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Shane still feels a buzzing beneath his skin, just as insistent as it was mere minutes ago, when Rozanov had him in his grasp.
There's a sheen of sweat settling around his temples at the hairline, and the stage lighting burns too bright in his retinas. His head feels less floaty now, but he chews on the inside of his cheek to ground himself against the threat of completely falling back into that place- a task that becomes significantly harder when Rozanov wins MVP, and Shane works twice as hard to force a neutral expression.
He’s not really all that upset about losing the award, if he’s honest, and secretly relieved he won't have to get up in front of his peers to give some bullshit PR approved speech. It’s the torture of being so close to Ilya when he looks that good, when he had made Shane feel so good, and not being able to do anything about it.
Eventually, the cameras pan away from the reactions of the losers and focus in on Rozanov’s speech. He takes the opportunity to slouch a bit in his seat, suit jacket bunching up slightly behind his back.
He does try to listen to the Russian lilted words spilling from Ilya’s mouth, but it’s all he can do not to let his eyes roll back into his head as the man’s strong fingers wrap around the award, the bass of his voice carrying across the room and making a home in the space where Shane’s brain should be.
He does try not to think about how, not even ten minutes ago, those fingers were holding Shane's face so tenderly. How Ilya’s thumb had brushed the underside of his bottom lip when it began to quiver with the effort of holding back tears. He absolutely does not think about how that thumb usually feels against the back of his tongue, along the back of his teeth. He tries and tries and he thinks he might be trying too hard, because he’s shaking like a stray animal.
And then Rozanov is walking off stage, mouth still pulled into his usual smug grin, when they make eye contact. Shane’s breath catches in his chest, and he's barely present enough to register the way he’s begun gnawing on the side of his own thumb, let alone the way Ilya’s eyes darken and fixate on his mouth when he sees. Ilya always sees him. An ache so sweet blooms in the center of his ribcage, and he swallows thickly, but the lump gets stuck in his throat.
The only coherent thought Shane can form as he watches Rozanov take his seat, is the memory of his voice reverberating against the tile. The half-promise of later.
Maybemaybemaybe.
—
By the time he slips from the afterparty unnoticed, leaving his empty champagne glass on a table, Shane’s incessant worrying returns to him in full force. The permanent dent on the inside of his cheek is sore from the workings of his molars. Anxiety regarding prying eyes and forced socialization hit him like a truck, his body is wired and his brain scrambles for an off switch.
His limbs move of their own accord when he presses the button labeled ‘P’ in the elevator, seeking Ilya without second thought.
Which is how Shane now finds himself fully naked, spread out on Ilya’s bed. The asshole hasn’t let him slip into that cloudy haze just yet, content to play with him for as long as he himself could hold out. Shane had even, quite pathetically, begged for a sip of vodka just to try and speed the process along.
He just wants to turn it off, to let Ilya think for him and to let his body do all of the work, but Rozanov never could let him have it without a price. Including teasing him about the fucking cup- while he watched- the sick fuck.
As one hand roams across his chest, he teases himself with the other, the weight of Ilya’s gaze enough to send shivers down his spine, desire prickles at the base of his neck. But it’s not enough, and he scrunches his nose in frustration.
“I need…” he mumbles, nearly whining. His hand roams up to cup the side of his own cheek and trace his thumb along the ridge of his lower lip, mimicking Rozanov’s earlier actions.
Shane can see the gears turning behind Ilya’s eyes as they burn a hole right through his own, to the base of his skull. Through a blurry gaze, Ilya swirls the vodka around the glass and licks his teeth, before standing to slowly cross the distance to the end of the bed.
Shane moves forward on autopilot to meet him on his knees, and he lets out a sharp exhale when Ilya grabs his chin to force his eyes upward.
“I know what you need,” he says, accent thick and pupils blown wide with lust. His hand falls away briefly and Shane lets his eyes fall closed and his head drop, barely holding back a whimper at the loss of touch.
Suddenly, there’s a finger slipping into his already parted mouth, and another hand gripping his jaw tightly. It takes less than half a second for Shane to register the harsh bite of alcohol being pressed into his gums by the pads of Ilya’s first and second finger, and-
He groans around Ilya’s fingers as he finally, finally, feels himself slip under.
