Chapter Text
October 2016 - Montreal
Rozanov sits up like he is preparing to leave. He always does. By now, Shane knows by heart the way he stands up and starts going after his clothes, always haphazardly scattered on the floor. He throws them on like he couldn’t care less about proper fabric care. He probably doesn’t.
There are two alternative patterns they usually follow after sex: they get cleaned up, sometimes shower together, and return to the bed. The clock is ticking, but they linger for a while. Sometimes there is some lazy making out involved, sometimes a drink, or if Rozanov can get away with it, a smoke.
The second pattern is more straightforward: straight to shower, clothes on, ready, set and go.
And then, inevitably, Rozanov will put on his coat and say:
“I should get going.”
Rozanov will leave and Shane will stay behind, the afterglow of sex slowly turning into confusion and guilt.
Sometimes it is Shane who leaves, but it will always eventually lead to the same end result: the jarring feeling of stepping back into their real lives where they can only exist within the narrative of Hollander and Rozanov, the biggest rivals in the history of the league. It has started to feel like an ill-fitting piece of clothing. Chafing, itchy, difficult to ignore.
Except that this time, there is a glitch. The moment doesn’t come.
Rozanov keeps still. He looks suddenly weary and impossibly small for his actual size. Shane watches his quite frankly impressive back muscles tighten up, like they are holding an invisible weight. His throat is working.
“Actually, can I…” Rozanov makes a funny sniffing sound and tries again.
“Can I stay here tonight?”
Shane’s heart makes a weird little flip in his chest. He has a distinct feeling Rozanov is asking something else, but Shane has never been good at seeing through layers of words. He is only good at reading people when they are wearing skates and going after the puck in the rink.
“Yeah, sure.” He tries to keep his voice cool. There is a sudden swell of tenderness inside him, hard to explain and even harder to contain.
Yes, to whatever you’re asking. Yes, yes, yes.
They never stay the night. That breaks the pattern, smashes it into thousands of pieces and makes the whole ecosystem of their arrangement unstable.
“Okay.” Rozanov breathes out and nods slowly.
Shane wants to hug him. The urge is alien and almost overwhelming. They have touched each other in almost all imaginable ways, but hugging is not one of them, so he just pulls Rozanov back down and kisses his shoulder. They have just had some pretty amazing sex, so he isn’t really trying to initiate anything. He just needs to put his feelings somewhere, and this is the way they are used to communicating.
Rozanov lies still on his side, his back to Shane. Somehow, that seems like a question, too.
Why stay? Why now?
Boston won the game tonight. Three goals to Montreal’s two. Shane is loath to admit it, but it was a good game. His team gave their absolute best, but to the disappointment of their home crowd, Boston was better. This tíme.
So he keeps on dropping light kisses on Rozanov. The back of his neck, between his shoulder blades. There are moles scattered all over his back like constellations, so Shane kisses them. The Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, Cancer. He only stops when he realizes Rozanov is shaking.
“Hey. Are you alright?”
Rozanov says something in Russian. Judging from the way he spits the word out, Shane thinks it is probably a swearword. Then Rozanov grabs his hand and pulls, but not like he usually does. He has guided Shane’s hand down in his pants more times than Shane cares to remember, but this is different.
Oh.
He wants to be held.
Tentatively, like approaching a wounded animal, Shane wraps his arms around him, pressing his chest against Rozanov’s back. They don’t really do this, but Rozanov is asking.
It is almost scary how natural it feels, enough to set alarm bells ringing inside his head, loud and urgent. But then Rozanov’s shaking turns into the unmistakable sound of someone trying to hide their crying, and Shane pushes his own panic aside. Rozanov wants to be held, so Shane will hold him, simple as that. Freaking out is allowed only one at a time.
He doesn’t really understand what is happening, but he can sense the magnitude of it, like tectonic plates shifting.
