Shane was not having a good day. There wasn’t a good reason for it, or so he told himself, just a build up of little irks that led him to stand in the hotel elevator, drumming his fingertips against his leg incessantly. He hadn’t even pressed the floor number yet, and was just standing in the elevator like a weirdo.
It started in the morning. Waking up in slightly scratchy hotel sheets, he decided to go for an early run before the game that afternoon. His mom had called, and her usual reminders felt more like nagging. It left him walking back to the hotel, going ‘Yes, Mom, I remembered that. Yeah, I won’t forget. Yes, you know I have actually played the Raiders before?’ Then she got upset with him for being short with her. Shane knew she loved him. He loved her. Still, he was 24 years old and wished she would remember that sometimes.
When he got back to the hotel, Ilya still hadn’t responded to his text from yesterday, which was fine, really, then Shane realised he had actually forgotten his protein powder that he had just insisted he remembered. Which was. Fine. He would just use Hayden’s, only it wasn’t the whey blend that he liked, and so he only drank half his smoothie.
So then Shane was hungry before the game. And the seam of his socks was sitting directly beneath his toes, which he only realised when he was laced up, meaning he had to take his skates and both pairs of socks off to fix them.
And then they lost. Honestly, the loss wasn’t even that high on the list of upsets. He had played a lot of games, and lost a lot too. At least Ilya was there, and sent his room number right before they were going to play, along with a series of increasingly ridiculous emojis.
Now he was in the elevator. Fidgeting. He was always excited to see Ilya, maybe too much, but there was a stiff ball of tension wound in his chest, and he wasn’t sure great sex was going to unwind it all the way. Not that Ilya wouldn’t try.
And try he did, as soon as Shane actually made his way to his room, he was pulled inside. Ilya pressed him against the door, kissing him long and slow, moving to his neck.
“Missed you.” He muttered against Shane’s neck, making him shiver.
“I-ah, missed you too.” He said, pretty sure Ilya was just joking anyway. His hands roamed from Ilya’s waist, up his back, tightening as Ilya gripped his thighs, lifting him easily. As Ilya picked him up, and Shane felt his arms tightly around him, he felt something deep within him relax, just a bit. Then he was dumped on the bed, with Ilya looming over him.
“You are tense.” He said, squeezing Shane’s arms. Shane leaned forward to take his t-shirt off, regretting the way he had to throw it to the side.
Ilya pressed a kiss to his sternum, then to his stomach, “Let me make you feel good.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Recently, when they had finished, Ilya would lie next to him, one arm wrapped around his waist. Sometimes they’d even talk, a little, before parting again.
Ilya pressed a sleepy kiss against his shoulder, “You are still tense.”
Shane shrugged, “Just not a good day.” He said softly, “Don’t worry, it wasn’t your performance.”
Ilya grinned, his teeth grazing Shane’s neck, “Was not worried about that.”
They were quiet for another moment, as Shane debated whether or not to say something else.
“Anything I can do?” Ilya asked. Shane was sure he meant something like slide his hand down Shane’s boxers and go for round two, but…
“Um. Could you- I mean.”
Ilya hummed encouragingly.
“It felt good when you picked me up.” Shane said at last, his cheeks reddening slightly.
“You want me to pick you up?” Ilya asked.
“No, no, I don’t think so…” Shane thought about it, remembering what usually made him feel better. Piling his pillows and blankets on him had worked when he was a stressed-out teen.
“Could you,” He took a breath, “Lie on top of me?”
He could feel Ilya’s raised eyebrow without looking.
“I will crush you,” Ilya said, “Like a bug.”
“Fuck off, no you won’t.” Shane responded quickly, giving Ilya a shove, “Just, lie on top of me. The pressure helps.”
Ilya hummed, “Your funeral.” He said, shifting around to lie on top of Shane, flopping down like an oversized labrador.
“Oof, not like this, asshole.” Shane grumbled, “Like, wrap your arms around me and squeeze.”
“So demanding,” Ilya said, obligingly.
His strong arms went around Shane, all the way till his fingertips touched Shane’s sides. He squeezed, gentle, and Shane felt that ball of stress start to unwind.
Shane let out a content sigh, his arms squished against his chest.
“Feels good?” Ilya asked. Shane nodded, pressing his head into Ilya’s neck.
They lay like that for a few minutes, until Shane finally felt the last bit of discomfort leave him.
“Okay,” He said, “I’m good.”
“Okay, but what if I don’t want to move now?” Ilya teased, “Is pretty comfortable.”
“Asshole,” Shane said, wiggling, “Get off.”
“Mmh. No.” Ilya said, squeezing Shane tighter. His fingers curled into Shane’s sides, making him jerk and twitch.