The sting of the vodka is a stark comparison to the blurred edges of Shane’s very existence. Ilya’s hands disappearing again, just for them to reappear moments later, coated in more of the potent liquid before they are massaging it into the sides of Shane’s cheeks, the top of his gums, the space behind his molars.
Shane has gone spongey soft, candy floss between his ears, more idea than man. There is so much drool and vodka mixing to run down his chin and his chest, running down Ilya’s wrist and dripping to the bedsheets. It’s absolutely obscene, he must look obscene, and the thought has him honest-to-god panting into the stale penthouse air.
The awful whimpers coming from his throat only spur Ilya on to guide him by the hair and look him in the eye once more, but Shane is falling so quickly and his eyelids are becoming heavier by the second.
“Solnyshko, look at me. Be good for me, Hollander, there you go.” He croons. "Is okay?"
His words sound far away and it takes the last semblance of sanity Shane has left to look him in the eye and nod. He stills a bit when he finds that Ilya is the one who looks drunk. His ears and neck are pink, a bead of sweat drips down his temple. His eyes gaze back at Shane unfocused but burning hot, almost angry. Like he's barely holding himself back, on the precipice of something dangerous.
The thought of causing Ilya to lose control has him leaking pre-cum onto the bed.
“Good. Open.”
So he does. Unhinges his jaw, sticks out his tongue, and watches as Ilya takes the last big swig from the glass. He nearly comes on the spot, completely untouched, when he spits the vodka into Shane’s mouth.
“Swallow.”
A simple command, one he is grateful for as the burn sliding down his throat pushes him as far under as he’s ever been. His belly feels warm and his nose tingles, his vision swims a bit as he suddenly has the urge to giggle. He feels like a ball of cotton being pulled apart at the edges by Ilya’s strong will– devastating and perfect.
There is a thumb in his mouth again, and he laves at it with desperation while Ilya’s hand begins to undo his belt.
“Calm down, маленький щенок. You are still thinking too much,” Ilya lies.
Shane’s vision is obscured by Ilya’s slacks, and he whines while nosing into the fabric, can feel him straining against them and starts mouthing at his erection. A gasp is wrung out of him as Rozanov pulls him back by the hair, hard, and practically growls. The sharp pain on his scalp burns hot down his spine and his cock twitches against his thigh.
He feels warm, humid breath on his ear when Ilya tells him, “Get on your back. Head over the edge.”
To Shane’s credit, he follows the instructions well, considering the state of his sobriety. His limbs feel heavy as he maneuvers his way to hang his head off the side of the bed, and the world spins a bit as he goes upside down. He takes an exaggerated breath before letting it out in an airy giggle.
Then, there’s just Ilya.
He’s completely surrounded by him, his scent, the hands that palm his chest and pry open his mouth to make space for Ilya to press into. He's still half dressed. The thought slips from him as quickly as it came, because Rozanov starts fucking his throat open on his cock. Almost as if it were his-
“ебать, Hollander your mouth is so wet. So pretty and sloppy for me like this, like your hole. Will fuck that next.”
Shane mumbles an almost inhuman sound around him and tries his best to remember to breathe through his nose and relax his tongue. He feels Ilya’s hand wrap around his throat and squeeze, decidedly cutting off any airflow when he pushes himself all the way into Shane's throat, his balls resting just over his nose. The only thing filling his senses, the only thing he can breathe, is Ilya, and his orgasm comes out of nowhere, hitting him like a freight train. He’s humping the air, coming untouched, as Rozanov uses his throat like a fleshlight. It’s so incredibly unsatisfying and equally embarrassing that he starts crying, tears running into his hair, and when Ilya finally pulls out he’s sniffling in earnest.
Ilya sits him upright on the bed and pats his cheek condescendingly, shushing at him. Shane has enough wherewithal to feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. His cock twitches again, still half hard as the combination of Ilya’s mocking tone and the vodka sitting in his stomach lull him into a constant state of want.
“Such a slut for me, aren’t you Hollander? Love how stupid you get when you are drunk, makes it very easy to ruin you.”
Shane flinches a bit at that. His heart skips a beat, then pounds rapidly in his chest, and his anxiety begins pushing through the cloudy haze to scream at him.
