this just occurred to me but i think while shane’s safe space is on ilya’s crotch ilya’s safe space is shane’s chest. for no reason at all. except at tampa the first time he ever cried in front of shane he was safely tucked in shane’s chest. the first time he said i love you he cried and laid on shane’s chest while shane ran his fingers through his hair.
so now when ilya feels clingy or sad or tired he crawls into shane’s chest and nuzzle between his pecs and shane’s hands fly up automatically to scratch his scalp and it’s the safest, warmest place he could ever be
my late-night heated rivalry hot take is that I don’t think anyone in ilya’s life has ever suspected him of being queer. I think the only people who actually know ilya sleeps with men—alexei and svetlana—found out by accident, probably around the same time (the sasha era…). I just do not think this guy is getting clocked as flamboyant like I think if you’re a hot young superstar jock who’s very publicly making out with hot models in the club everyone is going to look at you and see what they want and expect to see, ie an aggressively heterosexual man
you’re telling me ilya never drunk dialed shane during the two-year wait and slurred into shane’s voicemail about all the things he was going to do to jane’s body if shane just let him touch him again. calling shane’s hole his pussy so he can do this in semi-public of course. cliff afterwards is like wow that’s either going to be a huge turn-on for your girl or she’s going to file for a restraining order that makes it complicated for you to play in montreal
shane never ever mentions it because obviously ilya drunk dialed him by mistake instead of whatever girl he was chasing (some other jane…) and it still kind of embarrasses him how many times he got off to the sound of ilya’s voice talking to/about someone else. cliff is the one who brings the truth to light perhaps in an extremely raunchy toast at the wedding
what's important to remember about the 'we didn't even kiss' unsent text is that shane is not mad at ILYA about the sex they had. he leapt readily into the sex, slutty arch that ensnared millions on display etc.
no, shane's in the elevator, biting his lips red, wishing it was ilya's spit he was tasting and he is mad at HIMSELF for wanting to be kissed, for wanting MORE and recognizes (by ilya setting the tone of the sex as competitive -- not personal, by his own estimation of their relationship) that what sex they SHOULD/MUST be having according to the twin torture nexus is not sex where they kiss each other like they need each other's mouth to breathe. 'we didn't even kiss' is 'i, shane hollander, once again want something i cannot have, because that is what i do, lug around a want so ugly and so loud and so mighty that i fear people can read it at a glance across 200 ft of cold, powdery ice.'
My Shane and Ilya are both incredibly possessive of one another and quick to jealousy but while Ilya gets jealous in a “everyone wants you but they can’t have you, you’re mine and I will delight in showing everyone what they’re missing out on” way, Shane gets jealous in a “I will burn this club down with both of us in it” way.
"believe me, she's not looking for a repeat performance."
unable to sleep, rose has plenty of time to think after that night at the club. | 2151w
rose stares at the ceiling. the champagne from earlier in the night has left her mouth dry and her temples fuzzy. there's water on the bedside, put there by shane before he kissed her shoulder and turned onto his side with the covers pulled up to his ear. drinking the water would mean moving, and moving would mean alerting the man lying next to her that she is awake, and if she alerts him to fact she is awake then he will feel obligated to turn back around and pretend like he hasn't spent the last three hours faking sleep. she can tell. he's too still, like a rabbit caught in a trap. so, rose stares at the ceiling.
there's a cobweb dangling from the lampshade. one lone thread, thick with dust, sways back and forth as if the room itself is breathing in tandem with them. she hasn't taken a full breath since the light clicked off. her chest aches.
that's all it is, she thinks, this constricting feeling. one deep breath, rosie, and you'll feel all better.
she closes her eyes and draws in a long, quiet breath through her nose but all it does is gather prickly heat under her eyes and wall up her throat. she swallows back the tears.
she can still feel all the places he touched her, careful and controlled, and the weight of him bearing down on top of her even as he held himself up politely by the elbows. the hollowed out, used, feeling between her legs stretches to her stomach where it churns against champagne and the three bites of sushi she had before going out to the club.
the night had gone well. right up until it hadn't.
