Work Text:
welcome to the jungle
are you gonna dance with me?
you gotta close your eyes to see
*
It wasn't exactly like reading someone's mind in its entirety. If it were that easy, Shane would have found growing up less of a clusterfuck than it was. His mom had to register his telepathy in the National Telecommunications Administration when he was seven, after realizing the burning red that flared in his mind whenever the sullen looking ten year old looked at him at school wasn't normal. They assigned him a social worker, Zayna, a dark haired woman with bottle thick lenses, who had to break the news to him that red probably meant some bad feelings, which baffled Shane. He was seven. What bad things could someone be thinking about him?
Over the course of his childhood, Zayna would try to help parse through the colors he would get in his head. Shane already had to deal with being the awkward kid at school, but now he had to deal with everyone's feelings on top of it. You would think it would be helpful, but it confused him more than ever. He saw a numbing gray when he found his mom crying in the bathroom one day, his dad trying to explain to him about a lost baby who could have been his sister. He would get random bursts of red when he would cling to his mom at the grocery store, when people would look at them sideways. It was mostly colors, but as he got older, words and images started to sift through.
The NTA classified him as a Type II telepath when he was 10. This meant without communicating anything to anyone, he could receive a matrix of emotions/words/thoughts pushed at him in images, colors, and random words. This especially occurred at a close range of about 10 feet, making crowds and school hell for him. Colors and images were more prominent than words, but now, he could get a full sentence or two, though often fleeting.
Zayna asked him how he felt about the classification one day after his mom dropped him off at his biweekly appointment. His mom was in the waiting room because both she and Zayna found her worrying warm blue a little distracting to Shane when he was still trying to figure out why he had to have this "gift".
"I don't know," he said, fingering one of the fidget toys scattered around the table in front of him. Zayna was emitting warmth towards him, but he could tell she was distracted, when images of a kitten, all alone, jumping on a green sofa would briefly flash in his mind.
"Would you rather have the ability to tell people things with your mind?" She took a sip of her now watered down coffee.
Shane shrugged. "Maybe it would help in hockey." Maybe he could try pushing some information at one of his teammates on the ice, something that would help them score, help him weave through the opposing team, and figure out a way through. Maybe he could shove distracting thoughts at the goalie or maybe during a face-off, he could taunt the opposing player until he won. But Shane being Shane, figured that would be some form of cheating.
Zayna just waited. She knew what hockey meant to him. It was a lifeline when he started playing, Yuna's love for it seeping through the membranes of his own brain. He wasn't sure he even liked hockey until he started playing, so used to his mom's vibrant colors washing over him throughout his life about the ice, the ebb and flow of the game, the stick swinging the puck into the net.
His dad was different though. Always one color, a nice steady yellow, that made him feel fuzzy and loved. It never wavered, not through stress, and not through anger, not that David was ever angry like that. Shane thinks the only time he's ever seen it waver was when he got lost at the apple festival when he was 8, and his dad found him holding hands with some older guy who wouldn't let go of his hand, all sticky from caramel. Shane remembered seeing a weird murky pink at the time, and wasn't really feeling okay about it until he heard David's yell. It wasn't until later when they were driving home that Shane realized the yelling was in his own head, a repetitive thundering of SHANE SHANE SHANE SHANE — the colors all yellow and black, all bumblebee buzz.
That was the first time Shane had heard words in his head, and it took a while for the black to seep away from the bright yellow whenever he saw his dad. His mom wasn't so warm either, both of them a jumble of worry. Shane didn't think anything of the incident until he was older and realized how bad it could have been.
So at 10, he tells Zayna, "No, I don't wanna tell people anything with my mind. I just want to play hockey." He was a little chub-faced kid at the time, hair spiking all over the place, had a good mom, a good dad. He was awkward with other kids and found chaos unbearable, but he was great at hockey and that's all that mattered. The slide of skates, so natural to him it felt like walking. He could fly, he could score, and his mind was happy. When he played, he was able to put peoples' thoughts into boxes and keep their emotions at bay, because he was locked in and focused on the puck. The puck moved so easily, he might as well have been moving it with his mind. Wouldn't that be something?
*
The junior hockey leagues had no regulations on the NTA's classifications, so Shane was at liberty to play. He didn't find being telepathic helpful at all on the ice. In fact, hockey served as a dampening drug for him. He would arrive at the arena on the verge of a migraine, head throbbing from the rainbow smearing over his brain, but as soon as he put on his skates and stepped out on the white, the riot of color muted somewhere, confined to a box. It was the only time in his life he didn't have to deal with someone's feelings, being aware of what someone probably thought of him. The flaming red he associated with anger was now trapped in this box, taped up in his brain while he played, from the minute he stepped on to the ice, to the minute he won the game and got off. The confusing images he would get about people's lives also disappeared. He was relieved when he didn't have to think about his coach's divorce anymore, or the images of naked women in his teammate's heads that made him blink his eyes hard, trying to erase it.