Ilya has said many, many, filthy things to Shane in the time they've known each other, whether chirping him on the ice or attempting to sext. But Ilya’s never been this… mean. It causes heat to bloom in his belly again while his nervous system tries to convince him that something is very different, and very wrong.
The way Ilya is speaking, in a clipped tone with uncharacteristically aggressive language, has him second guessing the whole thing. But he’s still pretty tipsy and searching for the right words to tell Ilya to ‘slow down’ without sounding like an idiot would prove impossible.
So Shane says nothing, and takes whatever he gives him. Beggars cannot be choosers when it comes to the attentions of Ilya Rozanov.
“I can see you thinking, Hollander. Maybe few sips were not enough for the golden boy, hm?" His face screws up into something that looks an awful lot like resentment. "I think you need some more.” He reaches over to the night stand to grab the bottle of vodka and wrenches Shane’s mouth open.
Shane's eyes widen and his pulse races as he grabs at Ilya’s hand, protests garbled through smushed lips.
“Wai- Roz, pweash, wai-”
But the sound is drowned out by the painful bite of the alcohol once again. It spills over the side of his lips and down his neck as he tries to choke it down.
Ilya tsks at him, “Look at the mess you are making, kotik. Wasting very expensive vodka.”
And he sobs as Rozanov leans down to lick hot stripes up his neck, lapping up anything Shane hadn’t had the ability to swallow, then moves upwards to lap at his tears. He feels absolutely gross.
And yet, he keens and arches into his touch, desperate for more. The contempt laced within Ilya’s tone drips down his spine and goes straight to his cock, already almost fully hard again. His stomach turns with the feeling of dread and insecurity, but his heart body wants whatever Ilya will give, in whatever way he’ll give it.
So he weakly pushes Ilya away and lazily flips himself onto his front, face smushed into the comforter and ass high in the air. Ilya leans in close, looking him in the eyes, searching for a sign, maybe, that Shane still needs this. He raises his eyebrows in a silent 'Still okay?'
And what else can Shane do, but choke out a watery, “Please fuck me.”
Ilya just laughs and shoves two fingers back into Shane’s mouth, gathering his drool before dipping them into the mess of cum on Shane’s stomach. Using the combination of the two as lube, his fingers circle Shane's rim and push them into his ass.
His eyes are closed as Rozanov works him open on his fingers. He distantly hears him muttering in a mix of Russian and English, something about how loose his hole is, how he should get drunk more often. And Shane is so gone.
Time suspends and he’s left spinning out in the empty nothingness where his brain usually sits. Distantly, he can feel Ilya pushing the tip of his cock in, slowly at first. But he’s so wet and pliant from the alcohol, that Ilya wastes no more time, and begins fucking him in earnest.
Shane feels so fucking good. He’s never felt this good in his whole life.
There’s not a single thought in his mind other than the feeling of Rozanov inside of him. His world narrows down to the weight of Ilya’s hand pressing his face into the mattress, and the slap of Ilya’s hips against his ass.
He thinks that he might give up the rest of the world just to keep experiencing this.
Shane is no longer a person, but a mess of sweaty limbs and pathetic whines timed to Ilya’s thrusts, high pitched and humiliating. He’s the tears pooling on the bedspread beneath his cheek, blurring his vision and burning his eyes.
It’s almost painful, the way he feels cleaved in two. He likes that he feels disgusting, that he can exist in this room without being perfect. All he has to do is show up and Rozanov will ruin him, turn him into nothing more than a writhing body to be used for Ilya's pleasure. In this room, he’s free from responsibility and the pressure of being the "Golden Boy".
Though, on the other hand, he finds he wouldn’t be able to reach Ilya in this room if he tried. The man behind him feels about a thousand miles away, seemingly attempting to push Shane so far down that he won’t be able to find Ilya ever again. And that has him feeling split down the middle more than anything.
Shane tries to reach his hand around to grab at him, desperate for any kind of tether to draw closer to the person currently splitting him in two. But Ilya just grabs his wrist and pins it next to his head. Shane heaves a sob and feels Rozanov’s hips stutter almost imperceptibly.
