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"I need to sleep."
Shane's heart drops in his chest. A single, simple sentence. Four words and he's already reduced to an anxious mess, sifting through their stilted conversation to find where he went wrong, what he could have said instead.
"Oh. Me too. I… I should go." The words sit heavy and sour in his mouth. It tangles, acrid with the taste of vodka and cigarette smoke and feels wrongwrongwrong. They didn't do this. They didn't talk about home, didn't ask about whys, didn't promise anything more than the next time they would meet.
I messed up.
Guilt coils in his gut as Shane pulls on his underwear. Each taptaptap of Rozanov's fingers against his cigarette sits like a weight on his shoulders as they creep up towards his ears. He dresses with clumsy fingers and Rozanov's not sending him off, not caging him against the door to press lingering kisses against his lips.
"So… I'm off." Shane tugs at his shirt again for the third time. There's only so long he can drag this out, waiting for… something. Anything.
"Goodbye Hollander."
Nothing.
Rozanov gives him nothing and it's as though a door has slammed shut in his face. Shane takes a breath, tasting the words on his tongue. He knows the ache in his throat, knows with certainty the waver in his voice and he swallows the half formed sentences down like shards of glass.
The doorknob is cold in his grip, finality echoing in the soft click when it shuts. One step. Two steps. Somehow he's down the hall yet doesn't remember how he got there. The worn carpet beneath Shane's feet swims, pattern distorting as he blinks frantically.
"Fuck," he hisses.
Shane pulls out his phone, fingers itching. He needs to say something, doesn't want it to end like this. It'll be months before Shane gets to see Rozanov again, months that the wrongness of it all will eat away at him.
See you next season :)|
It's what he says every time, both too much and not enough. Moments that stretch long and uncomfortable after, sweat cooling on their skin and heartbeats slowing in tandem. Shane will excuse himself, or Rozanov does.
Tonight was a dismissal, cold and hard as a blade against his throat.
See you next |
See y|
Shane closes his eyes, a headache beginning its familiar pulse at his temples. Opens them, and his fingers are already making their way, leaden, across the keyboard.
We didn't even kiss|
Stupid, stupid stupid, he think, thumb hovering on the backspace button again. The cursor blinks back at him mockingly.
One moment the world is upright, and the next the lights in the corner of his vision are smears against the dark of the ceiling. He's weightless for a split second, a familiar sensation amidst ice and adrenaline and a sharp contrast to the plush of hotel carpet caught beneath his feet. It's easy to catch himself, ingrained into his muscles after all these years. Core tense, arms and legs bracing.
No.
Shane's eyes snap to the tiny screen, air rushing out of him like he's been body checked. Message sent.
The text box is empty, the stupid cursor blinking back at him calmly. His heart is decidedly less calm, pulse pounding in his ears and dread threatens to seal his throat shut. Shane follows the signs and reaches the lift, jamming the button with his finger like his life depends on it.
Maybe he's freaking out over nothing. Rozanov kicked him out with the excuse of needing sleep so maybe he won't check his phone at all, Shane thinks.
He jabs the button again, willing the elevator to move faster and cursing the fact that Rozanov has a penthouse room.
Bang.
Shane jumps, heart ricocheting against his ribs. Swift footsteps echo down the hall and he freezes, bile rising in his throat. He's trapped.
A familiar figure rounds the corner, storm brewing in his eyes. Shane could recognize him in the dim light, the set of his shoulders, the golden curls, remembered how soft it felt sliding between his fingers. Shane knew the shape of his body and the cadence of his breath, yet in the moments that truly mattered, he didn't really know Rozanov at all.
"Hollander…"
Shane shivers, presses his back to the wall. There's a roughness to his voice, curling around the familiar syllables of his name. Anger? Frustration? Shane can't tell. He squeezes his eyes shut.
A hand grips his chin, thumb along his jaw and four fingers caressing his cheek. A sensation so uniquely Rozanov's that Shane's eyes flutter open again, almost against his will.
"I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" Shane hears it and hates it, hates the way his voice quivers.
"Didn't mean what?" Rozanov squeezes his face gently, tilting it up.
Shane can't resist. He never can when it comes to Rozanov.
"It's just… we didn't even kiss." He whispers. Heat crawls up his neck. It sounds silly, even to himself. "That was the first time we've been together without a single kiss."
"And is that what you want? A kiss?" Rozanov quirks an eyebrow at him, a hint of a smirk curling up the corners of his mouth. And yet. There's something sad in the crease between his brows, some unnameable emotion dancing in his hazel eyes.
Shane's chest hurts, a familiar echo. He just nods.
"Use your words, Hollander." The thumb on his jaw slides back and forth, soothing and at odds with teasing in his voice.
Shane swallows, awkward and loud in the quiet of the hall. He feels small in front of Rozanov, the man supposedly his rival and his equal. "Yes," he breathes.
Shane's hands come up to hold his face, thumbs stroking along strong cheekbones and he brushes his lips featherlight against Rozanov's. It's soft, barely there, all the things he can't put into words.
"Bozhe moy."