Hockey was Shane’s refuge. Now 18, the words had become more crisp, the images and words coming faster when he was around other people. He noticed a lot more pink now from girls, which may have come with how he filled out in his jersey, and fixed his spiky hair. His brain pulsed with, wow my girl is so hot, when one of his teammates would flick to his girlfriend's photo in their messages. Once, an image of Shane himself flashed through his mind, when he was approached by women at a game, all sweaty,pink faced, and shirtless.
He remembers asking out his first girlfriend at the time, receiving all pink pleasure tickling his brain. It took him a bit of dating to figure out the pleasure he was feeling wasn't at all his. Now on top of being telepathic, he had to worry that something was wrong with him down there.
Aww, he's so awkward with women.
It's cute he doesn't know how to have sex
Man, Hollander is hot but he's not really getting it up, is he? Am I not hot enough?
I think Hollander has to figure something out about himself.
Upstairs brain, downstairs brain, everything was a jumble. So Shade dedicated his focus and time entirely to hockey, and tried to forget the rest.
He really didn't know what was coming to him.
It wasn't until right before the prospect cup that articles and online discourse began to argue that telepaths didn't belong in national sports, claiming an unfair advantage. His parents would discuss it around dinner, his coach would clap his shoulder and say, well, we'll have to see. It was three months until the cup, and Shane wanted to play more than anything, afraid of being benched forever, rejected from a sport that called to him. Hockey could be played in the sand, and he would still tie his skates on and play. Even if it took years to get to the dusty net on the other side, even if his cheeks became weather-beaten from the wind, his throat parched from the dry heat. He would have rather been locked in a room with his eighth grade bully, dripping red with hateful words, than be told he could no longer play hockey.
It took two months for the national board to convene, the NTA and the NHL specifically, and rule that Type I and Type II telepaths would be allowed to play hockey. Studies showed that the sport moved too quickly for anyone to have time to provide or leak plays to anyone who was telepathic on the ice. They even counter-argued that images and words flooding into a telepath’s mind actually had the potential to be a distraction and a hindrance, affecting their game and their ability to stay on the ice. Shane felt relieved, and everyone around him beamed yellow for weeks.
Hockey was his. He was going to gun for first pick in the draft and play in the NHL, hopefully for Montreal, something he'd dreamed of since he was a kid, battling through every color of the wind in his mind.
Well – almost every color —
Shane arrives in Saskatchewan for the Prospect Cup, all buzzed. He’s coasting on this high, when he meets Ilya Rozanov.
*
Ilya Rozanov. The Russian prodigy, and the most talked about prospect aside from Shane himself. But he wasn’t thinking about any of that because —
Ilya Rozanov was green. A deep forest green pulsing with something Shane couldn't put a name to. It was the first time Shane had ever felt that color, and it was overwhelming. He sees the cigarette poking out of Rozanov's mouth, and he feels like his mind is dissolving in a fever. The green shifts to emulate the ocean at the end of a beach day, all soft and with crashing waves, rippling with the setting sun.
He shakes Rozanov's hand and notices the way his mouth moves, accent strong. The green is there, but there are no words or images being pushed his way. At first, he thinks it's because Rozanov just came from Russia, and it could be connected to the language barrier, but he later bumps into Rozanov's very Russian coach with his parents, and is barraged with images of himself being shoved into the boards left and right, immediately disproving his language barrier theory.
Shane becomes obsessed with the color immediately, and sets up Google Alerts for Rozanov the minute he gets back to his hotel with his parents. Interestingly, he doesn't notice it on the ice when he plays against Rozanov in the finals of the tournament, the game consistently quieting his mind, but he senses the rush of playing against someone who was as good as him, who could keep up with him.
Shane gets drafted to Montreal, second pick behind Rozanov, who gets picked up by Boston. He meets his team and coach, and tries to get used to the new feelings, images that get blasted at him from every angle. Hayden is a welcome reprieve, emitting some kind of nice hue of purple. He tries to not let the red in some corners of his room get to him, too used to people just being mad at him for existing or for looking how he looked. He knows he's good; he knows he can get Montreal a cup, even two.
On the ice, and in the games, he is confronted with the love of ice, the love of the spray, the slide of the puck, but also the burden of the weight he carries, his singular aim of needing to be the best. But when they play Boston, he sees Rozanov matching Shane with every stride. They play in tandem. Shane is a lot more graceful on the ice, but Rozanov is raw power. The strength he pushes on the ice, the way he chirps Shane, every game they play against each other leaves him enamored.
It's no wonder Shane was all messed up in the gym that day after the draft, watching Rozanov's mouth move, sweat dripping down. He felt like he was being rained down on in a dark forest somewhere, and it felt so so good, but he leaves the gym before anything else can happen.
When Rozanov comes to his hotel room that night after the photo shoot, and they start this whole thing, Rozanov’s green becomes an elixir for Shane. He sucks Rozanov off, novice to desire, the hand in his hair filling him with shades of jade, throbbing in time with Shane's need to push his body against Rozanov and just give, cock hard. He has never felt like this in any of his encounters with women over the years, and almost gags when he tries to think of the pink they usually swarm him with, coupled with images of Shane on top of them, groping for full breasts. The yank on his hair pushes him back to green, he looks up at Rozanov and just wants, wants, wants.
