It doesn’t happen often—Shane’s usually a deep sleeper. He rarely finds himself as a twist and turner or waking up in the middle of the night. Ilya, he feels, is always shifting or out of bed for something—using the bathroom, a glass of water, getting that pillow just right, blanket on, blanket off, tucking Shane against his chest or turning and molding himself back against his boyfriend. Sometimes he has nightmares which come and go. Frequently, Shane’s noticed, during certain months of the year or when things become particularly stressful with the Centaurs or between the two of them when time or distance stretches them too far apart.
Shane knows what to do when Ilya has a nightmare; there’s a balance in giving him space to talk or just feel however he needs to. Sometimes Ilya will tell him everything, other times he will inch closer and breathe deeply and settle against the warmth of Shane’s body and the feel of his hands brushing through his curls and fall back asleep.
But Shane? Shane feels like he sleeps so soundly that he rarely remembers his dreams when he wakes up, let alone having nightmares that are vivid enough to pin him to the bed in the middle of the night.
Which is probably why he’s disoriented when it happens.
Shane jerks awake in a cold sweat, his fingers fumbling for—something, anything to grab onto. He doesn’t know what time it is; late, most likely. Late, late, late. It’s raining, he can hear the fat droplets slam against the windows, the rumbling of thunder in the distance. There’s a crack of lightning that somehow shakes the entire cottage or maybe that’s still him, equilibrium completely offkilter. The sound of the storm outside crashing and thrumming is banging against his eardrums, far too much like the breaking of ice—sudden, overwhelming, and he—he can’t breathe. Ilya slipped through the fractures far too fast, faster than he could grab him—too late—
Ilya. Ilya.
Shane thrusts himself forward with every intention of turning the bedside lamp on because he just—he needs to be able to see, but he overshoots and knocks it right off the nightstand. The clatter instantly wakes his boyfriend, who jolts awake. Ilya’s one hand comes down on Shane’s leg as the other struggles to turn the other bedside light on,
“What is happening?” Ilya’s voice is choked with sleep, accent thick from being woken up suddenly.
“Sorry,” Shane manages, his own voice tight as light spills into the room; a soft, warm glow compared to the rain outside. He opens his mouth to say something else, anything that’s not him just sitting far too still, but thunder cracks like a whip and he pictures ice underneath his skates disappearing all over again.
He’s never heard anything so deafening before, so absolute.
“Yebat',” Ilya mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. He blinks a few times, seemingly trying to wake himself up before he pulls himself out of bed. It’s not until he’s on Shane’s side of the mattress, picking up the fallen lamp, that he gets a good look at him. His eyebrows draw together and he slowly sits down next to Shane’s thighs, reaching out to gently clasp his fingers around his chin, “What’s wrong?”
Shane shakes his head, trying to backtrack, trying to get himself together because he…he refuses to fall apart over a nightmare. Over something that’s never even happened. Ilya’s here, right in front of him—warm and solid and real. That’s what matters.
“Nothing, I—the thunder woke me up.”
Ilya brushes his thumb over his jawline, “Don’t lie to me, Shane.” His voice is gentle, “You are shaking.”
Shane bites down on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t think he can say it. Ilya waits, patient, his other hand rubbing back and forth along Shane’s thigh. He’s grateful that Ilya eventually fills the silence again, right in-between the downpour of rain and the rolling of thunder,
“Bad dream?”
His chin tips down even though Ilya keeps him between his fingers, “It’s stupid.”
Ilya sighs out of his nose, shaking his head, “Tell me; I will not think it is stupid. Obeshchat'.”
Shane swallows, closing his eyes and dipping his nose and lips against the calloused skin of Ilya’s fingers. He knows there’s a logical explanation for this—nightmares are just waking concerns, they’re fears and worst-case scenarios and the feeling of something unknown. Something that can’t be planned or explained or organized; something that often doesn’t make sense, no matter how much you want it to.
“We were skating together,” Shane finally shares, his voice soft and almost fading into the rainfall, “But…we weren’t at a rink, we were on a lake that iced over.” He swallows, his gaze finding Ilya’s, “Not here,” He motions outside the cottage, though he’s not sure it matters. Not really. “We were holding hands and—and the ice cracked.”
