knows his pronunciation isn’t perfect, but that’s okay. He’ll have the rest of his life to practice.
Ilya leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Shane’s lips, and Shane lays back down, snuggling as close as he can to the man he loves. He still has a plan to make (and has to come out to his parents - shit), but that can wait. Right now, he’s happy to just lay in Ilya’s arms, allowing himself to feel all of the love he has for this man that he tried so hard to suppress. And allowing himself to feel all of the love Ilya has for him.
When Shane woke up this morning, his first thought was that he was not looking forward to today. Now, just as he's about to drift off to sleep, he thinks to himself that this was the best day of his life so far. He smiles into Ilya's chest, knowing there will be many more to come.