He tells Rozanov about his telepathic designation at his apartment in Montreal, when Rozanov comes over to fuck him for the first time.
"Oh, I know, Hollander," Rozanov replies, shrugging. "Is in the national registry for players. You think I do not research my own rival?" He grins in his Rozanov way, cocky, head tipping to the side and Shane scoffs.
"Fuck you. I figured you would think it's an advantage."
"Advantage? Who was first draft pick?" Rozanov sticks his tongue out at him, and Shane laughs. It was so easy to be himself with Rozanov. He found the green so soothing, it didn't even register as something foreign. It felt right at home with him.
Rozanov leaned forward, waggling his eyebrows. "Are you getting what I'm sending you now?"
"No, what is it?" Shane puts a hand on Rozanov's chest, when he comes close.
"It's you on my cock, no?"
Shane blushes. "Ah. I don't know if I get images or words as much from you. It's mostly just random colors." For some reason, he doesn't feel like telling Rozanov about the green.
Rozanov scoffs and says, "This does not seem very useful. Even your telepathy is boring like you, Hollander."
"Okay, fuck you."
And that’s how they start. Circling each other, haunches up, and pressing go.
Their meetups in hotels over the years; the Vegas night when he felt like he was suffocating in a mossy forest, tendrils of leaves all over him, the green so encompassing he felt he woke up in a haze just thinking about the hue; the tugging and kissing and the pulling all shoved into buckets of sage. The greens all change through the years too, some lime slinking in, an occasional pastel, and he found navigating through it exhilarating. Sometimes Rozanov asks him what other people think or feel on his team, and he finds himself opening up about the random feelings he gets from their games, the awards shows, or practice. How he saw his coach just thinking about certain plays, and how Shane would just respond to the images before he realized his coach hadn’t even said anything. How some opposing teams would purposefully send him images of him being facedown on the ice just to taunt him when they skated by on the bench — Rozanov's face looked annoyed at that one — and it goes on and on. The sex, the kissing, mouths messy, the desire, the wanting, the shut out relief he feels when Rozanov pushes him to his knees and pushes his cock into his mouth, it's green green green, the meadow of it all. Hockey is the same tug and pull, and it does win Rozanov a cup, then Shane, two.
It all changes when Rozanov makes him a tuna melt, cold cans of ginger ale in his hand, and Shane is in Rozanov's black shirt and pants, a little too big on him, the green a little too different that day.
Rozanov had been acting strange all day, asking Shane to stay, and making him lunch. He even has Shane ride him, something they usually don't do, coming face to face. He finds it odd and continues to find it even more jarring when Rozanov starts to ask him about girls. Girls? They’re pink? Does Shane even want to say how much it makes him gag? How much he feels so sick with it? He gives some half hearted response instead.
He's in Rozanov's lap, and they're kissing, heavy, mouths slick and hot, and Shane starts to see images flitting through his brain. He keeps his mouth open on Rozanov's while he has their cocks in his hand, Rozanov's own gripped around him. He's so used to the forest around Rozanov that he thinks the images in his head are his own for a second, but they’re not. There’s a dreamy haze-like feeling to them. The images come unbidden, like a tiny leak in a kitchen sink, and then all at once, flooding.
It's Shane's face scrunched up below Rozanov, it's Shane on his knees, it's Shane and his soft eyes gazing upon Rozanov in a dinky hotel room somewhere, all of which have happened. But the thing that Shane can’t grasp is the torrential downpour of images of Shane holding hands with Rozanov on the street (public!), or Shane grinning at Rozanov at a game together, both of them cuddled in the stands. It's Rozanov punching in the code for a condo somewhere, and Shane looking up from the kitchen table to come and kiss him hello. There's a picture of them somewhere on the wall, heads close, eyes shining. Why were they wearing suits?
Shane's brain is churning so bad that he doesn't notice he's close to coming, and the green is a moss is a woodland is a rain forest is cascading is breaking is Shane and Ilya kissing somewhere anyone could see them, is Shane and Ilya cuddling in bed just to cuddle, is Shane walking down an aisle to meet a beaming Ilya somewhere, is rings on a necklace, is rings on a hand, is a bar somewhere out in the summer, where Ilya has his hands around Shane's waist and is kissing his neck, and it's vibrating pushing moshing and Shane just chokes when he comes, and hears Ilya say his name in his head as SHANE SHANE SHANE, and suddenly he hears it out loud, “Shane”, and he has no choice but to say Ilya's back, filled to the brim with what he knows is desire but also an unnamed something else, something he cannot say.
So he runs.
Shane, so used to only green for years, now has these images to go with it, and he doesn't know what to do with them. So he puts them in a box in the back of his mind, tapes it shut, and staples it for good measure. Ilya's "Hollander" gets shut in, too, face etched all over in pain.