"fuck, i'm sorry," he whispered into the crook of her neck, voice flayed raw in embarrassment even as his choked orgasm still echoed through him.
rose lay still. it was not the first time a guy she's been with has shot off early but this might be the first time they’ve tensed up around her like they expect to be shot for the infraction. when shane drew back, his dark eyes were panicked, darting across her face and showing too much white. she felt his cock softening inside her, slipping free, just like last time.
before she could offer even a lukewarm, "it's fine," he was discarding the condom with a quick, "shit, rose. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. let me . . ." and shuffling down to busy his mouth between her thighs because he was a thoughtful, earnest guy and that was why she'd liked him so much in the first place. he sucked her clit, lapped at her with the flat of his tongue, one hand grasping her tit, and let her rock down onto two fingers until she came. it was a sudden, sharp, cresting thing that left her wound tighter than she was before. under her gasping, he was silent. after, he kissed the inside of her thigh and wouldn't look her in the eye.
rose watches the gentle sway of the cobweb. a good housekeeper wouldn't let a cobweb linger, let alone build into a dusty rope visible even in the dim light filtering in from the streetlights below. unless his housekeeper doesn't touch his bedroom. some people she knows don’t like strangers in such a personal space. she doesn't care. she doesn't have secrets. she hasn't had true privacy since . . . she actually can't remember. she booked her first commercial at six months old, a local tv ad for diapers, and hasn't stopped since. acting carved away any shame until she was an open book.
she lets her head loll to the side. the sheet has slipped and she can see the scar on his shoulder. when she asked after the first time they tried this and eased the tension with small talk, he said it was from a hazing that went sideways when he was in juniors. he was light on the details, said that he fell into a fence spike in a crush of teenage bodies in the dark. he laughed it off but his eyes got that far away look in them she isn’t convinced he knows he has, and changed the subject. anyway, she has three hockey obsessed brothers, she could fill in the blanks.
at seventeen, rose had several ill-advised hook-ups with one of her brother's teammates. she cringes at them now, considers them one of her worst performances, but for all his swagger, the boy hadn't been able to hide how fucking obsessed with her he was. he was all grabby hands and grinding hips, his spit slick mouth hot on her ear as he parroted stilted lines he'd memorised from the porn he liked to watch, but she'd thought he was sweet, had been flattered by the attention, and liked the feeling of being wanted.
however, seventeen is a fickle age to be. attention never lasts and before too long they both moved on, but that boy, without meaning to, gave rose the beginnings of a frame of reference for desire she still carries with her. she knows when someone wants her. she knows how to make herself wanted. she's trades in desire every time she sets up a self-tape.
rose looks at the short hairs on the back of shane's neck. his breathing is slower now, deeper. he's finally found sleep. good for him.
he's asleep.
and he doesn't want her.
these two thoughts rise up out of the fuzz in her brain, neutral statements that still sting. she thought maybe he was just shy, an introvert who knows how to turn it on when required, but she knows. she knows and the knowing doesn't even require her to go deep down because she's been in this position before. she sighs and turns back to the ceiling and the slow dancing cobweb.
he probably doesn't even realise he's doing it, she thinks.
he holds his breath before she kisses him, like he's a child that hasn't yet learned they need to lean into a body check. her first boyfriend did the same. the second and third hid it better but the second was grimacer, and the third leaned so heavily into macho bravado that it looped back to uncomfortable for both of them. they all tried to want her, or at least tried to want the idea of what she could be to them, but they were all looking for something she could never provide.
shane is doing the same and she wishes wildly for a moment that it would be different. heat rushes under her eyes once more and she stifles a hiccoughing breathe with the heel of her hand before scrubbing a palm over her face.
it's not your fault, rosie. i know you thought this time it would be different, but . . . but what?
she glances at the back of shane's head again. his hair is mussed against the pillow and she realises for the first time since she's known him, his shoulders have relaxed all the way. she's struck by just how vulnerable the curve where his neck meets his shoulder looks in the dim light. for a solid minute, rose lets herself look before reaching for her phone.