“Da, Hollander, keep taking it. Greedy for whatever you can get and you still want more, hmm? Ненасытный.”
Ilya nearly spits the last word at him and Shane’s cock is weeping onto the bed. His ass is sore and he’s starting to feel a bit nauseous, but he’s so close to coming again with Ilya murmuring not-so-sweet nothings in his ear.
“You are close, yes?” Ilya pants, voice wrecked and accent thicker than he’s ever heard it. Ilya always sees him.
“C’mon Hollander, give it to me. I can be greedy too.” Shane feels a hand wrap around him and give a few strokes, and he’s right there, he just needs-
Ilya bites the junction of his neck and shoulder hard, and Shane’s vision goes white.
—-
There’s nothing for a while, just the sound of blood rushing in his ears and his shaky breath against the sheets. A minute or an hour goes by before he’s hit with the harsh scent of tobacco. He lifts his head to see Rozanov sitting up against the head rest, cigarette hanging loosely between his lips, staring straight ahead. Something is wrong.
He scrunches his nose and moves slowly to sit next to him. There’s a glass of water resting on the nightstand closest to him, and Shane feels his stomach lurch. His voice is gravelly as he whispers out a thank you. Ilya just gives a curt nod.
Shane stumbles through a few attempts at making polite conversation, though he’s not really sure he’s making any sense, and Ilya is giving him next-to-nothing to work with. His brain is still fuzzy and he’s unable to discern whether it’s due to the alcohol or the Rozanov of it all. His skin is covered in goosebumps and he unsuccessfully tries to hide his shivering.
He feels bad.
His mind is on a one track loop of badwrongbadwrongbadwrong, and he feels tears well up again when he realizes that he just wants Ilya to fucking look at him.
But he remains unnervingly still.
“I need to sleep.” Ilya says, clipped.
Shane knows it’s bullshit, knows that Rozanov likes to stay in Vegas for a few days after the awards to enjoy the city. But Shane, even in his ruined state, is a smart man who knows when to cut his losses. He scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head as he moves to stand.
“Yeah. Alright, fine.” He bites, voice breaking a bit. Murmurs a watery ‘fucking asshole’ under his breath and heads to the main room to dress.
He feels like his organs are inside out and he imagines he’s stitching up his wounds while he pulls on his clothes with shaky hands. He slowly, methodically, tries to piece himself back together.
He’s hurt and confused and so fucking angry at himself. Rozanov had never treated him so callously, in the after. Clearly he had wanted too much, had finally asked for too much, had gone and ruined the whole thing.
Grabbing his suit jacket from the couch, he stands and waits a few more moments.
His breathing spikes and he realizes he is sulking, quite pitifully, in a beautiful room waiting for a beautiful man to tell him he did well. That he is still good, even after wanting all that he does.
In a last ditch effort to prompt Ilya, he angrily announces, “Well, I’m off.”
A beat of silence, then-
A very solemn, “Goodbye, Hollander.”
Ilya had always seen Shane, but would never allow being seen.
The weight of rejection hits Shane square in the chest, ice cold. It spreads through his body in an instant, and he feels vaguely as if he's been pumped full of saline. He may as well be floating into the penthouse elevator, doesn’t know his right foot from his left, ears ringing and hands clammy.
His pulse races and as the elevator doors close, his breath becoming panicked. He can’t remember which floor his room is on, and the walls begin to close in. He closes his eyes and tears spill out of them uncontrollably.
He opens his phone, screen blurred and too bright. His head pounds and he rests it on the wall, clicking on the text thread with “Lily”. Desperate now for connection, he types out a pathetic ‘See you next season :)’, but deletes it quickly, feeling small and naive.
His molars work on the inside of his cheek again, and the taste of metal blooms. Lips quivering, he runs a hand through his hair, pulling sharply when he realizes he hadn’t once felt Ilya’s mouth on his all night.
He types quickly.
‘We didn’t even kiss…”
Lets it sit there. Stares at it as he presses the elevator button numbered “12” and pinches the tears from his eyes. Stares at it as he taps his keycard to his hotel room door, and stares at it in the bathroom when he gets out of the shower.
Only when he’s sitting up in bed in the middle of the night, staring into the darkness, does he delete the message, turning his phone off.