*
He meets Rose soon after and finds her mind calming. It's not pink at all like his previous encounters with women, but maybe closer to purple, something like Hayden. The images in her head are innocent, slotting in her different movie locations or an annoying director that told her to emote more the other day, but it's nothing heavy. It's nothing like — well. It's nothing big. It feels normal. He's never felt this way with another woman, so he enters the relationship with the hopes that maybe this time will be different.
He's so cute, flows towards Shane when she comes to one of his games, and he smiles big, gliding out onto the ice. She blows a kiss from the stands, and Shane feels a lot better about all of this. He tells his parents about Rose, and they are happy for him, clamoring for the chance to meet his movie star girlfriend. He tries to not think about Ilya, even when the pull in his stomach wants Ilya so badly it makes him nauseous. Instead he texts Rose that he can't wait to see her, and throws his phone on the bed to avoid texting someone who makes him feel like he can't look at grass without wanting to cry.
He has a game against Ilya on a Thursday, the same day Rose is flying in to spend the weekend with him. It's the first time he'll see Ilya since The Tuna Melt, and he's trying to avoid the possible forest on its way to swallow him whole. It's also the first time Rose is spending the night and he's trying to avoid thinking about that too.
Game start. His coach directs him over the boards, ready with his first line.
He's facing off against Ilya. But it's different than usual. Ilya usually has a chirp, or a flirty comment about Shane's butt, but this Ilya doesn't meet his eye, and Shane instead sees maroon, and it's dripping all over. He isn’t used to seeing this much color on the ice and it’s like an alarm, blaring throughout the rink, even though no one can hear it but Shane. There's no pictures, no words from Ilya, and Shane thought that would have changed after, that maybe Ilya would be like everyone else now, but the emerald is oozing with wide streams of maroon, a color he usually doesn't see. He’s used to bright red as something bad, but maroon is new.
Is it anger? Shane thinks, but Ilya being mad is usually due to a loss, and as much as he is annoyed about losing to Shane, it's never like the usual red people emit at him after losing, all disgust and spits and HOLLANDER GO DIE, all because he swooped in and won. Ilya, when mad, was always still green, pushing Shane toward the bedroom, and making him get on his back. This maroon is just tinged all over with something that feels close to despair and Shane blinks hard at it until it turns almost black.
It makes him want to throw up, seeing it all laid out on the ice. The staggering white, the lush moss and the maroon, almost looking like blood. He's not used to any other color but hues of green, and before he can stop himself, he says,
"Ilya?"
Ilya jerks and makes eye contact with Shane, but then looks away, mouth grim. He says nothing. Shane loses the face-off. The game is brutal, and whenever Ilya shoves Shane against the boards, the plexiglass rattling with their combined weight, he's bombarded with just cuts and cuts of maroon, and it makes him want to cry, yell for the ref, and ask for a medic. He's bleeding, can't you guys see? Something isn't okay. Instead, he pushes back and wills Ilya back to jade, wills him to anything but this, but Ilya goes off, puck nearby, and the green and maroon follow him until he scores. Montreal loses, but Ilya doesn't gloat like he usually does on Shane's home ice. Instead he gets off the ice as soon as possible and heads down the tunnel.
And Shane. Shane is just shaken up, all terror trapped behind silence. When he gets to the locker room to change, he picks up his phone with shaking hands, typing out are you okay to Lily, when a notification pops up from Rose sending him the address of the club he's supposed to meet her at. He takes a breath and hits backspace instead. He doesn't know what to do about Ilya, but he's scared.
The club is horrible. Rose knows about his condition, but it doesn't stop her from asking her to join him, obviously wanting to dance with her boyfriend. He gets unbidden images that night, from being so close to everyone there. Miles' wow, beautiful body AND face though he's not sure who it's directed at, some girls coming to kiss Rose on the cheek, flooding with images of Shane shirtless, which makes Shane grimace and try to turn away. He gets a few images from men too, which makes him stumble when he heads towards the floor to go dance with Rose. Shane's cock, Shane's mouth open, Shane kneeling. It isn't until he gets on the dance floor, Rose's hand in his shirt, that he hears:
Wow, Hollander and Rose, who would have thought?
Okay, Hollander can pull, never seen him with a girl before
Can Hollander even handle all that ass?
Shane finds himself responding to that one automatically, thinking, Great, Raiders are here, so used to Marleau's distinct voice and then freezes, as it occurs to him what that might mean.
He turns, eyes scanning for Ilya, and finds him on the dance floor, hands tight on a woman's waist, mouth heavy over her neck, and he feels the push and sees the rush of maroon again, all dead color, all dead want, all dead, dead, dead, and it makes him choke. To him, it feels like Ilya is dying, and he hasn't ever seen anyone die like that. Yeah, sure, the game is violent, and it's a little brain crushing when someone gets pushed too hard into the boards, ending up with a cut or a concussion, and it seeps weirdly into Shane's brain making him feel like he's bleeding on the ice too. But this is Ilya, and he knows him, and he knows that that's not him. Something is wrong.