They lie together for a long time, Shane’s nose buried in Rozanov’s curly hair. Over the years, he has become oddly familiar with Rozanov’s smell. Today, he has clearly been smoking, the bitter hint of tobacco still lingering on his skin, but underneath that, there is something warm and grounding. Shane could recognize it blindfolded, and that probably tells him something he should inspect later. Now, he folds the thought neatly away.
When the crying subsides, Shane lets go, as gently as he can, and reaches for a box of tissues on the nightstand. He gives it to Rozanov, who wipes his eyes and blows his nose with his back still turned to Shane. Shane gives him the pretense of privacy.
“You hungry?” There are other questions he wants to ask, but this is the one he settles for. It feels like the safest option, even though they have never actually eaten a meal together. It is a night of many firsts.
Rozanov rolls on his back and the corners of his mouth lift slightly. His eyes are puffy and red, but that doesn’t make him less handsome.
“I could eat.”
“We should order some takeout.” Shane gets out of the bed and starts putting his clothes back on. He feels slightly bad for his t-shirt that almost got a seam ripped when Rozanov somewhat overenthusiastically helped him take it off. It is a nice shirt and deserves to be handled with respect.
The idea of junk food doesn’t sound too appealing in the middle of the season, because it messes up his macros, but it is late in the evening. Their options are limited. The apartment does have a functioning kitchen, but there is basically nothing in the fridge other than a few cans of beer and ginger ale.
That is the reality of their arrangement. Hotel rooms and whatever this is. A skeleton of a house, a place to stay but not for longer than a quick fuck takes. His investment. It feels shameful, all of a sudden.
(He is slow to catch on to feelings, but this time, the realization hits him in the face with full force: he wants Rozanov in his home. His actual home in Montreal. It is new.
Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly bold, he imagines Rozanov coming to the cottage. How they would kiss on the deck and swim together, maybe make a little bonfire, wake up tangled in each other. But there is a difference between daydreaming of impossible things and wanting to carve a place for something in the waking world. Daydreams are for cowards, fleeting and untethered from reality, and Shane Hollander is not a brave man.)
“Are you okay with pizza?” He is already looking up alternatives on his phone, thankful to have something to do.
“With pepperoni, yes.” Rozanov sounds relatively calm for a person who just had a mental breakdown seemingly out of nowhere. He gets up and starts picking up his clothes. When he gets dressed, there is none of the usual hurry.
They are actually spending the night at the apartment. Together.
It is so bizarre Shane’s skin is practically tingling with it. He places an order for two pizzas, one with pepperoni and the other with bell peppers and grilled chicken and low-fat cheese, because he doesn’t want to completely give up on his diet, and heads for the fridge. Rozanov follows in tow like a lost dog and sits at the kitchen island. Shane hands him a can of beer and leans against the counter.
“So. We should probably talk about what just happened.”
“It was nothing.” Rozanov opens his can and takes a swig. It is usually Shane who avoids eye contact, but now Rozanov is the one who keeps glancing away. Shane wants to soothe his curly mop of hair. He wants to tell him it’s okay, whatever it is.
“Bullshit. I don’t believe the sex was so bad it made you cry.” The sex was, in fact, phenomenal. It always is, so much so that it has been feeling increasingly pointless to even try it with anyone else lately.
Rozanov had barely said a word when Shane had let him into the apartment, latching onto him like there was a magnetic pull between them. At the time, Shane had thought it was because winning always makes Rozanov horny, but maybe it was something else.
That makes Rozanov look at him, at least.
“Maybe they were happy tears, yes? I changed my mind. I should go.” He sets the beer can on the island counter with a sense of finality.
Shane is not good with people, but he knows how Rozanov moves on the ice. He knows what Rozanov is like in bed.
This can’t be too different.
“No. You asked to stay, so you are staying.” Shane reaches over the island to grab his wrist.
“Are you kidnapping me?” Rozanov sounds incredulous. He is looking at Shane’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.
“If that’s what it takes, then yes. Talk to me.” He needs words to sort this out. Actual, real words. He has a feeling that if he lets Rozanov go now, he might lose something that he can never get back. Something important, something he never had in the first place.
