Chapter Text
The party is in full swing. Dreadful metal music blares through speakers in Boodram’s house. The house is alive with laughter and Hudson is numb to it all. Conflicting emotions battle for dominance in his head. He shuts them out with alcohol and hyperactivity. Because the moment he stops even for a second, these feelings come flooding back, crushing into him like a tsunami.
So he dances enthusiastically and terribly to the amazement of his teammates. For once, Shane Hollander is the life of the party. Boodram barely reacts when he climbs over a table and knocks a lamp to the floor. The room erupts with cheers when he takes center stage and gyrates his hips, pulling his shirt halfway off. Through it all, Ilya stays leaned against the wall, nursing the beer he grabbed when they first walked in. Hudson is neither sober nor close enough to interpret the look on his face.
After a while, he leaves the group in the house to join Troy, Harris, and Wyatt on the terrace. They are huddled in their thick jackets, puffs of smoke rising from their lips. Hudson takes a seat beside them, nodding as a form of greeting.
“You good, A?” Troy asks.
“Great.”
“Never seen you act so wild.” His breath freezes before him as he speaks. “We like it.”
“Yeah,” Hudson says. “I’m more than meets the eye.”
For some reason, they find that funny. While they are distracted by laughing, Hudson swipes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the table, shoving them into his pocket. He sits in silence with them for two more minutes before making an excuse about being too cold and heading back inside.
He stumbles through the dancing bodies, past some of the guys knocking back shots at Bood’s breakfast bar, and then through a door that miraculously leads to a back porch. He exhales when the cold wind caresses his face again. An overhead light flickers to life, illuminating the porch. It’s not so bright he can see the lines on his skin but enough that he doesn't trip and fall. He has had quite enough of that for one day.
Hudson perches on the porch swing. Brings a stolen cigarette to his lips. The lighter comes on after the second try, catching gently on the cigarette and burning his vision bright yellow before he’s surrounded by darkness again. The first inhale sends a rush through him. He closes his eyes as the nicotine begins to ebb his stress away. It has been a hell of a day. He needed this.
As calmness slowly takes root, his mind strays to his predicament again— which is the opposite of what he wants it to do right now. What is real and what is not? Would he feel pain if he put out the cigarette with his skin? Would he bleed if he’s cut open? Hudson lifts his hand and stares at it. If this is just a vivid dream, why does it feel so tangible? Why does he taste disappointment and guilt? Tart and putrid on his tongue. Why does his heart twist violently when Ilya looks at him a certain way?
Right on cue, the door to the porch opens, allowing music to sift through the porch before it is swiftly muffled again. Hudson tosses his half-smoked cigarette to the floor and stomps the lights out with his boots, waving a hand uselessly through the air as if that would erase the unmistakable stench of cigarettes. He stares at the boots hiding the evidence of his infraction as Ilya’s footsteps draw nearer and stop beside him.
Hudson cannot look at him. His heart sits heavy in his chest and bile claws its way up his throat. He knows the look Ilya must be wearing. Has seen it on his face all day.
“Shane?” Ilya’s voice breaks on the single syllable and Hudson cannot help it. He lifts his face to him.
He couldn’t see the lines on his own skin but he clearly sees the lines on Ilya’s face. Broken devastated lines. The face of a man who seems to be losing touch with his reality.
Ilya watches him, eyes dark and shiny. His face is drawn so tight he almost looks like a different person. And yet, still so beautiful. Even in misery, Ilya is the quintessence of perfection.
After what feels like hours of staring. Ilya says, “You are not Shane.” He twists his face as the words leave his mouth, as if he cannot believe them himself. He shakes his head, breaking eye contact. “What am I saying?” He pulls his curls back from his face only to have them bounce back right after. “Of course you are Shane. So you are smoking, so what? Maybe you probably wanted to— wanted to try? It’s okay, moy malen'kiy prokaznik.”
“Ilya—.”
He’s pacing the length of the porch, shoulders hunched, hands gesticulating wildly. “You are acting strange because you got hit at practice. My fault. I should have insisted we go to team doctor. You are too— too bossy, too stubborn. You must always have your way.”