“S-stop!” He choked out, not expecting the electric tingles that came off of Ilya’s fingers.
“Ahh, I forgot. Mighty Shane Hollander is very ticklish.” Ilya breathed the words into Shane’s neck, making his shoulders scrunch up. Over the years they had accidentally tickled each other a couple of times, but this was the first time there was intention.
“Rozanov, stop! I-I’m serious.”
Ilya stopped wiggling his fingers into Shane’s sides, “Too ticklish for a hug, so sad.” He pouted, pulling back.
Shane felt the loss sweep through him, as he thought helplessly, not yet, just another minute, please- and so he said, with false bravado,
“I’m not that ticklish, fuck off.” He looked away, his cheeks definitely pink now.
Ilya grinned, his fingers diving back into Shane’s ribs.
“No?” He asked, “Then you will not laugh if I do this?”
Shane did laugh, immediately, his back arching as Ilya’s fingers wormed their way higher, into his armpits.
“Seems very ticklish to me,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane’s flailing hands with his own. He leaned down, nosing into Shane’s neck.
“Rohozanohov!” Shane giggled, kicking his legs weakly.
“Hollander,” he teased. Ilya sat up, straddling Shane’s thighs as he still giggled weakly. If Shane’s eyes were open, he would have seen the look of pained awe as Ilya stared down at him. Snapping out of it, Ilya gave Shane’s hips a small pinch, making him buck.
“Very, very ticklish.” He said sternly.
“Whatever, so are you.” Shane shot back.
Ilya reeled in mock offense, “Not true. Russians do not have this.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure.” Shane said.
The moment was over. They detangled, and Shane put his (sadly wrinkled) clothes back on while Ilya watched from the bed.
“See you…” Shane trailed off, thinking of their next game.
“Later.” Ilya finished.
Shane nodded, “Later.”
“Goodnight, Rozanov.” He added.
Ilya nodded, “Goodnight, Hollander.” He said.
Shane turned and made for the door. As he glanced back, Ilya looked almost sad.
It was probably nothing.
He slipped out, shutting the door behind him with a click.
You know, I think I’m starting to get part of the problem with “women in fridges,” though I probably would have gotten it faster if I looked into the initial context of comics.
It’s not that “a well-developed character died in order to promote the plot/growth of the main character, in a way that will change them forever, often with the main character either acting in ways that the posthumous character would hate or forcing themselves to act in ways that the posthumous character would like even if they want to take revenge- resulting in a complex character web despite one of the pieces of the puzzle being deceased and-”
It’s that a cardboard cutout died and/or worse so that the main character has something to get mad about, and promptly forgets about the cutout for most of the work. (Or to show just how evil the villain is, but I don’t want to get into that).
Pardon me for assuming that people who write character death know what they’re doing.
Now, if you want an in-depth analysis of why this trope came to be, the history of comic books that led up to the list of women in fridges, why all the cardboard cutouts are so often women, or the definite answer to “but can I still kill off a character if the story demands it?” ...I am most certainly not your man.
(And even if I was, a post this length certainly doesn’t cover all the nuance of my opinions, the trope itself, and the [lack of] research I have on this topic.)
I've been re-reading Ouran High School Host Club and justtttt
SHDFJSDHFKAJDHFKHIUHIDHFIDS I SWEARRRRRRR HIKARUUUUUU YOU ARE JKSJHFOWUHFOW AAAAAAAAAA I SHIP YOU WITH HARUHI SO MUCH IT HURTS AND YOUR BROTHER IS SO UNF OMFFFFFF KYOYAA YOU MOTHERFUCKING MEGANE YOU'RE SO COLD AND HEARTLESS BUT I LOVE YOU SO MUCH UGHGHHHH AND MORI SENPAI WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU WHYA RE YOU SO COOL AND GENTLEMANLY AND JUUUSSSSTTTT HIKARU *insert dying whalescream here*
I JUST CANNOT OK JUST HIKARU AND KYOYA YOU GUYS ARE MY LOVEEEESSSS WHY DOES HARUHI HAVE TO END UP WITH TAMAKI ANYWAY THE STORYWOULD HAVE BEEN WMORE IWNTERESTING IF SHE ENDS UP WITH HIKARU OR KYOYA ORRRRR IDDKDKKK I'M JUST GOING TO GO TO FFN TO SATISFTY MY SHIPPING NREEDDS
BUT FUCKING HOST CLUB YOU GUYS JUST UGH MY OTAKU FEELS JUST UGH I SHIP SO MANY YAOI PAIRS IT HURTSS SDSJFISFUHWIERUJDFJDKJFS