A breath puffs in his face and strong arms wrap around him tightly. There's a hand in his hair, short nails scratching at his scalp and Shane is surrounded by warmth and the smell of Rozanov and he just melts. Shane squeezes him closer still, pressed together until he can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
Rozanov's grip around Shane loosens as if to pull away and a whimper escapes from his throat. He feels a chuckle rumble through his chest and a cheek presses to the side of his head.
"I'm not going anywhere, Solnyshko." He murmurs, voice thick.
The taste of cigarette smoke and vodka mingles with something uniquely Rozanov, filling Shane's senses and the knot of tension in his lungs finally unwinds. He's frantic, hands pulling at his shirt, winding into golden curls and Shane takes what he needs all tongue and teeth and desperation.
Rozanov meets him each time, licks into his mouth when he parts to gasp for breath, lips chasing Shane's. He can feel the tension in Rozanov's shoulders strung tight like a bow slowly loosen with each slide of their lips. Another brush of his lips, this time to the corner of Rozanov's mouth, then he pulls away.
Shane stares. Hazel eyes, glassy, stare back at him.
"Hey." He murmurs, cupping his cheek with a hand. "Hey. What's wrong?"
A wet, trembling huff and Rozanov tucks his face deeper into Shane's palm. "You win, Hollander."
He laughs, incredulous. "Really?"
"Da. Yes. I'll do whatever you want."
Ding.
They spring apart. The elevator doors open, empty and waiting. He'd completely forgotten he was supposed to leave.
Slow, almost reluctant, Rozanov leans close and holds the elevator button open, eyes flickering to his. "Hollander, what do you want?"
Shane hand fists in Rozanov's shirt. "I…" He shakes his head, grip tightening until his knuckles creak. The words are there, all jumbled up on the tip of his tongue.
"You want another kiss?" Hands, at his elbows, thumbs stroking and warm through the fabric of his shirt. Lips press gentle at Shane's temple and something splinters in his chest.
He wants to believe it meant something, that Ilya practically flew out of his hotel room to find Shane because of a single text. "I want…" He takes a shuddering breath "I want to stay, Rozanov. Tonight. With you."
The hands rubbing a soothing trail down his arms stop. Shane scans his face, sees the tension pulling at the corners of Rozanov's mouth warring with the softening of his eyes.
"Is that… Is that okay?"
He's surrounded by warmth again, Rozanov hugging him tight and hiding his face into the crook of Shane's neck. It seems as much comforting Shane as Rozanov is finding comfort in him.
Lips graze his skin, raising goosebumps along their path. "Yes. You know I cannot deny you anything, Hollander."
Shane snorts. "Save that for when you ghost me for another 6 months." Part of him is still mad about it, How he's so much at the mercy of Rozanov's capricious moods, how he can't resist circling back to this inexplicable thing between them.
"I can't—" Rozanov says, voice breaking. "Was trying to be careful, okay? What we are doing is dangerous."
A wet breath, slow and shuddering. "I can't stop wanting more than just an hour. I can't tell you to stay, that I want to know what Shane Hollander looks like when he wakes up." Once the words start tumbling out they couldn't seem to stop.
"I was afraid." He inhales, "afraid that if I kiss you I would never stop."
The words punch a hole through Shane's heart, leaving him winded. "But what if I don't want you to stop?" He manages. "Would you want to be more, if we could?"
Rozanov closes his eyes, shaking his head. "We can't." He says simply.
"That's not what I asked."
"What does it fucking matter, what I want?" He bursts. "I wouldn't be able to go home anymore, wouldn't be able to see family again."
"Then, what about what I want?" Shane asks softly. "I don't… I don't think I can keep doing this. Sleeping with you, pretending like it means nothing to either of us."
They've drifted apart again without either of them noticing, gap widening like a rift between them.
I've gone and ruined it again, Shane thinks. His hands curl at his sides and teeth clench, preparing for the worst.
"Blyat—"
Lips crash into Shane's and he winces. A tongue soothes the sting away and wetness smears against his face.
"Of course I want more." Rozanov whispers, voice trembling. "But neither of us can be more than this. No matter how much I want it." Another tear slips down his cheek.
"Holy shit." Shane breathes. His fingers catch the tear as it falls, wiping it away. "Are you… crying?"
Rozanov scrunches his nose. "This is what you're focusing on?"
"I've never seen you cry. It surprised me, that's all." Shane's brow furrows.
"And what? Are you going to record and blackmail me with it?" Rozanov laughs wetly. "The Ilya Rozanov reduced to a crybaby by his years long archrival. What a fucking headline."
"No! No, that's not what this is." Shane shakes his head vehemently. "We've known each other for so long, years now at this point, and there's still so much I don't know about you.
Rozanov huffs out another ragged breath. "Which is why we wish for more time, more than just fucking. Full circle now we are back to the same problem, no?"
Fingers intertwine and Shane leans forward, bumping their foreheads together, eyes sliding shut. "Oh what are we going to do?" He says, pathetic.
Rozanov squeezes his hand tight, tugging on it gently. "Is late. Come to bed, everything will still be here when we wake up."
Brown eyes lock onto hazel. "You promise?" Shane says, roughly. "You're not going to change your mind tomorrow, right?"
A tiny smile tugs at the familiar bow of Rozanov's mouth and his heart skips a beat. "Yes, I promise."
Their hands stay interlocked and shoulders bump as they walk, neither of them willing to let go.