Rozanov pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand and closes his eyes. Shane doesn’t let go. The moment stretches on.
“My mother is dead,” Rozanov says finally, reluctance growing by each word. The words are heavy, like small rocks falling into a pond, sending ripples across the water.
“I’m so sorry.” The words tumble out of Shane’s mouth like an automated email response. His own mother seems like an unstoppable force of nature most of the time. To even think that one day she could be gone makes his skin feel cold and too tight.
Rozanov brushes it off like it means nothing.
“It was a long time ago. But today is -” He falters, clearly searching for a word.
“The anniversary?”
“Yes. Anniversary. Today I miss her more than usual.” Rozanov’s hand wanders to his neck, to fiddle with that golden cross he is always wearing. The necklace has caught Shane’s eye during the game more than once, peeking out under the jersey. He lost a faceoff once because of that. It still stings that he could be so easily distracted.
“I’m sorry,” Shane repeats, useless. He lets go and goes around the island, right next to Rozanov.
For a long time, he has fought to keep this thing with Rozanov within a very clearly labeled box: hookups with no strings attached. No messy feelings, just good sex. In all honesty, managing the feelings part has been growing increasingly difficult lately, and now the contents of the box threaten to spill all over his head. He pushes against the discomfort, because Rozanov needs something from him, and it is something he can give.
He pulls Rozanov on his feet and wraps his arms around him.
“She would have been proud of you today.” That’s what his mother always says after a game. I’m so proud of you. You did so well. Usually, it is followed by a list of things he should consider improving for the next game, but that is just the way his mother is, and he doesn’t love her any less for that. He usually has his own list, and it is useful to cross-check, because his mother notices even the smallest things that coaches and analysts might overlook.
“You think so?” Rozanov rests his forehead against his shoulder. Shane rubs a hand across his back, marveling at the way Rozanov leans into him. He has always thought they are a good match on the ice, equals at the top of their sport, and he knows for sure the sex works, but for some reason, he didn’t think they would fit together in any other way.
He might have based his thinking on false assumptions. Again: he is not good with people.
“Yeah. I really do. That goal of yours was some serious highlight reel material.”
Rozanov only hums in response. They stand like that until the pizzas arrive.
They eat on the bed. Shane would normally be horrified about such a blatant disregard for common household rules, but the bedroom is the only space in the apartment that actually feels lived-in. In a weird way, it belongs to them. He has stopped counting how many times they have stumbled into bed together, one always riding a post-win high and the other biting back frustration after a lost game.
Rozanov falls asleep with his head on Shane's chest.
Shane stays up most of the night, processing.
For some reason his thoughts keep returning to a trip they made to Japan with his parents years ago. It was before things got really intense with hockey, so he must have been around ten years old. His grandparents were there, too.
During the trip, he felt clumsy and weirdly isolated from the world because he could speak neither Japanese nor Korean. It was two weeks of visiting distant relatives, shrines, commercial districts and an unsettling number of public bathhouses. At the time, he was old enough to be weirded out by the thought of hanging out naked with strangers, but he followed his grandfather’s example to the best of his abilities.
Going to a bathhouse was almost like a religious ritual. First, you were supposed to wash yourself properly, and for that, you would sit on a silly little stool. Then you could enter the bath. The water would be almost uncomfortably hot. No loud talking, no splashing the water around. Shane learned to like the routine of it. The hot water calmed him down like a heavy blanket.
Grandfather was a quiet man with sharp eyes. He didn’t like to be called grandpa, and insisted on Shane calling him haraboeji instead. Shane just wanted to have a grandpa like everyone else, but he also wanted to please so he rolled his tongue around the foreign word and did his best.
He remembers a day when they walked through Shin-Ōkubo, the hustle and bustle of Koreatown greeting them at every corner. They went to a restaurant that was famous for its kimchi jjigae. It was way too spicy for him. His grandmother poked at her bowl forlornly, muttering something to herself. The whole time, he had a feeling they were chasing something that didn’t exist.
