... 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵.

"ah," ilya starts in a tone that means nothing good at all, especially while accompanied by his now near trademarked grin, the curl of it lopsided and playful. his lids lower to something dangerous, his eyes focused and clear on shane. watching the way pretty features soften into something he wants desperately to be his and his alone — "you suck one russian, and you are russian now, i see. i did not realize the side effect of swallowing me, that it would change you so much. did not realize this was a talent of canadians." he lowers his head to press a kiss to shane's shoulder, another to his collarbone, the gesture dangerously fond and soft and dangerous. "i am sorry, i will think harder before i speak of rich russian custom of omega chasing."

he's not though, ilya wasn't sorry in the least. the damning grin still lights his features when he picks his head up, that devilish delight still glimmering in his eyes as shane brings the topic safely back around to hockey — his original intended subject. always hockey, although ilya could hardly blame him. it was the safest of the subjects they could discuss, the only one that didn't remind shane of their individual dynamics, if only because ilya never brought the differences up during it.

hockey was hockey. there wasn't anything complicated about hockey, it was just skill and sweat, that shane was an omega had nothing to do with it.

"three goals?! oh no, how am i to catch up?" he moans in false despair, shifting his weight to drop onto his back on clean sheets. "my life in ruin, defeated by a man with a weak backhand." not an omega, a man. the difference in the way ilya addresses shane clear and purposeful. distinctly different than the way everyone else did - including his own team. "i am not worried," he says finally, once his playful pouting has ceased. eyes still heavily lidded, but less intense as he rolls his head on the pillow to stare at shane again. "one hat trick, easy. we play buffalo next. you play…" ilya pretends he doesn't have montreal's schedule memorized, lips pursing as if in thought. "detroit, yes? they have a good goalie, perhaps you will score nothing. go home to canada with big pretty tears, boohoo."

     "  you're definitely still fucking with me,  "   said with a smirk that is a touch too fond, perhaps a pale echo of the one so happily directed his way, and comes far too easy for an interaction that is intended, per their own rules, to be purely transactional. but there's something to be said about the way rozanov's lips feel on his skin; like the way they're soft and tempting in a way that could almost be read as tenderness, like a traditional alpha would affectionately pamper a traditional omega. like shane isn't the only one needing to temper is own instinct. the thought itself is a trap, a dangerous tease that sets his heart thumping away in his chest like it could break free, that makes him wish rozanov would do it again. and again. and again. a betrayal of his own instinct over his rational mind, telling him there's no reason for him to feel worried or ashamed, that wanting this is perfectly fine, and he should let himself have it.

     but it isn't fine, and he can't have it. neither of them can, but here they are, lying in a bed of thorns of their own making, where one single wrong move would end them both; smiling, bantering, lounging in each other's space and scent like nothing else in the world matters. like things could be different.

     and dangerous as it is, he would he can't help but give into it just a little, drift just far enough into this bubble of peace he can have secluded in his hotel room, away from prying and judging eyes. just enough to freely appreciate rozanov's smile, allow his attraction to his obnoxious, dickish ways ( and the fact that he clearly has montreal's schedule memorized, just like he has boston's ) to be seen, to be felt and smelled, while his teeth dig into his bottom lip and rolls until he nearly looms over him.

     "  you fucking wish, rozanov.  "  he releases his lip then, in favor of letting them both stretch into a wide grin, a level of cockiness no one would ever suspect from the nice, respectable shane hollander.   "  i'm leaving you in the dust after next game.  " 

     only here. just for now. and later, when he walks through that door and makes his way back to his own hotel room he can just pretend those thoughts never happened, like he never even once considered wanting ilya rozanov in any capacity other than this.

cherry coke zero. ilya's groan is too dramatic to be entirely real, but too unplanned to be entirely false. "hollander," he starts in a voice that would be considered about ninety percent a whine were it not coming from a russian, "i will not let you get any sleep. i will talk all night about ballet and you will have to explain to your team tomorrow that you are soooo tired because you were reading wik -" he hesitates, then tries again, pronouncing the word carefully, "wi-kee-pee-dee-uh page on traditional ballet instead of sleeping."

he would never. sleep was one of those few normal couple activities that ilya got to share with shane. he'd rather be kicked out of his ballet company and be homeless and illegal than miss out on waking up with shane sleep-drunk and draped over his chest. the two of them sticky and warm despite the room's overworked air conditioner, the barest hints of an early morning sun crawling across bruised skin and shiny dark hair —

ilya shakes the image loose and uncurls his fingers just enough to touch them to shane's thigh again, although this time he leaves them there, his palm facing upwards in a certain trap. "pick up the phone, hollander, call and make the order. please."

    shane laughter is immediate, bubbling over his lips as he shakes his head, completely disregarding ilya's playful threats as he falls back onto the pillows.   “  no, i'd just smother you with the pillows.   ” a ridiculous threat that they both know is just as empty as ilya's. he'd lay there, exhausted and half-asleep barely listening but unwilling to tune out the sound of ilya's voice, especially while he's talking about something he cares about so passionately.

    shane loves listening to ilya talk about ballet almost as much as he loves watching him perform. enjoys watching the way his eyes light up, the way he looks like he's doing exactly what he's meant to be, like he could never be happier anywhere else. it's a feeling shane knows well, even while he's being slammed into the boards and thrown onto the ice. fleetingly, he wonders if ilya gets the same feeling watching him.

    he decides to also tuck that feeling away, as he reaches for the phone and motions for ilya to stay quiet. the absolute last thing shane needs is for someone to hear him in the background, for staff to start talking amongst themselves, for the exactly wrong person to overhear and then suddenly shane is in hot water for a split second of something seemingly insignificant. that would be just his luck, wouldn't it ?

    the voice on the other end of the phone sounds tired, annoyed that he even has the audacity to call this late, despite the fact that they're open for another three hours, and somehow it makes shane feel guilty. even so, he orders ilya's food ( regular cherry coke, like he asked ), and a ridiculously modified salad for himself that definitely makes her even more irritated, if the way her voice flattens out is any indicator.