He wants to run to Ilya and grab him, and take him to a hospital, and ask them what's wrong, there’s so much blood, can they fix him, fix him fix him fix him, he's not green, he's not jade, he's not a meadow, he's not the grass cut in the morning when it smells all nice, he's not the rain forest, dripping with dew,he can't lick it off like he usually does, this feels like a burial, it feels like a funeral, it feels like death, but he chokes up instead and does nothing. Ilya, now kissing the girl, turns his back, and Shane is left with nothing but red and green, like some fucked up Christmas tree.
So he leaves with Rose instead and has the most fucked up sex of his life. Rose's purple, that once was comforting, now makes him sick.
*
Because Rose is Rose, and she's the nicest, most perceptive person, Shane comes out of it realizing he's gay. Or maybe he’d always known, feeling it in his body, the burn of it with Ilya, the buzz of it in the kisses, he finally accepts it out loud. She's gracious about it, and they both decide to be friends instead.
This makes him want to seek out Ilya and tell him he was a coward at Ilya's palace. That he shouldn't have run, that it WAS scary, but he knows now being with a woman would never fill the void, that with Ilya, there was something there, something he couldn't turn from.
The next time he sees Ilya is at the All-Star game in Tampa. He’s wild with nerves, but shoves through it feeling a little more comfortable in his skin, accepting that when looking at Ilya, there are a myriad of feelings, nothing he’s ever felt with any women, ever. When his and Ilya’s fingers touch, he asks in a wobbly voice for Ilya’s room number.
It's heavy in the hotel room with all the green and maroon. It's kind of like that movie about prom Hayden showed him on a flight once, when the girl at the end gets blood all over her. It's sticky. Ilya is also stubborn. The maroon isn't as bad as the last time he saw Ilya. After Ilya told him he looked up the meaning of compatible, it had gone down at least 75%, if Shane had to be exact, and he was.
There was still a little tint of it though. It didn’t help that the hotel room itself was bursting with it, the floral bedspread and Shane in his dumb Hawaiian shirt, and Ilya in all black, oozing some feeling that Shane couldn't decipher.
"I wanted to say sorry," Shane starts, and he scratches his head. Sorry for running out on you? Sorry for freaking out at the stuff I saw in my brain - like rings and being public, and what looked like a wedding - sorry? Sorry for something.
Ilya is thinking the same thing. He raises an eyebrow. "Sorry for what?"
Shane huffs a little. "You know."
Ilya's face is a little non decipherable. Why can't you be like Marleau and Hayden, who just spurt full sentences at me and I don't have to think about what they mean, because it's right there, Shane thinks, and then sighs. Communication is not their strong suit. They spoke in kisses, whether it be the puck against the net or the ones crushed across mouths, both hard, both strong, both feeling like a whip across the sky.
He says it fully. "I'm sorry for running out on you that day at your apartment."
"Yes, you were a coward, Hollander," Ilya replies, walking over to sit next to him on the floral bedspread, bed dipping down. His face shows something now, and he emits more emeralds.
"I was, I know," he says, turning to Ilya, eyes seeking his, blue and long lashed. Ilya's face was beautiful at all times, but it hurts to see his face today, knowing there was maroon puddling the floor of their room right now. "I got scared."
Ilya is quiet. Then: "Why?"
Shane thinks and tries to word what he wants to tell him. You know. Your mind is an interesting place, Rozanov. It would shock you, too. But he says instead, "I gotta tell you something."
Ilya waits.
"I think I told you one time, that your mind just shows me colors."
"Yes," Ilya says.
"Well, to be honest. It's just one color," Shane says, and then it rushes out. "It's just all green. I had never seen green in my life from anyone I knew or met, and the first time I saw it in my head was when I met you."
Ilya scrunches his nose. "Is that not normal?" His eyes dart to Shane's head, like he's trying to see if there was actual green there.
"No. Not really. How my telepathy works is just how people feel sometimes, so you're always going to get different kinds of emotions, whether it be colors, words, images. Like Hayden on a good day, will show me like 5 different things, but it's not always color, and it's not always the same."
Ilya tuts. "Ah, you are saying I am not normal. I knew that," he says, shrugging. "But Hayden is also stupid, so I am not sure this is a good example."
"What I'm trying to say, Ilya," Shane says gently, like he's coaxing a calf into walking. Maybe it does feel like that, both of them about to go tumbling over a cliff, rocks pending doom. "It's not normal for me to see one color. I also don't get images or words from you that I get from everyone else. I also have had sex with you for many years, so technically, I feel like I should see more. But I don't." He rubs his eye. "Well, I didn’t, until that day at your place."
"Why? What happened?" Ilya's face is stoic. But he's leaning in, and trying to listen, and that makes Shane relax.
"Well," Shane starts out, nervous. He huffs out a little, puts his face into his hands and groans. How is he gonna tell Ilya that he saw wedding rings?
"Shane. Tell me," Ilya's hand comes up and pulls at his, pulling them away from his face. He peeks out and sees Ilya's confused face. Shane doesn't want to spook Ilya at all. He's a baby calf himself: except one of those freak ones that get born with two heads that don't live past a month, all because he gets emotions and colors and words into his brain without his permission. It really wasn't his fault.