He remembers his mother, keeping her head down, lips pressed together, speaking in a voice that was somehow softer and higher than usual. She seemed like a different person. For a child of ten, that was kind of scary.
Another memory: they were staying with some relatives of his grandmother. It was an old house in the countryside with traditional tatami floors and a veranda facing a small garden.
Shane was bored out of his mind. He was leafing through a manga volume about some ninja kids, but the story was difficult to follow. He obviously couldn't read it, but even the pictures didn’t help much.
His second cousin or something, a boy named Daiki kept looking at him. He was a few years older than Shane, a wiry, brown-skinned thing with thick black hair, and hardly spoke a word of English.
He said something to him in Japanese, probably an insult, and took the book from his hands.
He opened the book from the last page and slid his finger wordlessly along the panels. Right to left, top to bottom. He said something to Shane in Japanese. Shane didn’t catch the words, but they were probably something along the lines of “like this, you idiot”.
Shane had been going about it the wrong way. His neck and ears were burning with humiliation when he took the book back. He still couldn’t read it, but the story started to make a little more sense when he started from the beginning rather than the end. The ninja kids and their teacher were fighting an enemy on a bridge, a seemingly hopeless battle.
The volume ended with a terrible cliffhanger and Shane never found out what happened to the kids.
Daiki dutifully sends him a Happy New Year message every year, but otherwise they haven’t stayed in touch. Shane suspects he became an engineer or something.
At some point he must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up face to face with Rozanov. His face is slack with sleep and he has drooled a little on his pillow. He looks beautiful in the morning light.
When Rozanov stirs awake, Shane cups his face with his hand and brushes his thumb along Rozanov’s jawline. The stubble on his chin is delightfully rough.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.” Rozanov’s eyes hold questions. To Shane, they seem like they also hold all the answers. It is like they are both waiting for the other one to bolt.
I’m not going anywhere, Shane wants to tell him, but that might actually spook him, so he asks instead:
“How are you?”
Rozanov takes a moment to reply. His hand covers Shane’s hand.
“Better, I think.”
Shane inches closer, tangling their feet together.
“When does your flight leave?”
“At noon. Why do you ask? Am I still being kidnapped?” Rozanov lifts his eyebrows. Shane wants to kiss the smooth skin between them. He doesn’t.
“I was thinking about ordering us some breakfast.”
Rozanov laughs, a breathless, happy sound. Shane wants to bottle it. He wants to listen to it like one would listen to a seashell pressed against an ear, ocean sounds hidden inside a spiral structure of calcium carbonate.
They stay in bed until breakfast arrives. There is no making out, not even proper cuddling. Just sharing a space and a surprisingly comfortable silence.
Shane waits until Rozanov has had his first cup of coffee before he makes his little speech. It is such a small step, but it feels like he is taking a leap over the edge of the world despite having rehearsed the words many times over during the night.
“I’m glad you stayed here last night. I know we’re not exactly friends or whatever.” He wills his voice to stay even, but looking directly at Rozanov is too difficult, so he just steals a sideways glance.
“Friends or whatever?” Rozanov puts his half-eaten bagel back on the plate. Between last night and this moment Shane has learned that Rozanov eats like a starving wolf. Big bites, quick, efficient. Does he even have time to taste anything?
“Whatever. I just mean that you can talk to me about anything, if you want.” Shane’s cheeks turn slowly red. He takes a sip of coffee to distract himself.
There, he said it.
Rozanov makes a noncommittal sound and gets back to his bagel.
“Russians do not do talking.” It is not a no, but it is not a yes either. Under the table, he hooks his foot around Shane’s ankle, and it stays like that until they have finished their breakfast.
Rozanov kisses him before he leaves. It is a soft, almost chaste thing.
“See you in Boston in a few weeks.”
And then he is gone.
Shane is left wanting, he always is, but this time, there is a notable absence of any complicated feelings. He feels lighter, somehow.
He has been going about it the wrong way. He is not brave, but he can be kind.