It had felt so real. The trembling of the ice underneath his skates, how it threw him off balance, how he dropped Ilya’s hand—
He let go of Ilya’s hand. Too late, too late, too late.
Ilya hums softly but doesn’t speak, as if he can figure out where this is going.
“You disappeared, right under the ice, and I couldn’t—I couldn't find you, Ilya.” Shane lets out a long breath but when he goes to take oxygen back into his lungs, he hiccups. His voice wavers, his eyes misting over with unshed tears as he thinks about how cold he was, how he kept skating on broken ice, looking for him, shouting, throat going raw from yelling—
“You were gone, you were—” Shane draws in another sharp breath, his features crumbling as he tries to cover his face with his hand. None of it was fucking real and yet he still feels that ice settle into his bones, the kind of cold that stays with you. The kind that never leaves.
Ilya shakes his head quickly, inching closer to him on the bed. “Shh,” He whispers, “Shh, come here, moya lyubov'.” He wraps his one arm around Shane’s shoulders, folding him into his chest. Shane’s face tucks itself into Ilya’s shoulder, a shuddered sound leaving his lips that sounds far too much like a sob. Ilya’s other hand smoothes circles along his back, moving to thread into his hair, his thumb stroking back and forth along the back of his neck.
They’re quiet for a few moments, Ilya just holding onto Shane tightly, gently rocking him back and forth in place.
“You know,” Ilya says after a moment, pressing a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, “I did fall through ice once when I was a kid. My brother pulled me out,” He breathes out of his nose, “Was one of the only times I was happy to see him.”
Shane sniffles and Ilya only pulls back when Shane does. He wipes a hand over his cheek, Ilya taking over for him by brushing his thumb along the bone where his freckles are. He then leans over and presses a long kiss above his eyebrow,
“I do not think it would happen twice in my life, hmm?” Ilya offers a small smile, bumping their noses together. The corners of Shane’s mouth twitches, “Besides, you and I will hold onto one another, yes?”
Shane keeps Ilya’s gaze for a long moment before nodding, their foreheads coming to rest together before he presses a kiss to Ilya’s cheek, his jawline, the corner of his mouth and then finally his lips. Ilya hums lightly, lying back down in bed, pulling Shane to settle on top of him. He reaches for his bedside lamp and turns it off, letting Shane get comfortable, tucked between his legs and underneath his chin. Shane closes his eyes, pressing his nose against his pulsepoint, feeling the beat of his heart there and underneath his hand. Ilya’s fingers trail over his shoulder, shuffling blankets over top of him.
And that lingering ice in Shane’s veins eventually thaws and disappears.
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"Vanderhorst had been under the influence of MDMA and three litres of vodka she had consumed on the night of the offence last September, her lawyer Michael Hill told the court."
also (still talking about something that no one else cares about) it’s so beautiful and meaningful to me that ilya is the one who most longs for and pushes for queer solidarity. like he is the one who tells ryan price that his and shane’s camps are focused on teaching tolerance, he is the one who shows up to scott’s gay bar night, and he is the one who gets the centaurs to wear pride tape for troy during the whole pride game (instead of just for the mandated warm-up). and he longs so badly to come out to his team bc he wants them to know this side of him. like he is so explicitly a queer man who wants to be seen for that part of his identity and he is willing to go to bat for everyone else. which makes sense to me from a russia pov bc he really knows the political context of everything. and he wants that community so bad!! bad enough to always show up in support which is such a beautiful part of his story to me
No exaggeration but theeeee most critical lesson I learned in my 20s was letting go when it was time. It’s so cliche but it’s so true. I used to hold on so venomously to people, put on a tap dance for their approval, force relationships to last past their expiration date, carry the heavy lifting for reaching out because I didn’t want to feel “passive.” But when someone doesn’t want your effort it’s not about passivity. It’s literally about self respect, not wasting your time, and gravitating only to people who have your best interest in mind and celebrate you. I’ve met so many older people who don’t know how to let go and it truly scares me that this could easily be me. It’s better to develop this skill early than it is to spend an entire lifetime begging for love and belonging.
