Meditations on Magic

Initially, he's too worried about how the conversation between his wife and his son is going to really think too much about the enormous hockey player opposite him. But after a few moments he realises that it's too quiet.

It's not that he's expecting Rozanov – Ilya – to be as loud and showboaty as he is in interviews, but he's definitely not expecting the man to be intently staring into his glass like it holds all the secrets of the universe, not moving a single muscle. David is sure this isn't just normal meeting-the-parents nerves. It's terror, like Ilya is scared to do or say anything. Like he's scared it'll provoke David or something.

And suddenly Ilya doesn't seem like an enormous hockey player at all – just a scared kid in a situation he didn't plan for or expect anymore than his son did. After all, David has also accidentally outed him.

He regards Ilya for a moment before clearing his throat.

"So, Ilya, what do you like to eat?"

Ilya's head snaps up and his eyes meet David's.

"I'm sorry?" He says it carefully, like he's waiting for it to be a trick question, and David's heart gives a little pang. What has happened to this kid to make him so suspicious and anxious?

"What's your favourite thing to eat?" David asks with a smile, making sure his voice is as calm and gentle as possible. It feels a bit like he's trying to coax a scared and cornered animal out from under a car. "I think you and Shane should stay for dinner. Since I think we'll be seeing more of you from now on, I'd like to know what kind of food you enjoy so that we can make it for you when you visit. So what can I get you? Burgers? Pasta? We have a pizza oven if you'd like a pizza?"

"Pasta," says Ilya, the corners of his mouth turning up in an encouraging way. "If it's like the pasta Shane makes, I think I will really like that."

"Pasta it is then," says David, smile growing at the way Ilya's shoulders settle. He resolves right then to make sure that Ilya will never feel this terrified in his home again. "Want to help me get it started? Beats sitting here worrying about how the conversation outside is going, right?"

"Right," says Ilya with the first real smile he's ever seen from him. And David sees it then – sees the man that Shane must have seen beneath the bravado, beneath the act.

it's well made, well shot, well directed, the music is interesting, the costumes are both thoughtful and subtly period accurate, the sex scenes are intentional and, again, accurate to what hooking up when you're like 18 actually feels like...the actors are of course attractive but they look like real people. the characters are varied and well fleshed out, the acting is really, really strong

so many shows and films shoot and then slot in whatever music kind of fits or could be licenced in the budget after time, but you can tell that the scenes in hr were shot with that specific music in mind. and the same intentional approach runs through the whole thing

It’s surprisingly easy, natural even, to crawl into Rozanov’s lap. To cradle his blonde head between his palms and weave his fingers through Rozanov’s thick curls; to rub his thumb over Rozanov’s earlobe and gently rock them back and forth at the edge of the mattress.

The shape of Rozanov--Ilya, he reminds himself, Ilya--is solid beneath him, warm and sniffly, his face pressed into Shane’s pec right by his armpit. There are tears soaking through the fabric of his nice, new shirt but Shane finds he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind even a little bit when Ilya breathes shakily and rubs his nose over the sleeve of Shane’s shirt, probably leaving behind a trail of snot. In fact, something in him warms and unfurls and spreads all throughout his body at the action. At the vulnerability in it. He wants to tuck Ilya into his chest and keep him there. Maybe forever.

That particular thought makes Shane’s stomach twist itself into an uncomfortable knot.

I would never be able to go back home again. Do you get that?

Shane pulls back, just a fraction, his palm still cupping the back of Ilya’s head as he slides his thumb along Ilya’s temple, catching stray tears on the pad then smudging them into Ilya’s hairline. Not burying the evidence of Ilya’s vulnerability but carefully, tenderly, tucking it somewhere safe. Between the press of their bodies.

You don’t like me.

Rozanov--Ilya--shudders through a snotty inhale then blinks up at Shane, his eyes wet and dark in the low lamplight. Involuntarily, like he just can’t help himself--he can’t, he really can’t--Shane’s forehead drops and then their noses are bumping together, breaths mingling in the space between them. The tip of his nose catches on the bump of Ilya’s bridge--the bone broken and healed and broken again--before sliding down further, dragging over the curve of Ilya’s cupid’s bow.