"Okay," Shane says slowly. "Um. You never show images. But when we were on the um — couch — you know —"
"Yes, fucking." Ilya, impatient, hands still holding Shane's. Huh. He didn't notice, but he grips both of them now, tight.
"Right. Right. Um. You started to push out all these images at me. And before, I was just used to one color from you, but all of a sudden, it was just a bunch of things." God. How does he get this out?
"Like what?" Ilya asks curiously. He runs his thumb soothingly over Shane's, not really conscious of it. It was just an Ilya thing to do, which makes Shane brave.
"You were kind of imagining us in the future. Like. Together in public," he says quietly, still holding onto Ilya's hand. "I saw us together. Like really, together." He doesn't say more, but Ilya must get it, because he drops Shane's hands altogether and looks away, not wanting to make eye contact.
"No, Hollander. Is not possible." He breathes quickly, in and out.
"I know. I know that. But you obviously thought about it," Shane tries to reassure, tries to understand, even though, with one ‘no’, he feels like he's back in the six months of radio silence, when Ilya didn't acknowledge Shane once.
Ilya says bluntly, "Of course. It can be in my brain, but it does not mean it is true. It does not mean it will happen." He looks back at Shane and dares him to disagree.
Of course Shane disagrees.
"But what if it could be true?"
"It cannot." Ilya is stone hard.
"Why—"
"Because Russia, Shane!" Ilya shouts. "I will not be able to go home." He turns away from Shane, his shoulders heaving.
And Shane. Well, Shane. Shane isn't the same as before anymore—he does want something from Ilya, even if Ilya won't admit it yet. Even with Russia. He doesn't know where this is going, but he would die before letting go of Ilya, of which he is certain. He doesn't regret Rose either, because it brought him here to this hotel room, feeling relief at some kind of acknowledgement that he is gay. He can't ever be with a woman, and it's all because of Ilya Fucking Rozanov. He wants him in every way possible, as much as he can get from him, and it made sense, didn't it? Shane Hollander falls in love with the best hockey player, such a Shane thing to do. Ilya's powerful skate, that gorgeous backhand, the swing and glide right before he scores. His smile, his chirps, his nose, the grip of his hands on his thighs, the suck of his mouth on skin, god, god, god, he loves Ilya Rozanov. What the fuck?
He can't say all that. Not yet, anyways. He swallows the panic all down because it's only going to make Ilya bolt. He looks at Ilya instead and says simply, "I want you. However, that looks. Whatever that might be." It doesn't have to be public, Shane tries to will through his eyes, his words, even though that makes him sad.
Ilya looks like a deer in headlights, but he blushes deeply the pink tinging his cheeks, and he brings a finger to scratch at his nose, his lashes lowered.
There's a long pause.
"My father," Ilya says quietly, "is very sick." He looks up at Shane, face dizzying with something. There's a lot less maroon now, Shane notices. He looks like he's trying to offer something to Shane.
"Sick? Like cancer?"
"No. Dementia. I do not think he has very long," Ilya says, which makes Shane ache for him.
"And your mom?"
Ilya pauses. "She is dead." He turns his face to the side and chokes out a "sorry", before Shane is scrambling, and climbing, placing himself in Ilya's lap.
"No, no, no. It's okay. It's okay," Shane soothes. Ilya won't look at him, and Shane gently coaxes him. "Hey, hey. Look at me." So Ilya looks and Shane reaches to kiss him softly on the lips, and wraps his arms around Ilya, holding tight. Ilya lets out a choking noise, and then he cries, soft at first, but a little louder when Shane doesn't pull back, and instead crushes him tighter. They stay like that for a moment. Shane gets an image in his head, then, of someone who looks like Ilya: bright eyes and bright laughter. She's beautiful, just like her son.
The green is fully back with him now. Shane sighs in relief, feeling the tendrils and leaves of a lush forest enter his mind. There's no maroon now, not even a sliver. God, he was so worried for Ilya. He didn't realize how much them breaking things off had affected him, let alone how Shane felt.
"It's green again," he says without thinking, dreamily.
Ilya starts. "Hmm?" He pulls out of Shane's embrace and looks up at him, eyes all red-rimmed and nose all snotty. He looks so cute, Shane wants to eat him whole.
"You're green again. I love how your mind feels to me," Shane says.
"My mind? It is good?" Ilya looks confused, like he's not sure if Shane is talking to him.
"Yeah, I wish I could show you. Everyone else just forces images at me, a sentence here and there, and I get the full spectrum of emotion. Anyone within ten feet. With you, it's just calming for some reason. I don't feel sick, or feel that I have to adjust my own feelings. I can just," he gestures with his hand at Ilya, "you know, just be."
Ilya groans. "Ah, Hollander. Do not say that to me."
Shane is confused. "What? Why?"
"My brain is not good. It can be a little bad sometimes," Ilya answers, eyes shifting, looking sad again, which Shane hates seeing.