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times ilya rozanov was so lost in the sauce that he ascended to a higher plane: in (mostly) chronological order from hook-up era to marriage
the first time shane rode him during the hook-up era. when shane was still hollander, still nothing more than a torturous daydream, something he could have for small, greedy moments before having to let go of again. and he's still in denial about it all at this point, unwilling to put a name to that echoey, achey feeling in his chest that blooms when hollander leaves their bed and puts his carefully constructed mask back in place. Shane Hollander--the captain, the teenage phenom, the golden boy, the pride and joy of Canada--replacing the boy ilya had just had under his fingertips, in his mouth, beneath his body. anyway. it's a heady thing, for ilya, to have this side of hollander. to have hollander sat on top of him, holding ilya down with his wrists pinned above his head, hips moving slow and confident and maybe a little mean as he pants and grins and teases "you okay there rozanov?" and ilya just nods. he's totally okay, he's not seeing god or nirvana or angels or whatever the fuck. it's just hollander, bent over him, pretty face full of open wanting, a flush high on his cheeks, his mouth bitten red and slack around sweet sweet little 'unh unh unh' sounds every time he rolls his hips just right. and ilya just lays beneath him and grasps at his hips as he bounces and grinds in his lap. when he comes it makes him dizzy, his heart pounding in his throat, warmth tingling down his chest to his toes. it takes him a moment, too lost in the sauce to notice that hollander is still hard but then ilya is quickly rolling them over and swallowing him down the second he realises. later, he showers and thinks of how to get hollander on top of him--bouncing and grinding and rolling those strong hips, flexing those thick thighs, ass jiggling--again.
obviously, the most profound moment of ilya "lost in the sauce" rozanov is at the cottage. post-iloveyous, post-shanewakesilyaupinthemiddleofthenighttoplanthenextdecadeoftheirlivestogether. it's that moment when they're tangled up together in the soft sunlight, rain pitter-pattering on the wide glass windows, shane looking back at ilya so sweetly asking "this is real right" with his big, strong hand gripping at ilya's curls. and i think we can all agree that moment is the first moment they don't use condoms so ilya is trying to answer--to give shane the verbal confirmation he needs--but his entire body is buzzing with sensation at how warm, tight, soft, close shane feels like this. his mind is just drowning in loud tingling pleasure, his body also. all of him honed in on shane, shane, shane. he couldn't think of anything else if he tried. all he can do is nuzzle his nose into shane's pit, smear kisses over his ribs, lap helplessly at shane's nipple, and watch shane beneath him. watch his pretty face as his freckles bunch up, as his big brown eyes water with pleasure, as his cheeks get ruddy and his brows pinch then relax as his beautiful boy sinks into the sensation. and when they're both done, ilya stays tight to shane's back, just stroking up and down the thick muscle of his lover's thigh, kissing at his ribs, enjoying the afterglow. enjoying it the way he's wanted to for so long, with nothing between them and no need to wash away his longing by showering as fast as possible.
maybe not that first summer but after a year or two ilya manages to convince shane to smoke a blunt with him. and shane is terrible at it; he complains that the smoke burns his lungs and he coughs violently and chokes on each inhale, barely taking any in. so, of course, ilya takes over. presses his mouth, damp and hot and full of smoke, to shane's and pushes his tongue past shane's lips. and that's how shane gets high, breathing in the smoke ilya traps behind his teeth. they smoke out on the dock, at sunset. shane says he feels nothing and ilya just hums, says "sure, hollander" and pokes shane's flushed cheeks, laughs at shane's wide pupils, lounges back against the wooden dock with a wicked quirk to his smart mouth. and he feels it. in his limbs, that heavy warm floaty buzzy feeling that makes him kinda feel like sleeping and kinda feel like bursting into a fit of childish giggles. it takes about ten minutes for shane's body to loosen, for him to turn to ilya with heavy, hazy eyes and then crawl over top of ilya, pushing him down into the dock to kiss him all sloppy and demanding and hot. and ilya's had sex high before, made out high before, but suddenly his heart is frantic. shane is heavy in his lap, shirtless and drenched in orange-gold light, freckles stark over his cheeks and shoulders. he's beautiful, his brown eyes turned amber in the sunset, his pouty mouth swollen and dragging heated kiss after heated kiss from ilya's lips. and ilya's heart is pounding, so fucking loud in his ears, he can feel the hectic thumping of it in his throat, in his chest, banging on his ribcage. actually, he's so violently turned on and the adrenaline is pumping so fast he feels sick and he wrenches away with a gasp and feels lightheaded and has to hold off shane who is pouting and whining for more kisses. all the blood in ilya's body has travelled to his dick and all that's left in his brain is a druggy haze of lust and cotton. this is the first time ilya rozanov ever freaks the fuck out on weed -- because his high brain got so turned on he nearly forgot to breathe between kisses. he has to lie flat on the dock breathing in through his mouth and out his nose for twenty minutes before he can get up and go inside.