“Ilya—,”
“Maybe you are tired. Maybe you are—,”
“Ilya!” Hudson cuts off his rambling. He rises from the swing to stop Ilya’s pacing. Up close, he sees the terror in Ilya’s eyes. The subtle quiver in his jaw that forebodes his coming apart. “Ilya,” Hudson repeats, softer. “You’re right. I’m not Shane.”
“No.”
“My name is Hudson, Hudson Williams. I’m the actor who plays Shane on TV.”
Ilya’s face grows increasingly bewildered. “What does that mean?” He tries to pull back but Hudson crosses him again.
“In my world,” he holds Ilya’s gaze, willing him to believe. “I’m an actor and I play Shane. My best friend plays Ilya. You.”
“This makes no sense.” He punctuates it with some Russian.
“That makes two of us. I think— I think I’m dreaming and you are in it.”
“Is not a dream.”
“It’s just a theory. I slept in Los Angeles and woke up in Ottawa.”
“Let me amuse you. Assuming you are telling truth—,”
“Humor.”
His face scrunches up. “What?”
“It’s humor you, not amuse you. It’s an idiomatic expressi—,”
“What the fuck does that matter now, Hollander!?” He finally snaps. “It is same fucking word, no?”
“Williams,” Hudson replies calmly. “Hudson Williams.”
Ilya stares at him for a long time, nostrils flaring. He breathes in and out and pinches his brows. Hudson would choose this anger over the sadness he has been wearing all night. Ilya looks away then at Hudson again. “Fine,” he concedes. “Williams. Let me humor you. Let us assume what you are saying is truth, at what point were you going to tell me you are fake Shane?”
Hudson grimaces, pulling back. That’s a great question. Why did he pretend? The excuse of lying to protect Ilya seems stupid now. “I don’t know?”
“You were going to play Shane forever?”
“Not forever. Until I woke up or got sent back to my world. I mean, I play the guy for a living.”
“You are a terrible Shane.”
“Had you fooled.”
“You cannot play hockey!” He yells as if this fact is the biggest offense in this madness. “What kind of Shane cannot play hockey!?”
“The actor kind? Look, man, I had a stunt double on set.”
“I don’t know those words.”
“There’s like a dude that stands in when—,”
“Where is Shane?”
Okay rude. Hudson shrugs. “Dunno, probably somewhere around. Maybe in my world, living the life of an actor.” The imagery of neurotic Shane navigating Hollywood makes Hudson chuckle. “But I hope not.”
“This does not help me.”
“I know, okay. I'm just as confused as you are. I’m in a world where the only person I recognize is you. So cut me some slack. It’s been one crazy thing after the other since last night.”
Ilya lifts a brow. “Last night?” His eyes suddenly widen. “You have been fooling me since last night!?”
Hudson’s face burns when the implication of the question settles. “I’ve not been fooling you. I thought I was dreaming, okay! And I didn’t know it was you. The room was dark and I was drunk and I thought you were Connor—,”
“The actor.”
“Yes. We— uhm I crash at his place whenever I'm in Hollywood. I’m Canadian by the way so that’s one thing in common with Shane.” Ilya is unamused by his attempt to lighten the mood. “Sorry. When I saw you, I thought you were him.”
“Are you together?”
“No?”
“So why?”
“Uh, Mr. Ilya ‘hooks up with half the country and his archrival’ Rozanov. I don’t think you get to lecture anyone about casual hookups.”
“That was years ago.”
“Connor and I are just friends. We don’t—,” he makes a vague gesture and hopes Ilya understands it for what he's trying to convey. “Anyways, I was drunk and it’s Hollywood.” Whatever the fuck that means.
“You were not drunk this afternoon. You knew it was me.”
“I need a cigarette.” Hudson takes out another one from the pack and lights it up. Ilya watches, almost in horror and fascination as he blows smoke around them. Hudson turns away as he draws in nicotine and puffs out unhurriedly, hoping Ilya would move on from that question before they speak again.
After a while, Ilya sighs and sits on the swing. Hudson briefly debates his options. 1. Make an excuse and run away. 2. Pretend to drop dead and die. And 3. Sit and talk to the guy like a normal person. Ilya is bent forward, elbows on his thighs, and hands clasped in front of him. Hudson couldn’t possibly leave him all by himself so he squeezes into the space beside his fake husband. The swing sways once and stills under their combined weight.
