#rozenov

IT WAS ROZANOV'S FAULT. but wasn't it always. they met up before the game, which was probably their first mistake. but they didnt fuck. they didn't even take their clothes off. but there was a lot of kissing and a lot of rubbing up against each other. it was foreplay. and then there was a promise of more, the cheeky little, "see you later, hollanov. after we kick your ass, i will fuck your a—" shane didn't let him finish that statement. he kissed him again to shut him up, tugging on his bottom lip as he pulled away. "mmhmm, we'll see who's getting fucked on the ice tonight, rozanov." he was trying to channel his inner ilya, but he was still smiling like shane. because there was something about being home in montreal and knowing he was going to get to see his rival on the ice, and then he was going to get to see him after, after already seeing him before the game, that just made him . . . really fucking giddy.

it feels incongruous, somehow, to walk out of his bedroom to have ilya standing in his living space, even though fionn had invited him in with apologies for running late — a call had gone long at work and he just needed five more minutes. now, in fresh clothes, his hair mostly dry and curling over his forehead, fionn feels as though he ought to apologise, a little, for making a man used to existing in an entirely different world hang out here. but it was ilya's choice to come in, and not everyone can be a millionaire. it's not like this place is bad — it's got big windows, it's a decent size, and fortunately the only real mess is a couple of mugs by the sink and the guitar left on the couch — it's just not a penthouse, or wherever he assumes ilya lives.

❝ most of my records are still in london, ❞ he says, because ilya may or may not have been snooping on his shelves (not that fionn minds if he was), and it's hardly a secret, now, that fionn fills silences when he's a little discomfited, ❝ i wasn't gonna bring them on the plane. but i like vintage shops, so i still— ❞ oh. fionn trails off when he realises ilya isn't just walking over, but is doing so with purpose, crowding fionn back until he hits the wall, his mouth hot against fionn's.

he's taller than ilya, is at least as strong as him, and could easily stop him; fionn goes willingly, letting ilya press him against the wall. ilya kisses with exactly the kind of intensity he'd expect and it's easy to return it, lips parting easily for his tongue, his hands coming to ilya's waist and pulling him in closer.

fionn is well aware, in some distant part of his mind, that this is not friend behaviour. neither is it something a fuck buddy would do. but he and ilya have existed in a weird liminal space for a while, now, one without definition; it means fionn has little idea where they stand, what ilya truly wants from him. because he knows what he wants. he's not slept with anybody else since ilya kissed him, that first time. he tried, once, and it felt like taking an ice cream scoop to his own insides. he feels hollow enough without doing that.

but today. today, at the end of his shift, he'd seen the fight on the ice, the background noise of the tv having no idea what it was doing to his heart. he'd seen ilya go down, he'd seen the headbutt. he'd seen the blood, over ilya's face, and he...had stopped thinking straight. he'd come here straight from work, still in his uniform, and let himself in. now, fionn stands in ilya's stupid, stark house (fionn is all soft edges while this place is harsh lines; fionn brings a lived in quality to a room), a complicated mess of emotions on his face.

❝ you were still hurt, ❞ he says, hoarse, trying to find an explanation for why he's acting like a scared boyfriend and coming up short. he swallows as he crosses to the couch where ilya sits, crouching in front of him, running gentle hands over ilya's face. he's no paramedic, but he is first aid trained, and he needs—he needs to reassure himself that ilya's okay, that he's not broken beyond repair, that he's still here. his hands slide down to ilya's body, checking for broken ribs, or whacking great wounds his actual medical team might, somehow, have missed.

when he's done, able to satisfy his jack-rabbiting heart that any lingering trace of blood does not come from ilya himself, he breathes out for possibly the first time, letting his head come to rest on ilya's knee. he should say something. he should cover up his extremely not casual terror. ❝ fuck. hi. you're okay? ❞

˚₊‧ ꒰ა ꨄ︎ ˚ @rozenov ( 𝒊𝒍𝒚𝒂 ) . . . dynamic playlist ↳ accepting

⋆౨ৎ˚ motive, ariana grande • 'cause i see you tryin' / subliminally tryin' / to see if i'm gon' be the one to sing along / i admit it's exciting / parts of me kinda like it / but before i lead you on / baby, tell me, what's your motive? / what's your motive? / what's your motive? / so tell me, what's your motive? / (what's your motive?) / what's your motive? / what's your motive?

⋆౨ৎ˚ gimme! gimme! gimme!, abba • half past twelve / and i'm watching the late show in my flat / all alone / how i hate to spend the evening on my own / autumn winds / blowing outside the window / as i look around the room / and it makes me so depressed to see the moon / there's not a soul out there / no one to hear my prayer / gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight / won't somebody help me chase the shadows away?

⋆౨ৎ˚ only angel, harry styles • i must admit i thought i'd like to make you mine / as i went about my business through the warning signs / end up meeting in the hallway every single time / and there's nothing we can do about it / told it to her brother and she told it to me / that's she's gonna be an angel / just you wait and see / when it turns out she's a devil in between the sheets / and there's nothing she can do about it / she's an angel / only angel / she's an angel / my only angel

mi amorsoteeeee ): te adoro demasiadoooooooooooooooooo, tell me everywhere i need itttttt

Q. " do you know what you do to me? " i. rozanov (@rozenov)

" well, today i married you - i have the plastic ring to prove it. pink one's mine, don't you forget that. " nodding to the dresser in shane's apartment where the current rings they had together laid. like a holy shrine, only meant to be touch by gods. well, a god and shane. he was a hockey god for sure - but he was struggling with the rest of godhood, especially the loving and reading ilya's needs part. he'd seemed sad for so long, like he was hurting bad. and he wouldn't tell shane, which was frustrating and tiresome. because he spent all his ilya-less time wondering.

is he okay? did i do something wrong? how can i make him happy? does he know he's so loved, that he's safe and that he's my home?