i think their wedding night they are too drunk and delirious with joy to manage anything more than a sloppy, messy, grinding makeout in bed after everyone leaves. they're both coming in their pants and showering afterwards together and kissing some more and then falling asleep in a heap of tangled limbs. their honeymoon, however, is full of ridiculous, ilya "lost in the sauce" rozanov sex moments. the most notable being after a night out at some club. shane had been just so fucking sweet and hot and joyful all night. dark hair styled nicely, big arms on display in the tight little sheer black t-shirt ilya buys him to wear out to the club, his fingers tucked into ilya's waistband most of the night, just a little possessive and a little clingy. but ilya just has such a nice night. he does shots with a drag queen and meets fun, attractive, queer people. he dances in public with his husband under pulsing neon lights and kisses shane in the corner underneath the speakers throbbing ear-splitting club music. he feels a little trashy and a lot young and infinitely in love with his husband who mostly just bobs his head awkwardly to the music and holds ilya's hand with a besotted look on his handsome face. and when they get in the uber back to the hotel at 4 in the morning shane doesn't even flinch when ilya plasters himself to his side, kisses all over his neck, gropes his chest in the backseat. and when they're finally in the hotel room and stripped naked there's glitter on shane's skin from brushing up against the other bodies on the dancefloor and he's sweaty and he smells a little musky and a little like alcohol and ilya just loves him. loves his husband for coming out with him to a club and indulging everything ilya wanted all night even if he was nervous. loves his husband for the way he'd just had eyes for ilya all night, not even noticing anyone else looking at him, dark eyes never straying from ilya. and they go into the bathroom to shower the night off their bodies but ilya gets distracted looking at shane in the mirror, looking at him standing there all naked and glorious in the soft yellow light, and he can't help but drop to his knees behind shane and pry apart his asscheeks and bury himself there, tongue lapping, pressing, smearing, sliding over shane's hole. and he sucks kisses into the skin, pushes his tongue in, drools over his own chin as he presses his face in deeper. eats shane out for so long that his neck cramps and his knees hurt but he's entirely lost in it. moaning and groaning and whimpering when shane pushes his hips back, when shane reaches back to grab his hair and hold him closer, when shane curses and pleads and whines for more. ilya isn't even thinking of fucking shane--he is enjoying this too much. at some point he started jerking himself off tho and he comes like that, tongue buried in his husband, moaning loudly and dripping saliva down his chin.