she types 'gay hockey players mlh' into her search bar despite the growing certainty of what the results will hold. op-eds asking if any player will dare to be the first to come out sit next to schedules for upcoming pride nights. rose lets her phone fall to her chest.
he holds his breath before she kisses him. she looks up at the cobweb. before she kisses him. has he ever kissed her? she isn't sure now. probably not.
he freezes sometimes too, like he's come to the end of a script and doesn't know how to improv. when it happened at the club, she thought it was because miles caught him off guard, but then, he darted off to the bathroom and she spotted all those boston players across the dancefloor.
when he didn’t come back, she found him sitting on the curb outside with a hand pressed to his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. she sat next to him, trailed a gentle hand down his back and he froze, just for a second, less than a second, before he smiled and that had been enough to chase away her worries because she didn’t want to consider a different truth.
“just needed some air, babe. beer went straight to my head after the game,” he said and pulled her close, pressed one big hand to the small of her back and she’d shivered like she was seventeen when his thumb brushed across the edge of her sequin dress.
she got butterflies when she asked him if he wanted to get out of there and he said yes. honest to god butterflies. it seems silly. especially now that she considers that his smile didn’t reach his eyes and she’s almost certain that what she thought was the reflection of the streetlights were actually tears.
rose checks the time. she needs to get back to her hotel for her pick up. the makeup team will tell her off for drinking and for not sleeping. they’ll rib her about how her hockey player boyfriend kept her up all night, and she’ll laugh and let them think what they want to think because what else is she supposed do?
she slides out of bed, careful not to jostle him, and slips into the ensuite. the shower is huge, big enough for two - not that rose would know. blisteringly hot water sprays from the showerhead as she stretches her palms out, one to the slick tile, the other to the glass. plenty of room for two sets of broad shoulders if that’s what he wanted.
shane touches her like he thinks she might break. he handles her by her edges like you would crystal and, at first, she thought it was thoughtful reverence. now, she sees it for what it is: white knuckled obligation.
rose retraces his path across her body and washes his touch down the drain.
he would keep doing this, she thinks as she dries off and pulls on the spare set of clothes he insisted she keep at his apartment. he would push through. hurt himself. hurt me.
she stands in front of the mirror and raises her chin to look herself in the eye. i am the path of least resistance and he would make himself miserable to follow it.
and she understands. she understands now just as well she understood the first, second, and third time she found herself here, but they both deserve better.
she slips from the bathroom back into the bedroom’s suffocating quiet and looks up at the dusty cobweb.
shane doesn’t let the housekeeper into his bedroom because he’s afraid they’ll find out his secret. he let rose in and she worked it out anyway. she pulls a tissue from the decorative box on the bedside table and steps up onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed. a neat pile of clothes is folded next to her foot. her dress lies forgotten on the stairs.
the cobweb drifts in a lazy circle and flutters away from her when she reaches for it. she rises up on her tip toes, wobbles, but stays steady. it gives her just enough extra reach to pluck it from the lampshade and fold it away in the tissue. with a sigh, she hops down and pockets it.
they aren’t so different. eyes have followed her since she was a child. there are expectations she must uphold. if rose were to put her trust in the wrong person they could take her career out at the knees without even trying that hard. some texts. some photos. she trades in desire, that much is true, but to want it? to take it? well, that was a step too far.
a rustle from the far side of the bed grabs her attention. he’s awake, half swallowed by pillows, panicked, hunted, eyes wide like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t. his voice shakes when he tries to offer her an explanation for the night before. the season. the stress. she tells him it’s fine and means it. the lump of tissue in her pocket burns like a brand against her leg. she kisses him gently on the mouth because that’s what girlfriends do and ignores the sharp clench of her stomach when he braces for impact.
rose stands.
rose smiles and rose leaves.
as her cab whisks her through the sleepy montreal streets, she turns the tissue with its dusty cobweb over in her fingers and resolves that she will not be the wrong person for shane.
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