   “  i think the staff might hate me now,   ” he says once he's hung up, sliding back down to a more comfortable laying position on the bed.   “  is staff spitting in food still a thing ? would they do that ?   ”

"is american bar in american hotel, it has everything." ilya answers airily, almost automatically. mouth moving as his eyes drift, from shane's pretty and guilty features, to his neck, to his shoulders and then further down still. bright and greedy gaze taking in strong muscles and bruised skin, the marks that he knew were his and the ones that he'd marked over to make his own too. all of them were blooming pretty colors, and he takes pride in them, let's the sight of them fill him with hunger that wouldn't be sated by shitty american hotel room food.

he doesn't contemplate long on the thought of a second round - not with a first already under their belts, not with hockey and a show still close enough to present in exhausted limbs and pleasurable aches under his skin - but it's clear that he is thinking about it for at least a few seconds there. shane's words met with the muted silence of a hotel room and his even breaths. seconds ticking by before ilya sighs. before ilya reaches out to brush his fingertips against shane's thigh in a touch that's feather-light and somehow more affectionate than any kiss could be, and smiles a smile that's too-soft for them.

"salad does not have protein, is not good for post performance meal." he leaves it up for interpretation the kind of performance that he's referring to, but there's a tilt his his mouth and a glimmer in his eyes that suggests it's not their chosen talents. "sauced wings are messy, you will complain. burger is fine, with fries. cherry coke, hollander, no funny business, or i will drink all your shitty ginger ale and leave you with tap water."

    again, shane wrinkles his nose, but at the prospect of the amount of grease that is surely to be coating this food he's about to willingly spend his money on for this ... very handsome, unfairly addictive russian man lying pretty in their borrowed bed ⸺ and watching him with eyes with far too much hunger for something that isn't what he just asked to order. but he knows better; shane knows better, ilya knows better, the soiled top sheet laying forlorn and crumpled on the floor knows better. all that's in the cards for the rest of this night is food, maybe while watching whatever they can find interesting on tv while they do it, and what little sleep they can get before reality pulls shane out of their little bubble again.

    his face smooths into a smile once more, while he watches gentle fingers play along his skin, setting the laminated paper aside. when he nods, his eyes are still focused on where ilya's fingers once rested, on the tingly feeling left behind that is strong enough it should be palpable. for a fleeting moment, shane wishes it could stay there, wishes he could have ilya's hands on him for as long as he wants, with no repercussions or complications; not even in a sexual way, just ... he doesn't know. to have them ?

    another dangerous thought. put it away, shane.

    when he glances up at ilya's face, it's with a smile that almost mirrors ilya's: fond, warm, and with an edge of too much teasing to be genuine.   “  right, burger, fries, and ... cherry coke zero. got it.   ”

the answer to shane's question sits on ilya's tongue, bitter but easy. his hotel room. that's where he could go to eat, to rest, to sleep. alone and among his sad little overnight bag, the contents of which are spread about a room he'd only intended on having for a single night. ilya should be eating there, where it's safe, where there's security, and a handful of miles between them. there where there's no risk of anyone finding him, finding them…

he doesn't answer, he swallows it instead. it's the world's most bitter pill, but ilya manages — and shane says nothing more about it. shane, beautiful freckled, talented shane, he gives ilya some grace instead. picks back up the safe topic of food, and leaves the ugly truth on the floor.

ilya is grateful for him then, like how he always is, and it fills his stomach with such warmth he feels like a furnace.

"i don't even know what kind of restaurant it is." confessed into the shrinking space between them, accent growing thick, like how it always does when shane is so close and his brain can't quite focus. "maybe you find menu? read it to me." ilya's fingers tap, tap, tap against shane's cheek thoughtfully as his gaze drifts. "give me recommendation, something that is not rabbit food," his eyes snap back to shane's, a smile curving his lips as he remembers that shane isn't looking at his eyes, but his mouth instead. he licks his lips purposefully and slow, then continues. "then pay for it, like i am your hot date. like how they do in bad movies, only i am a -" man. "- much hotter date. the hottest."

treat me like i'm the one you go home with, even though you won't.

    hopelessly enthralled, shane can't help but track the path of ilya's tongue across his lips, watch as they form words that make shane smile, make him laugh that soundless little laugh that's more than a puff of air pushed from his nose. he'll never get tired of watching them, the way they can say things that have his ears burning and make his stomach turn flips when they smile at him in that beautiful, crooked way that is distinctly ilya ⸺

    briefly, he closes the space between, them planting a kiss that is much softer than it should be on ilya's lips, and then he rolls away completely to slip the restaurant menu from the nightstand drawer. there aren't many options to begin with, even fewer options that shane would ever even think about putting in his body during the season ( none, there are none ); but he highly doubts that will bother ilya, who isn't interested in what he calls "rabbit food," despite the fact that shane is certain half of what he eats would actually kill a rabbit.