"Your brain can never be bad to me," he tries to reassure, thumbs caressing the back of Ilya’s neck. "I wish I could show you,” he repeats. “Anytime I'm with you, it feels like. It feels cool against my mind, if you know what I mean? Like when it's so hot, and someone gets you a cold water bottle. I put it to my head, and immediately feel better. That's what the green feels like."
Ilya's eyes are full of tears again. Shane feels like he's said too much, but he's determined to be as honest as he can now. He doesn't want there to be any gap between them. He didn't like the flow of maroon — it made him out of his mind with worry.
They both sit there, arms wrapped around each other. Finally —
"You are honest with me. I will be honest with you," Ilya says. He looks determined, his face trying to be brave. So Shane links his arms tighter around Ilya's neck, and kisses him twice, lips light.
"You can tell me anything."
Ilya huffs out a breath. "My mother. She was like you when she was alive."
"Like me?"
"Telepathic."
"Oh," Shane says, not knowing what else to respond with. "What happened?"
"It made her sick," Ilya says, looking at Shane's lips, not making eye contact. "She saw colors, pictures, words, exactly like you. She also was very depressed, which maybe came before the telepathy. My father was also very hard on her. It was not easy." Ilya looks up now, eyes searching Shane. "You make it look very easy."
Shane feels pain in his heart. "It's okay. I can understand what your mom was going through. I didn't have someone like your dad in my life though."
"No, you didn't. But hockey is not easy, yes?" Ilya squeezes his fingers against Shane's side when he doesn't respond.
No, Ilya. It's not easy. The chirps are fine, part of the game, but people are not. The locker room should be warm, but sometimes it's filled with cuts and jabs that no one but him can hear. He knows Comeau thinks he's a pretty boy and wonders if he's gay; he knows his coach finds his mom annoying and not just because of who she is, but how she looks. He knows what some opposing teams think of him - pretty boy pretty boy let's go and make him cry; he sees the stuff they think about, feels sick when the sport makes someone bleed or brain hurt, because it makes HIS brain hurt. But, he wants to tell Ilya, he awaits the green. The green you give me is a balm that takes it all away. No, it's not easy. But it's easy with you.
So Shane says it. Honesty is the new policy. "No. No, it's not easy. But I have my parents. I have Hayden. Hockey helps me clear my mind. I have. I have you, you know?"
Ilya looks broken. So Shane says it again: "I have you, Ilya." He surges down to kiss Ilya, mouth open, and wills him to kiss back. Ilya is slow at first, but then kisses him hard. They break apart, and Ilya drops a kiss on Shane's arm where he has it over his shoulder.
Ilya has more to say, so Shane just waits.
"My mother swallowed a bottle of pills. I found her when I was young," he says in a small voice. Shane's heart breaks.
"Oh, Ilya. I'm sorry." He hugs Ilya close to him, and kisses his cheek. He imagines a little baby Ilya finding his pretty mom laid out all on the sofa, and his heart breaks even more. Ilya breathes in the box of Shane's shoulder, and then pulls back.
"You are the first person I told this to," Ilya says, smile all wobbly. His hands grip Shane's sides, tight.
"So we're stuck together, right?" Shane jokes, laughing a little.
"Yes. Yes. We are stuck," Ilya says back, face serious, gazing up at Shane's with something he couldn't name. His eyes search his. "You make everything easy, Hollander."
"No, I'm sure if we actually sat down and talked at your place, we wouldn't be in this position," Shane reassures him. "I make things tough, too."
"Yes, but you are pure. You just say what you mean. It hurts me. Right here," he says, tapping his own chest, taking an arm back from around Shane's.
His heart aches. Shane whispers, "I don't mean to hurt you."
"You do not hurt me like that. It is hurt I want," Ilya says, shaking his head. "But I feel scared."
"Scared. Why?"
"Your brain takes in everything all around you. I think," Ilya hesitates. He grips one hand around Shane's arm from where it's still linked around his neck. "I think my brain is like my mother."
"You mean you think you're telepathic?"
"No," Ilya whispers. "Depressed."
"Oh."
"I think. I think my brain can hurt you one day. I do not want that," Ilya says in a rush, and turns his head to nose at Shane's shoulder. He looks up. "I do not want to bring anything into your brain you do not want. Anything that could hurt you." He takes a deep breath in, shuddering. His voice shakes a little. "I do not think we can be together. I like you a little too much."
Shane gets it. "No, no, Ilya. No," he shakes his head and brings both of his hands to squish Ilya's face between them. He looks like a puffer fish, and Shane strokes his thumb across Ilya's cheekbones.
"Shane—" Ilya tries to say, and it comes out mushy, his face being squeezed. "Shane."
"No. Shut up. You don't get to decide that you're bad for me. Or decide that you shouldn't be with me. Newsflash, Ilya. I get emotions, and words, and colors, and everything in between all goddamn day, the minute I wake up and to the minute I go to sleep. Hell, I even feel the ref thinking about a fucking sandwich during face off. My roommate is Hayden. Who cannot shut up."