He closes his eyes. Ilya shifts and presses his lips to the corner of Shane’s mouth and then just lingers there. Lingers, and lingers, and lingers. His nose tucking into Shane’s cheek, fingers grasping at Shane’s shirt. Somehow it’s the closest they’ve ever been.

“Do you feel better?” Shane breathes, and it’s muffled where his mouth is smeared against Ilya’s damp cheek, but he knows Ilya hears it because he tenses and sucks in a ragged breath. His shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing to push away. Shane holds him tighter, clamps his thighs around Ilya’s hips. He doesn’t want him to pull away. “Don’t,” Shane says and Ilya pauses, fingers flexing against Shane’s hip. A nervous twitch perhaps.

“I’m not--” he starts and Shane shakes his head, dipping down and brushing their mouths together. He tastes tears on Rozanov’s lips and he licks away the salt.

“You are,” Shane insists and finally settles when he feels Ilya relent, spine slumping as Shane slides his fingers through his hair. “Stay,” he murmurs and Ilya shivers, tilting his head, mouth smudging against Shane’s chin. Shane soothes his thumb in circles over Ilya’s earlobe, something he’s seen Rozanov do a dozen times to himself before. The effect is immediate. Ilya’s head tilts into the touch and his lashes flutter. “Stay,” Shane repeats.

“Is my room,” Ilya retorts, tone bordering on bitchy. Shane huffs a laugh and pulls back to look down at Ilya again. Ilya is watching him warily, eyes darting around Shane’s face like he doesn’t quite trust anything he’s seeing. Like he’s the one that’s asking stay and Shane is the one pulling away.

Shane thinks of Ilya asking him to stay in Boston. Lips pressed to the pinched corner of Shane’s mouth as he whispered stay into the quiet afternoon. In the months since then he has wondered what would have happened if he had stayed.

Is simple for me.

Nothing about any of this has ever been simple. They both knew that. Any attempt at pretending otherwise was, as Shane had said, bullshit.

“You are staring at me,” Ilya mumbles then. It sounds self-conscious in a way that Shane is unfamiliar with coming from Rozanov’s mouth. And he wants to say something witty or flirty or teasing in retort but he comes up short. He's too busy fixating on the shifting colours in Ilya’s eyes, clearer to him now that he is sitting in his lap. Blue and green and hazel flicker behind the curtain of Ilya’s thick lashes and Shane presses his thumbs to the apples of his cheeks. Shane is most certainly staring. Trying to figure Ilya out. “Hollander.”

Shane. He thinks. Call me Shane.

Instead of replying to Ilya, he ducks his head and presses their brows together. Between them their breaths shudder and mingle. Ilya’s breath smells like mint and cigarettes and Shane wants to want to reprimand him but instead finds he’s missed the smell.

When he’d been with Rose a few of her Hollywood friends would chain smoke after dinner. One in particular had smoked Ilya’s brand of cigarettes -- Newports -- and Shane had shivered when the smoke had wafted over him outside the restaurant in the freezing Montreal air. Something within him had churned hot and nauseating at the sense memory. Almost like he could taste Rozanov’s lips on his -- taste his tongue licking into his mouth, hear himself complaining about Rozanov’s smoking, see Rozanov rolling his eyes in response. An attack on all his senses. His whole body overcome by Rozanov.

Maybe it wasn’t that he’d missed the smell in general. But that he’d missed it on Ilya. The way the menthol scent mixed with Ilya’s cologne. Bergamot and vetiver. Rich and masculine and warm. Beneath that the smell of Ilya’s skin, his hair, the salt of his sweat. The sharp scent of peppermint on Ilya’s breath, attempting to cover up the cigarettes.

Shane presses his mouth to Ilya’s then and sighs, moans, gasps, as Ilya’s tongue slips between his teeth. His fingers grasp, on instinct, tugging at Ilya’s hair, trying to bring them closer together. Not that they possibly could be closer. Shane still heavy in Ilya’s lap, pinning him at the edge of the mattress with his thighs. Ilya beneath him and gripping back, his fingers digging into Shane’s flesh through the soft material of his shirt.

They kiss for a while like that. Gripping and grasping at each other. Mouths dragging, lingering. Each kiss getting deeper, hotter, wetter. Until Shane’s jaw is aching and his head is spinning and his chest is shivering, desperate for a full gulp of air.