ilya has been injured for a week, on IR, out of commission. he's miserable about it. not just because of the hockey--not just bc he is captain and feels like a sack of shit for abandoning his team, to which shane had said "baby, it sucks but it's good it happened now and not later in the season. you'll be back on the ice in time to make sure we still make it to the playoffs"--but also because his injury has prevented him from doing much with his husband. shane has been on a roadie and ilya has been with yuna and david, being dotted on, which is a bit overkill -- it's just a sprained groin not even a severe sprain, the doctor had said it was only grade two and he'd been fine in a few weeks. but before that he hadn't been allowed to do much either -- nothing at all in the bedroom -- and he is miserable. when shane gets back he picks ilya up from his parent's place and anya too and they all go home to their quiet ottawa place. anya runs off to her favourite corner of the yard to reacquaint herself with her favourite pile of dirt in the bushes and shane fusses over ilya on the couch. ilya is NOT sulking at all, not at all bitching and whining like a child. he's just saying that he doesn't need all this fuss hollander, it's fine, please just come here and let me blow you at least. and shane--who is currently been bumped from A to C--is trying to be responsible and telling his husband "no, you will not go on your knees and strain your groin further just to suck me off" and ilya groans and says "okay, i will lie flat and you can sit on my face, do all the work yourself" and, well, shane's dick is a little interested in that. but no, he shakes his head. so ilya pulls out the big guns, he pouts, flutters his thick lashes, looks up at shane with his eyes all pleading and says "i miss you" and shane groans, rubs a hand over his face and stomps away. ilya thinks his tactic has failed but then shane is coming back, dropping lube onto the couch then climbing behind ilya, dragging ilya back to lean his back against shane's chest. and ilya is confused by this turn of events but says nothing as shane kisses at his throat, runs a featherlight touch up and down the ladder of his ribs, the other hand massaging ilya's thick thigh muscle, careful of where ilya's muscle tore. and shane does this for ages, just kissing at ilya's neck, biting at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, scratching blunt nails over ilya's sides and rubbing his thumb over ilya's nipple. ilya is hard as fuck and wants to squirm away but shane holds him tighter and sucks a bruise into the soft skin behind his ear. eventually he's pushing down ilya's pants and briefs and slicking his hand with lube and slowly, torturously, meanly, stroking ilya's cock in lazy drags. his palm and fingers applying the faintest amount of pressure, dragging over ilya's cock lazily, like he has all the time in the world. and ilya can't fucking do anything about it. shane has one leg clamped over ilya's knee to keep him from moving and has his other hand wrapped firm around ilya's hip. he keeps kissing wet and messy and biting at ilya's throat. keeps stroking just on this side of too little. he maybe spends half an hour like that, nosing at ilya's jawline, murmuring softly to him saying "baby, baby, shh, just like this" and ilya is going fuzzy at the edges. forgetting all about being annoyed abt being on IR, forgetting all about feeling lazy and useless. "let me take care of you, you do so much, work so hard," shane sighs "just enjoy it" and ilya, strangely, does. the world's slowest, lightest, sweetest handjob reducing him to a puddle of goo melted between shane's thighs. when ilya eventually comes it's with a soft whimper and then shane is cleaning up his tummy and kissing his forehead and making him a nice meal and getting him an icepack for his groin.
their first wedding anniversary is probably the most profound moment of ilya "lost in the sauce" rozanov. it's the anniversary of their pikelet wedding -- during the season and not a public date that their team, friends, or the wider hockey world is aware of. it's just a date for them. the day ruby and jade married them with children's plastic rings in stupid costumes. ilya doesn't really tell shane in the lead up to it that he has a plan -- and he doesn't know that shane has one either -- so they're both going to practice on the day and acting coy when asked abt their plans for the evening. (they both made dinner reservations at the same spot where they had their first date post telling Crowell to fuck himself). and so they get home after practice and shane says -- before ilya gets a chance -- "i booked us a dinner for tonight, since it's our anniversary" and ilya is briefly overcome by joy, elation, absolute ridiculous gooey sappy emotion before he says, outloud "fuck!" and shane is blinking like ??? and ilya says "nothing, lyubimy, nothing" and then "i am excited" even though internally he is like fuckfuckfuckmyplans but then they park outside the resturant and he bursts into laughter and shane is again like ??? and ilya explains through hysterical bursts of laughter that he booked the same place and when they get inside they ask to see which table each reservation had assigned to it then pick the best one -- shane's table because he remembered the exact table they sat at that first time. and they eat a beautiful dinner together, without any nonsense from paps or fans, ankles tangled under the table, smiling stupidly at each other over the massive chicken parmesan