Work Text:
Svetlana isn't a fool, despite what the world has murmured into her ear as soon as she could speak.
She has known for years about Ilya's Jane.
She has kept the secret curled up under her tongue, has kept it warm in her ribs, has carried the tiny flickering flame of hope with her eternally.
Ilya, she knows, is not one who wants openly. Oh, he is a performer; his big, bright eyes and his well-known smirk and his ceaseless chirps and his showmanship.
But he is so quiet, so guarded with his actual needs.
And yet, despite that, Jane has lingered.
How strange, she can remember thinking the first time she caught sight of the text chain. Such a plain name to have captured the crushing attention of Ilya Rozanov.
An unkind thought, she knows, but one that is truthful nonetheless; Jane has become a near-constant ghost, a shining speck amidst the darkest nights, and in the glimpses she has gotten of their texts, the most common complaint leveled against Jane has been one of boring.
It is good, though. She can't think of someone who needs it more. Who deserves it more. For so long, she's hoped for Ilya to have a safe, sturdy dock to climb upon. And she's tried to be it, but he couldn't ever unlatch that final piece of himself.
And she can't hold it against him—could never.
For all his bravado, he is so soft inside, so willing to be hurt rather than strike first with those who actually matter.
She can remember when they were children, when she was leading him into thickets and up trees and out onto the ice, before the world had created a perfect storm, before they had tasted the sorrow of grief; her hand was always in his.
Her hand will always be in his.
She loves him, her sólnyshka; her eternally burning star in the sky.
She hopes that one day the world will be kind enough for him to open himself; she wants nothing more than his happiness.
But it is no surprise to her that he has managed to find his other half in hardship, in a storm of agony; love has always been the thing that has guided him through.
It's what brought him back to Russia, year after year. It's what kept them together, even when they were continents apart, when she would wake up to a text from him, or his hand on her hip, or her legs tossed over his.
She would worry about him breaking off pieces of his heart if she did not know the truth of the matter.
How easy, it is, to see once she starts looking.
How clearly Jane can become Shane.
Boring, beautiful Shane Hollander.
Ilya, of course, has said nothing.
But she is no fool.
All it takes is for her to watch Ilya's face as Shane Hollander lies, deathly still, on the ice.
Abruptly, everything clicks into place.
Her heart cleaves in two, any hint of anger at the secrecy fading as she watches his face; what a secret to hold for years.
She reaches for her phone.
is he okay, she types out, and then deletes. he will be okay, is also quickly cleared.
The cursor blinks, mocking her.
i did not like the look of that hit, she slowly texts. marleau should be ashamed. i—
She pauses, staring at her words. i, what? i hope you can go see him? i am sending him well wishes? i know?
No, they do not fit. Ilya will take no comfort in cold words now; she can only hope he will not be set adrift by this.
She deletes the i and sends the other text, her stomach tightening as the broadcasts roll back to the hit, to the way Hollander splays put across the ice, unmoving as medics rush to him.
She would not like this either way, as there is nothing satisfying about seeing someone sprawled across the ice—no, she likes the fights when they are bloodied and rough, when all can give all they can. But this is worse than that; this is Jane.
She watches the rest of the game half-heartedly, her fingers sliding over her phone restlessly.
The cheek kiss at the All-Star Game. The flightiness with Montreal mentions. The simmering tension that would build over the course of their summers together, more so than just the usual family discomfort. The slow anger at the name Rose Landry.
By the time the game has ended, she's sick to her stomach.
She cannot love Ilya any more than she already does. He is in her heart permanently, never to be cut out.
She almost wishes she could be mad at Shane Hollander for what he has done, but she has caught the softness in his eyes, too.
How stupid they are; she despairs of the idiocy of men, before she lets herself remember that it is only through obliviousness that they have not been caught.
Her phone chimes.
it was a dirty hit, Ilya texts. She can feel the icy anger in those words, the sharp scorn in the Cyrillic letters. marleau has been made aware of my general feelings on it.
i hope he is better soon, though i doubt he will be able to play anytime soon, she writes out, wincing at the bluntness of her words. But she would not be shy about this if she did not know, and she doesn't think that he would take too kindly to it now, if she were to admit her suspicions. he is a good player.
yes, Ilya says immediately. the best.
Her heart clenches.
I love you, she wants to say. I miss you. I have hope. Believe for me that you will be okay, as I believe for you.
you are a good captain, she says instead. i am proud.
It's a sign of how shaken he is that he doesn't respond with an eyeroll, instead just leaving her on read.
She clicks out of the text chain, scrolling through her contacts mindlessly, before she realizes she's looking for someone who could give her Hollander's hospital room number, just in case.
It would not be too suspicious if she were to send the Shane Hollander flowers, would it? No, she cannot imagine it would be—but she doesn't want to add anything to their plates.
She snorts at her own thoughts, closing her phone and tossing it to the side to rub at her eyes.
Christ, but being friends with Ilya is exhausting. She cannot say half of what she knows, and she cannot act on any of what she suspects, and somewhere in a hospital, Ilya's heart is in pain.
She would say that he's lucky she loves him, but she knows the truth.
She is lucky to have him. She'll always be lucky to have him.
She picks her phone back up, scrolling until she finds the blurry picture of the two of them at the All-Star game.
Ilya, grinning into the cheek kiss. Hollander, blushing and beaming, his whole face crinkled up. Love, as close to the surface as she's seen on Ilya, is clear between both of them.
Somehow, she doesn't think she needs to tell Shane Hollander that he's lucky to be gifted with Ilya.
But that doesn't matter.
She is going to anyway.