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The knot in Shane’s chest tightens as the elevator begins to move down, away from Rozanov. He stares at the text thread he has open with ‘Lily’: texts from Shane that drop into nothing, and months later, a room number, like everything is normal. The summer stretches like an ocean before him, months where he won’t see, won’t be able to touch Rozanov.
See you next season, he types, clumsily. It’s what he should say, what they always say. But Shane can’t find it in him to send the message right now, to pretend everything is okay. From 6 months of silence, of aching for his attention, his touch, enough that Shane begged for it at the merest hint that Rozanov still had any interest in him, to… this. Mortifyingly, Shane feels tears starting to blur his eyes. He deletes the words. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to type until it’s out, pitiful on the screen.
We didn’t even kiss.
Rozanov doesn’t owe it to him. Rozanov doesn’t owe him anything. But every other time they’d kissed, and even in the bathroom, they’d kissed, and…
“Fuck.” Shane leans his head against the elevator wall. And what? It didn’t mean anything. Rozanov had made that clear when he disappeared without explanation, vanishing and reentering Shane’s life with taunting ease. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, closes his eyes for a moment, pulling himself together. He’ll delete the text, send something safe.
Or maybe he shouldn’t text at all, maybe that was why Rozanov had stopped responding in the first place: Shane, forever waiting for a text back, expecting too much where he was owed nothing.
As he goes to backspace, the elevator jolts to a stop, his thumb slipping and—fuck, fuck, fuck. The message sends, a blue bubble of text. Delivered. He fumbles to unsend it, but it’s too late. Shane’s heart drops to his stomach as he sees the Read icon appear under the words. He forces himself to step out of the elevator, and sags down against the wall of the hallway, scrambling for something to say to excuse the desperation of the accidental text.
No typing bubble appears from Rozanov, both a relief and disappointment. Maybe they can pretend this never happened, maybe Shane can keep whatever it is that they have—stolen moments, brief flashes of Rozanov under dim hotel lights, a few hours where he doesn’t have to think at all.
Absorbed in his turmoil, Shane glances up sharply at the ding of the elevator. He straightens, tries to school his features into something less…wrecked than he probably looks right now, an excuse of insomnia ready on the tip of his tongue in case it’s someone he knows.
The words die in his throat when the elevator doors slide open to reveal Rozanov, curls still rumpled, shirt buttoned haphazardly, jaw set.
“I—”
“Your room. Go.” Shane stays rooted to the spot for a stunned moment, then turns silently and begins the walk towards his room. He can feel Rozanov behind him, eyes boring into him, and he glances nervously at the doors around them, praying everyone else is asleep. What does Rozanov want? Is he ending this? Shane’s heart twists sharply at the thought, shame curling in his stomach at how badly he wants this to continue. He fumbles open his door, lets Rozanov in. He can’t bear to turn around, to meet those sharp blue eyes and see something cold or mocking or, worse, pitying, at how pathetic he—Shane’s back slams against wood, metal handle digging into his hip.
“Roza—” Rozanov’s mouth crashes into his, and Shane grabs onto the shoulders pressed against his as his knees nearly give out. A whimper catches in his throat, and he’s tilting his head up blindly, everything narrowed to the point between them, drinking in the heat and the taste of Rozanov, like a drowning man surfacing.
Rozanov kisses him again, more gently, and Shane is starting to come back to himself, feeling the way his own body is trembling, overwhelmed with relief.
Rozanov’s lips move, slow and sweet, across the corner of his mouth and his forehead and freckles and the underside of his jaw, until he feels himself calming, the wave of desperation starting to recede. Rozanov draws back a little, brushing a finger gently across Shane’s cheekbone.
“You are okay now?” Shane’s eyes flutter closed. He lets the concern in Rozanov’s voice wash over him, unfists his fingers where they’re pushed into Rozanov’s curls. How many times have those curls appeared in Shane’s dreams, dark under the hotel room shadows, outlined in golden lamplight?
“Yeah, I’m—yeah.”
“So eloquent, like always.”
“Who taught you that word,” Shane mumbles, feeling a smile tug at his lips as he leans unconsciously into the hand that’s now cupping his cheek. Rozanov is being so gentle with him.
“Like I said. Boring New Yorker.” Shane hums in response. He’s content here, in the warmth of Rozanov so close to him, touching him so tenderly. Like he’s something precious. He tries not to think about that too closely, allows the niggling anxiety to slip away before it can form a full thought and make him spiral.
When he’s with Rozanov, he doesn’t have to fight to assess everything going on around him. It’s a little like when he plays hockey. Instinct, muscle memory, take over, and his mind is singularly in tune with his body, unable to worry about anything outside of the moment, to think about anything at all.
Rozanov’s voice turns serious.
“So, I will remember. You need, what is the word… ah, affection, after.”
“I don’t need anything,” Shane grumbles, cheeks heating. He opens one eye to see Rozanov arch an eyebrow at him.
“Yes, is why you send me message after we fuck saying—”
“That was… an accident. You weren’t supposed to see it.”
“Hollander.” Rozanov’s fingers are under Shane’s chin, tilting it towards him. “Look at me.”
Shane looks up, unwillingly. Rozanov’s eyes are unreadable.
“You need something, you tell me, okay? I don’t ever want you to leave… unhappy.”
You don’t need to do this, Shane wants to say. You don’t owe me this. Why are you doing this?
“Okay,” he says instead, barely audible. Rozanov nods. They stand there for a beat, and then Rozanov shifts, steps back. Shane feels the absence keenly, tries not to miss the warmth of Rozanov’s body.
“You can…um…” Shane steps aside, clearing the way to the door. Rozanov doesn’t move, studying Shane’s expression as if he’s searching for something. Shane knows his eyes are red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears, and he bites his lip to stop its trembling, hoping Rozanov doesn’t notice.
“No.”
Shane blinks.
“You should leave soon. Don’t you have an early flight?”
“Yes,” Rozanov agrees, and then he’s placing a firm hand on the small of Shane’s back, guiding him into the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Clothes off.”
“What?”
Rozanov huffs an impatient breath.
“I’m staying with you, Hollander.”
“You don’t need to—” Shane starts to protest, weakly.
“You think I will leave you crying?”
“I’m not crying.”
But Shane lets Rozanov nudge him under the blankets, lets him tuck himself up against Shane’s back, lets him drape an arm over Shane’s body, a reassuring weight.
Shane has to admit, it’s nice. If Rozanov had left, he’d probably have lain wide awake for the rest of the night, flipping between self pity and panic about what had just happened. But with the steadiness of Rozanov’s body against him, Shane feels something in him loosen, feels himself starting to drift off as the exhaustion of the day begins to catch up to him.
“You ‘ave an alarm? Set for your flight?” Shane murmurs through a yawn, his eyelids drooping as Rozanov’s warmth seeps through him.
“Yes, Hollander, I will not miss my flight. Go to sleep.”
“What if someone… notices you leaving?” He feels Rozanov’s sigh shudder through his body.
“You have too many worries. I will leave before your teammates are awake.”
“Mmkay,” Shane mumbles into his pillow, half asleep. “G’night, Rozanov.”
Rozanov hums softly against him.
“Good night, Hollander.”
“M’glad you’re here.”
Sleep pulls him under before he hears Rozanov’s response.