"Please don't talk about him while you're touching me," Ilya manages to get out, his eyes wet. He's gazing up at Shane and it makes his heart hurt, knowing Ilya thinks this about himself.
"I told you already. You soothe me. I come in here, and it feels nice and gooey, and mushy, and I get to just touch you and feel more of it. It's a fucking meadow, Ilya. I'm laying there right next to you, and it feels good. Can you try to believe me?" He's desperate, spitting words out, and squishing Ilya's face between his hands.
Ilya's crying now, the tears tracking over Shane's fingers and Shane just kisses him hard and pushes him against the bed, so now he's on top of him.
"Please, please believe me," he says again, pleading, saying it again between kisses, hard and soft, and peppers Ilya's forehead, nose, lips, chin, anywhere he can reach all over. Kisses that big big big brain he loves so much, begging, trying to make Ilya see. Your mind is good. It's always been good. I don't want it to ever leave me. Please.
Ilya grips Shane's wrists in his hands, and rolls them over, so he's on top.
"Shane. Okay. Okay. I believe you," he says, eyes wet, voice thick with crying, and he does the same with Shane, kissing him all over. He kisses his forehead a few times, punching in the emerald so it sticks a little, and it makes Shane tear up, too.
He says something in Russian, and kisses Shane full on the lips, and they both open their mouths and Shane moans, both so hot and willing. They break apart.
"Can we please fuck now? Before I cry more?" Ilya huffs, smiling down at Shane.
Shane laughs, fully ensconced in the mossiness around them. "Yes. Yes, we can." It's green and it's wet, heavy like a rain forest dew.
*
Six months later
"You need to tell me when someone thinks you are pretty," Ilya argues, both of them at the cottage that summer, his head tucked onto Shane's lap in front of a fire in the backyard. Shane couldn't believe his luck at getting Ilya here, but it was easier after Tampa when they both admitted everything. Now, admitting more, the sweet kisses after saying I love you reigned in Shane's head as the most romantic thing he's ever experienced. Ya lyublyu tebya. Shane wanted to scream it from the rooftops — his and Ilya's love.
The concussion by fucking Marleau derailed his season oh shit I hit the little guy, man that was an accident. Is Roz okay? He looks so pissed right now oh man, but the Raiders were out too, hence the both of them alone all together at his cottage.
Shane's mind was all messed up after the concussion, for a little bit, and the colors and images and words were all warbled up for a good while. Ilya was afraid of making it worse, obviously, but Shane couldn't tell him the magnitude of relief he felt when Ilya came into the hospital room. The grass was sweet and definitely greener on the other side. It helped him in his recovery a lot more, so Ilya flew sometimes between games, to meet up with Shane while he was getting better, the sweet doses of green making him almost cry with how good it felt. Shane didn't even have to ask; Ilya just told him whenever he booked his flight.
"Pretty? A lot of people think I'm pretty," Shane teases. It was fun to rile up Ilya now, knowing that Ilya loved him and became grumpy at anyone who tried to flirt with him. No wonder his colors were all fucked up during Rose.
"I need names, Hollander," Ilya says, his face dark, looking up at Shane. "Not funny."
"Okay, okay. I will let you know the next time it happens," Shane says, laughing out loud. Ilya mutters something under his breath, and nuzzles his head deeper into Shane's lap. They both were happy, and the buzz of the cicadas was loud and warm. It felt like heaven to Shane, just the two of them at the cottage. No one's thoughts but Ilya's, and that felt like heaven times two, if Shane had anything to say.
With Ilya, it was still green in Shane's mind, but ever since Tampa, something had shifted. He got bits of black during the initial hospital visit from Ilya, so sick with worry, and more images shifted in and out now. Sometimes it would be nothing but Ilya fucking Shane, his body hovering over him in a bed somewhere; sometimes it would be Shane riding Ilya, face tight and determined. Sometimes, Shane would be on his knees, eyes glazed, mouth slack, cock being fed to him. Yes, these all were definitely Ilya's thoughts and it made him blush. He didn't get the maroon anymore, which thankfully, seemed to be a one off thing, but he swears it comes it in a flitting second when Hayden or a girl flirting with him is around, even the occasional guy, and he has to accept Ilya is just jealous of anyone that is attracted to Shane. Not that Shane was any less jealous, but Ilya can’t see that.
No words from Ilya come through in his head, but now that they both were positive about the future, he supposes he doesn't need the words. They try to say everything now, sometimes stumbling, sometimes not. It's gotten easier, easier than breathing.
His favorite images though, come humming in through Ilya, especially in abundance at the cottage, are the ones of him and Ilya holding hands walking in a park somewhere. He loves that Ilya is imagining forever with him, because he wants forever with him too. He sees the curve of Ilya's smile as he looks at Shane, sees Shane smiling back. They laugh at something that Ilya is pointing out. The once green fuzzy images are now clear and strong, their hands clasped tight. He sees a glint of a wedding ring, somewhere on their fingers, clinking together in the jungle that is Ilya's color. The future is a bright four-leaf clover green.