For a moment, they say nothing. Muted music seeps through the heavy doors and crickets chirp happily in the dark. The stars blink down, coloring them in romance instead of the horror that this really is.
“I’m sorry,” Hudson breaks the silence to whisper. The butt of the cigarette dies slowly beneath his soles.
“Is not your fault. I should have known. I mean, I knew something was wrong. Anya loves you. She never barks at anyone but she attacked you today. You also ate pancakes. Shane is much better with food now but he eats clean on game days. I should have—,”
“Should’ve what? Nobody’s first thought would’ve been oh my husband is eating pancakes, this must be a version of him from an alternate universe.”
“You are sarcastic.”
“That I am.”
He runs a palm over his face, muttering in Russian. “I am worried about Shane.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“You do not know that.”
“He’s with Connor. Connor is safe. He’s like… he’s just Shane in your body.”
“So boring and handsome?”
Hudson laughs and is delighted when Ilya manages a small smile. “I wouldn't call him boring.”
“Hmmm.” He’s silent for a moment. Then, “Hollywood is fun?”
That’s one way to describe it. Hudson does not want to delve into the industry's intricacies so he simply shrugs. “Kinda.”
“You are famous like Rose Landry?”
Hudson has to laugh at the animosity with which Ilya says the name. “No, not as famous.”
“So you are not famous and you are bad at hockey.”
“Oh fuck you!” Hudson expects a laugh but Ilya purses his lips and looks away instead. Though not quickly enough to miss the shine in his eyes. “Hey,” Hudson presses closer, his entire side lined against Ilya’s. “Don’t cry. Shane will be fine.”
Ilya shakes his head. “Sorry. I just— whole day, I thought…I thought you didn’t love me anymore. I thought Shane is tired of boring life with me. Shane wants exciting life. Shane is changing. You—,” he pauses as tears roll down his face, chin trembling. “You looked at me differently. You did not say I love you.”
“Ilya.”
“You sound like him. You look like him. But you are not him. All day today, I held and made love to you but it felt—,” he moves his hand, fumbling for a word.
“Detached?”
“Da, that. I missed you when I was with you.” He wipes his tears. Smiles fondly. “I miss my boring Canadian. You are cute. Nice face. Beautiful freckles but you are not my husband.”
“Sorry. I uh— I’m about to tell you something. But promise not to freak out.”
“You are from different universe like Doctor Strange. I do not think anything can freak me out.”
“I don’t actually have freckles.”
“What does that mean?”
“In my world, I don’t have freckles so Shane is somewhere out there without freckles.”
Ilya gawps. “Okay, I can maybe freak out more. No freckles?”
“Nope.” He pops the p, happy that his distraction tactic worked.
“No hockey, no freckles, no husband. What do you have, fake Shane?”
“Hudson Williams.”
“Can’t remember name. Very boring. Very Canadian.”
“You really are an asshole.”
“Eh, sometimes.” He shrugs, smiling.
“At least you’re not crying anymore, crybaby.”
“Who is asshole now? You hit a man when he is on the ground?”
“Kick a man when he’s down.” Hudson corrects automatically.
“Who cares, Hudson Williams? You are maybe like Shane. You nag.”
Hudson is smiling so wide, his face could split open. “Ah, so you do remember my name.”
“Hard to not remember strange Canadian man who cannot play hockey, has no freckles, no husband but looks very much like my Shane.”
“Asshole,” Hudson says without a bite.
Ilya stares at him imploringly. He watches Hudson until his lips curl into another soft smile. “I think I will remember you. I have no choice.”
“Yeah, I’ll remember you too.”
“Of course you will. I am Ilya Hollander-Rozanov. Very good hockey player. I have a husband and I am very handsome.”
“I’ll let you have this one. Just because I’m nice.”
“Not so nice. You told reporters to fuck their mics.” Ilya lets out his first laugh of the night. “Shane will be very uh— potryasen.”
“Is that Russian for freaked out?”
“Hmm, something like that.”
“Sorry for ruining your boyfriend’s golden boy image.”
He shakes his head. “Is okay. Shane is secretly an asshole. Everyone thinks he is so good but not really. He swears a lot— not with your words but he does. He will not be happy but he will be glad that fake Shane said what he would have wanted to say.”