When they drag apart Shane is breathing heavily. Ilya’s pupils are wide and black, almost entirely encompassing the blue of his irises. His breathing is unsteady too. Puffing over Shane’s cheeks in damp gasps as he licks his bottom lip and nudges their noses together.

“Hollander,” Ilya calls and Shane shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he answers.

“Don’t?” Ilya asks, head tilting, mouth smudging against the corner of Shane’s lips.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs. And in those two short syllables he feels so hopelessly exposed.

I think I like you a bit too much.

Ilya is quiet for a beat. Then two. Shane doesn’t dare look at him.

Then, he says, “Shane.”

And Shane shivers. The sound of his name on Rozanov’s--Ilya’s tongue rolls right through him. From the hairs on his scalp to the tips of his toes. He feels warmed by it. He feels overwhelmed by it. He wants to hear Ilya say it again. And again. And again.

So, he repeats, “Ilya.”

It’s a thing Sirius does, apparently.

Has always done, presumably, though Remus only has data from the eight months they’ve shared the flat. He showers and then he just…exists, afterwards, drifting through the kitchen or the hallway or the sitting room with a towel around his hips and his hair dripping onto his shoulders, looking for his phone or the remote or something to eat or drink, completely unbothered. Like it doesn’t occur to him that this might be difficult for anyone.

Remus has gotten very good at looking at other things.

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

There’s a Tuesday where Sirius leans across him to reach the coffee, and Remus stares at the wall behind the kettle and tries to think of awful things for as long as it takes Sirius to find a mug and leave. He can’t very well risk getting a stiffy near his best friend!

Then there’s a Thursday where Remus is halfway through a chapter of a book, and Sirius wanders in to ask something about the gas bill, and Remus answers without looking up, which he’s proud of, and then ruins it by glancing over the moment Sirius turns to go.

Sirius catches him that time. He doesn’t say anything, just smirks, and goes back to his room.

Remus reads the same paragraph until the letters blur together, forming something completely unreadable.

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

It becomes a sort of game, though Remus would never call it that. He gets better at the looking-away. Sirius, he suspects, gets better at engineering reasons to be in whatever room Remus is in after he’s had a shower. It’s hard to prove, but Remus suspects Sirius might be doing it on purpose. He’s not going to bring it up, though. So he makes his tea and keeps his eyes on the mugs, keeps his eyes on his book, keeps his eyes on the middle distance while Sirius stands in the hallway going through the post, water still tracking down his spine, taking up more space than one person strictly needs to. Not just physically, but in Remus’s mind, too.

It’s fine.

It’s completely fine.

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

It’s a Sunday evening when it stops being fine.

Sirius has been to the gym. He showers; he emerges. He drops onto the other end of the sofa with the towel still on and picks up the remote, scrolling through channels with total serenity while Remus sits very still beside him and looks at his book. The words are shapes; the shapes mean nothing. There’s a drop of water moving down the side of Sirius’s neck, and Remus watches it without noticing, and then Sirius turns his head and catches him, and this time Remus doesn’t look away fast enough, and the smile starts at the corner of Sirius’s mouth—

Remus puts the book down.

He stands up, crosses the small, stupid distance between them, takes Sirius’s face in both hands, and kisses him. Sirius goes still for one second—and after one long, suspended second, makes a sound low in his throat and kisses back, his hands coming up to grip Remus’s shirt, pulling him closer down with a desperation. His mouth is warm, and his lips are soft, and he kisses the way he does everything, completely committed to the bit, like there’s nothing else in the world worth doing.

When they pull apart, Sirius is staring up at him with wide eyes. The infuriating smirk is finally gone, replaced with something much more meaningful.

Remus holds his gaze.

It’s a thing Sirius does, apparently.

Has always done, presumably, though Remus only has data from the eight months they’ve shared the flat. He showers and then he just…exists, afterwards, drifting through the kitchen or the hallway or the sitting room with a towel around his hips and his hair dripping onto his shoulders, looking for his phone or the remote or something to eat or drink, completely unbothered. Like it doesn’t occur to him that this might be difficult for anyone.

Remus has gotten very good at looking at other things.

