Chapter Text
Ilya hates rest days. Hates laying in bed, waiting for the sun to move from one window to another. Hates the ashy mess of cigarette butts that grow in piles like fungus (on his bedside table, on the kitchen counter, on the patio).
Sometimes, on bad days, he watches old hockey tapes, rewinding footage of his sloppy shots on goal, bad edges, poor stick handling, over and over. He can hear his Papa’s voice. Lazy. Useless. It is a kind of fucked up lullaby. Comforting, almost. Familiar.
On really bad days, Ilya stares at his hands, flexing his fingers, half-convinced he might go transparent as a ghost. He knows something is wrong. That he is sad, probably. But only when he is alone.
At least now there is something to look forward to.
Shane. His boyfriend. Ilya could grin himself stupid just thinking that word. Boyfriend.
Shane is coming next week and it is not soon enough.
Ilya counts down the hours and, when he can't stand it any longer, he scrolls back through their text thread. It is nothing special. Little observations. Chirps from watching each other’s games. Good mornings and good nights. Ilya reads each word like he's unwrapping a gift, sounding them out in his head, slow as honey.
The problem is, Ilya is having a not-so-good day when Shane finally gets to Boston.
Okay, it is a bad day.
Okay, it is a very bad day.
Fucking horrible timing.
Because every second counts when they are together. Every millisecond. Ilya has never resented the regular season schedule so much in his life.
Shane is here, in his house, in his bed, and Ilya is stuck blinking through a world that has turned flat and dull. This has not happened before, when Shane was around. Ilya didn’t know this could happen with Shane.
“Are you –” Shane opens his mouth and closes it, humming low, like he’s trying to find the right words. He looks beautiful. He always looks beautiful, but especially now, flushed and disheveled, tucked under Ilya’s arm.
They’d had sex as soon as Shane stepped through the door that morning, both of them stumbling and hungry. It was over quick but Ilya was not embarrassed. 21 days since he last touched his boyfriend. 21! Days!
Frankly he deserved the Masterton for perseverance in the face of great, great struggle.
Afterwards, Ilya blew Shane in the shower. He hadn’t meant to, initially, but Shane had looked so good all wet and soapy.
They took a short break to eat (if you could call Shane’s gross smoothies “eating.” Ilya made himself a grilled cheese in protest), then they had sex again, this time in Ilya’s bed. They were still there, neither of them particularly interested in moving. Ilya was starting to overheat but he would sweat a million buckets if it meant keeping Shane in his arms.
“Am I what?” Ilya keeps his voice light. “Very handsome and talented? Best person to ever stick my tongue in your –”
“Ilya.” Shane snaps.
Ilya pokes Shane’s cheek in response. “Shane.” He tries not to smile. But it is so hard! Ilya can’t believe he gets to have this.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks plainly, propping himself up on an elbow. He uses that tone. The one that means he has finally made up his mind about something.
Ilya groans and rolls back onto his own pillow. He does not want to waste their time together having a stupid conversation. “Yes. Fine.”
Shane purses his lips. “Earlier, in the kitchen –”
“Oh my god, Hollander.” Ilya knew this was going to come up.
“When you said that thing about the belt –”
“It was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny,” Shane says, flat.
Other people do not find Russian humor to be so charming, it turns out. The Bears think Ilya’s jokes are “fucking bleak” but at least they usually laugh, even if Marly does sometimes squeeze Ilya’s shoulder a little too long afterwards.
“Was it your Dad?” Shane asks.
Fucking – fuck. Ilya bites back something cruel. Takes a breath.
He had dropped a cup in the kitchen. Glass scattered across the floor, shocking both of them. “Time to grab the belt, ah?” Ilya said, without thinking.
Ilya obviously did not mean it for real. It was something he and Sasha used to say to each other, if they did something wrong that they knew would make their fathers angry. Just silly, you know.
Shane obviously does not know. And Ilya is grateful he does not know. But it's also annoying because he is being very sensitive and Canadian about it.