“It’s Hudson Williams.”
“Da, Hudson Williams.”
**
Ilya drives them home. The talk was sobering but Hudson falls asleep just about 10 minutes into the ride to the sound of slow indie music playing from the car’s stereo.
He rocks with the motion of the car so he senses when it stops. He registers the door opening and then a whisper of his name, “Fake Shane. Hudson?”
He groans. “Tired.”
He feels weightless as he’s lifted into strong arms. Hums as they escape Canada’s cold winter into the warmth of Shane and Ilya’s home. He floats like a feather up the stairs and lands gently into soft sheets.
His shoes come off first. Then his socks. Ilya hesitates on his belt buckle, looking up to meet Hudson’s eyes.
“May I—,”
“Take it off.”
His jeans are pulled off. Followed by his jacket and the shirt he wore underneath. An index traces the scar on Hudson’s shoulder.
He looks over his shoulder to meet Ilya’s eyes. “I got that from drunk-fighting some guy in a barn. There were cows and a vindictive rock.”
“What?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” Hudson yawns.
“Okay, okay.” Ilya pulls the covers up to Hudson’s chin. “Sleep.” Gentle knuckles trace the line of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
“Thanks, Ilya.”
“No problem. I would do same for any version of Shane.” He dips forward, pressing a kiss to Hudson’s forehead. When he moves to pull away, Hudson’s hand around his neck keeps him close. They hold gazes in the dark, breaths mingling in the tiny space between them.
“Ilya—,” Hudson doesn’t have to say much. Ilya gives the faintest nod and Hudson leans up, kissing him. This is neither passionate nor desperate like the kisses they’ve shared. It is slow. Bitter-sweet. It tastes like farewell.
“Goodnight fake Shane,” Ilya whispers.
“Night, fake Connor.”
**
When Hudson wakes up, he needn’t open his eyes to know he’s in Connor’s bed again. The first thing he does is lift his leg to see the ‘sex sells’ tattoo on his thigh. He drops the hanging leg and lies supine for a moment, relief washing over him.
Connor walks in just as Hudson starts to leave the bed, looking too fresh for someone who drank his ass off the night before. “How are you okay? It’s not fair.”
Connor pauses. Narrows his eyes. “Huddy?”
“Hmm?” Hudson presses the heels of his palms into his eyes to relieve the burgeoning migraine. “You won’t believe the dream I had.”
“Let me guess. You were Shane Hollander?”
He snaps his neck to watch Connor, wide eyed. “You had the same dream?”
“What?” He frowns. “No, Shane was here. He woke up, saw me, and had a massive panic attack.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“He knew I wasn’t Ilya right away.” Connor sits on the edge of the bed, directly in the spot where the morning sun flows in through the slightly cracked curtains. He looks fucking ethereal. “Just one look is all it took.”
“Must be the accent.”
“I hadn’t even spoken. After he calmed down, he said he was Shane. I thought you were maybe tripping on something but then he started speaking in French and Russian. So I believed him.”
“Was he cool?”
“He was a pain. He wouldn’t eat anything from my fridge and didn’t want to attend the Golden Globes either.”
“What? So I just didn’t show up?”
“No, I—,” he rubs the back of his neck. Shrugs. “I convinced him in the end.”
“How did I… he do?”
“Not bad. Shane is a celebrity. He knows how to handle attention. He was just more— Shane. Everyone thought he was doing a bit. Then I had to join in because Shane needs his Ilya, right? The people loved it but my voice box didn't."
“So what I'm hearing is you had a blast.”
“Oh absolutely. You? How was your thing?”
“My thing.” He scoffs. There’s so much he could say. Like when he dry humped Ilya thinking it was Connor, how he kissed Ilya too many times to protect his feelings, how Ilya got them off together on the couch. The kiss before he switched back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sticks to something simpler and easily digestible. “I had to play hockey. Professionally.”
“What?” Connor bursts into laughter. “How was it?”
“They called it a national disaster.” Connor’s laugh pitches higher. “Horror on the ice. I was a danger to both colleagues and fans. I believe it was announced that fans were to start wearing helmets to games.”
Connor laughs until tears stream down his cheeks.
Hudson smiles. Yeah, it’s good to be back home.