ilya ordered. and when they get home they kiss all the way from the front door to the bedroom, hands wandering all over, careful, tender touches. and we all know ilya "loverboy" rozanov loves to make love to his husband missionary so shane is on his back with his legs around ilya's hips and his ankles hooked around the small of ilya's back and their fingers are tangled above shane's head on the mattress and their foreheads are pressed together as they breathe into each other's mouths just moving slow slow slow. and ilya gets lost in it. the slow rhythm of their bodies, the wet drag of their mouths, the press of shane's slick tongue, their noses rubbing, their foreheads touching, lips smudging and panting together. it's probably a good half hour of just slow rocking, quiet moans, soft sighs, until ilya picks up the pace, presses in harder, and sends them both over the edge. and ilya fades out for a bit, laying on top of shane's chest, ear pressed to shane's heart, listening to its steady pulse. shane's arms around him, caressing and rubbing his spine. and maybe he rolls shane onto his side and slides back into him and fucks him again twenty minutes later, fingers locked around shane's hip, pulling him tighter, burying growls and whimpers in shane's neck, nipping at his earlobe. he starts crying at some point, but shane is too, though he thinks shane's tears are from pleasure. ilya is just happy and sad all in one confusing tumble. both so joyful he got this and so scared that there had been a moment where he might not have gotten it. and he comes again, rutting deep into his husband's body, clutching him close, wiping his tears away by dragging his cheeks over the wings of shane's shoulder blades. and after, shane rolls over, grabs either side of his face, kisses him all over, forehead and brows and eyelids and mouth and nose and cheeks and chin, and murmurs "love you so much, husband" and ilya garbles something back along that same sentiment and bites at shane's chin. he wants to eat him, devour him whole, swallow him. it's ashame they can't be one being. but this closeness will do.
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Cliff invites Ilya over to his place one day in December 2016 because Ilya has been in a terrible mood lately, frustrated and angry and exhausted because he's trying not to show either of those in front of the team. And look, Cliff knows that on the team he is probably Ilya's closest thing to a friend, so he sits him down on his couch, hands him the remote and tells him that he'll make them some lunch, just watch whatever, dude.
And at first he thinks it's going well, because Ilya has actually turned the TV on - even if it is ESPN, the last channel Cliff had watched, with ESPN showing a rerun of what Cliff after a couple seconds realizes is the Hollander documentary that came out some time ago. Ilya has this faraway look in his eyes which, yeah fair, Cliff isn't that interested in watching Hollander talk about yoga either. Ilya obviously just can't be bothered to change the channel.
So he puts their plates on the coffee table and is about to reach for the remote when Ilya suddenly makes this choked off sound, staring at the tuna melt in front of him as if Cliff had just handed him a dead puppy. Which is when Cliff realizes that he hasn't asked Ilya if he even likes tuna, remembers his sister wrinkling her nose at him whenever he pulled out the tuna canes when he still lived at home, saying that even the smell made her nauseous. And Ilya has gone a little green, still staring at the plate.
So Cliff's like "Ah shit man, should've asked you if you like tuna. My bad, I'll just order us some pizza or some shit, yeah?" and puts the plates back in the kitchen. And Ilya just gives a sharp nod, not really looking at him. But he looks a bit less green so removing the tuna seems to have been the right choice.
They settle on the couch, Cliff quickly putting in an order for two pizzas before he finally grabs the remote - on the TV screen, Hollander is now talking about the well he built at his cottage, no chance Ilya would want to listen to that by choice - and flips through the tv channels to find something entertaining to watch that doesn't require them to pay too much attention. Finally he lands on some action movie.
On the tv screen Rose Landry is getting introduced to the other members of the X-Squad. On the couch, Ilya has gone pale again. Cliff can't help but wonder if maybe Ilya is coming down with something. Maybe it wasn't the tuna melts, maybe he just has an upset stomach and didn't bother to say anything about it?
If he's nauseaus, he probably won't like the pizza's either. Maybe best to give the guy something to settle his stomach for now, Cliff thinks as he gets up from the couch and heads to his kitchen. He always keeps a couple of ginger ales in his fridge for such occasions. Surely those will help.
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Where Shane has brand clamoring to get him on for ads or ambassadorship, public personalities always want Ilya for their projects. He's always being offered music videos, guest star roles, social media collabs, segments on online interview shows like Hot Ones or Royal Court. The music videos he gets offered are usually pop girlies looking for a hot man to play the love interest or douche bag ex-boyfriend. Yuna totally signs him up for one of the boyfriend ones after she takes over his accounts, and Shane was rip-roaringly jealous that anyone else got to see his Ilya in that role