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

There’s a Tuesday where Sirius leans across him to reach the coffee, and Remus stares at the wall behind the kettle and tries to think of awful things for as long as it takes Sirius to find a mug and leave. He can’t very well risk getting a stiffy near his best friend!

Then there’s a Thursday where Remus is halfway through a chapter of a book, and Sirius wanders in to ask something about the gas bill, and Remus answers without looking up, which he’s proud of, and then ruins it by glancing over the moment Sirius turns to go.

Sirius catches him that time. He doesn’t say anything, just smirks, and goes back to his room.

Remus reads the same paragraph until the letters blur together, forming something completely unreadable.

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

It becomes a sort of game, though Remus would never call it that. He gets better at the looking-away. Sirius, he suspects, gets better at engineering reasons to be in whatever room Remus is in after he’s had a shower. It’s hard to prove, but Remus suspects Sirius might be doing it on purpose. He’s not going to bring it up, though. So he makes his tea and keeps his eyes on the mugs, keeps his eyes on his book, keeps his eyes on the middle distance while Sirius stands in the hallway going through the post, water still tracking down his spine, taking up more space than one person strictly needs to. Not just physically, but in Remus’s mind, too.

It’s fine.

It’s completely fine.

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

It’s a Sunday evening when it stops being fine.

Sirius has been to the gym. He showers; he emerges. He drops onto the other end of the sofa with the towel still on and picks up the remote, scrolling through channels with total serenity while Remus sits very still beside him and looks at his book. The words are shapes; the shapes mean nothing. There’s a drop of water moving down the side of Sirius’s neck, and Remus watches it without noticing, and then Sirius turns his head and catches him, and this time Remus doesn’t look away fast enough, and the smile starts at the corner of Sirius’s mouth—

Remus puts the book down.

He stands up, crosses the small, stupid distance between them, takes Sirius’s face in both hands, and kisses him. Sirius goes still for one second—and after one long, suspended second, makes a sound low in his throat and kisses back, his hands coming up to grip Remus’s shirt, pulling him closer down with a desperation. His mouth is warm, and his lips are soft, and he kisses the way he does everything, completely committed to the bit, like there’s nothing else in the world worth doing.

When they pull apart, Sirius is staring up at him with wide eyes. The infuriating smirk is finally gone, replaced with something much more meaningful.

Remus holds his gaze.

The whole team settles in with rapt attention, ready to roast the shit out of Roz over it via group chat, only to see. Well. It's a series of interview clips over the years. It's made up exclusively of three things. One, clips of Hollander "stealing" linguistically challenging questions that the whole team knows Rozanov hates. Two, clips of Rozanov derailing questions that are about Hollander's "representation of his community," which gossip on the street says makes Hollander uncomfortable. Three, Hollander and Rozanov commenting individually on the rivalry, with vicious comments such as. "He's of course a great player, but he'll find us difficult to beat." Such fire in Rozanov's comments are especially damning, given his whole chirp-king-schtick. The video editor, with all the obsession and perception of a true fangirl, makes sure to circle every instance where you can see the shadow of Hollander and Rozanov pressing their feet together - and in one instance holding hands - beneath the interview table. (You wouldn't see it unless you're looking for it - or unless someone circles it in red for you.)

The video finishes, and the team sits in a kind of shocked silence as the next video auto-plays. This one is a compilation of Rozanov chirping Hollander on the ice. Here, the editor has helpfully drawn an arrow to Hollander's face whenever he blushes. The editor has also inserted text overlays with comments like. "Look at how fiercely Rozanov insults his rival." And then puts smaller arrows pointing to Roz's body language, with helpful texts like "excited wiggle indicating absolute fury," and "besotted grin indicating deep hatred." The sarcasm is distressingly accurate in its point.

(Listen, the whole team knows what Roz looks like when he's chirping someone. This - this is not it. This is not it at all. This is him when he's being silly with people he really likes. What is going on.)

The video finishes, and this time someone has the presence of mind to stop the auto-play before another mind-breaking thing comes up.

Someone else, trying to lighten the silence with a joke, and maybe dismiss it all as a fever dream, says, "Montreal Jane? More like Montreal Shane, am I right?"

And. Well.

Once it's out there, there's no coming back from it.