“Yes, fine, I will not say it again.” Ilya waves his hand. He means for it to be dismissive. Shane clearly gets the message.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“You know what. Act like I’m crazy for wanting to make sure my boyfriend is okay.”
“Okay?” Ilya forces a laugh. “Hollander, we are setting new sex record. We are going to Olympic podium tonight. I will finally forget about Slovokia because I have a new, shiny gold medal in fucking.”
Shane pushes Ilya’s shoulder. “You’re an asshole.”
“You like it.”
“Shut up.” Shane says, which means yes, Ilya, you are my favorite thing in the entire world.
Shane traces the moles on Ilya’s back like constellations. Normally, this kind of touch makes Ilya's whole body come alive. Normally, Shane brightens every color in the room. Sharpens every edge. Today, Ilya is having trouble holding onto that spark.
“I know you think I ask too many questions,” Shane says, because he is a dog with a bone. A cute dog with very pointy teeth. “And it’s not just the belt comment, which, by the way, was not a fucking joke and we are going to come back to it.” Shane hesitates and then continues. “But it’s more that – you’ve seemed off lately. Distant.”
Ilya bites his cheek until he tastes blood. That is not fair. Ilya has never talked to someone so much in his life. “I call you every day. I text you every day. What do you want from me? Carrier pigeon?”
“Alright, Jesus,” Shane presses his thumb into Ilya’s shoulder where it meets his neck. “I’m not trying to start a fight.”
“Okay.”
“I’m just,” Shane chews on his lip. “Worried, I guess.”
“Yes, you are always worried, is your whole thing.” Ilya waves his hand. “Worry about yourself, yes? You are trailing me in the points race. Your second line is sloppy. You have bigger problems.”
In fairness, it’s not Shane’s fault that Montreal has no center depth.They rely too heavily on his star power for wins. Shane is a generational player, and he has dragged them kicking and screaming to 3 cups, but even he is not a miracle worker all the time.
Shane rolls his eyes because he is a wonderful boyfriend who, apparently, is immune to Ilya’s particular brand of assholery.
“We’ve been over this, Comeau is on IR, Theriault keeps fucking with the lines so our chemistry is off and, anyway, I know what you’re doing.” Shane moves his hand, pressing softly behind Ilya’s ear, scratching his fingers through Ilya’s curls.
“You are a mind reader now?”
“Pretty much,” Shane’s lips quirk. “You’re a tough nut to crack, Rozanov, but I’ve got your number.”
Ilya’s brows furrow. “You’ve had my number for years. What is this stupid expression?”
“Oh my god,” Shane laughs. “It just means, like, I’ve figured you out.”
“Ah, okay, very impressive.” Ilya wonders if Shane really has figured him out. If Shane can sense the deep, aching nothingness that sometimes opens in Ilya’s chest like a black hole. “So you know all my secrets?”
“Maybe not all of them.” Shane says this gently. He pauses. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
Ilya’s heart pounds. Because. Because...
Because there isn’t actually anything wrong. Or, if something is wrong, it’s that Ilya’s brain is broken. It’s that he doesn’t know how to let himself be happy. It’s that he is Russian, and he is doomed to expect something bad until the bad thing finally happens and he can say: see, I told you so, I knew this could not last.
Shane sighs, “Are you having second thoughts?”
Dread coats Ilya’s tongue, bitter and dry. “No.” He answers quickly. “Shane, no, that is not…”
“It would be okay,” Shane whispers, “If you are.”
“No.”
“We haven’t talked about the hard parts. Leaving your team. Moving to another country. Starting your whole life over.” Shane keeps scratching Ilya’s scalp in a steady motion. “Sometimes I’m scared you’ll resent me for it.”
“No.” Ilya says, again, firmly. “This is the plan. I want to do this. To be closer to you. To get Canadian passport.”
“You deserve better than a last place team.” Shane sounds genuinely regretful. “You’re incredible, Ilya. One of the best players in the world –”
“The best player,” Ilya mutters, but his heart isn’t in it.
“You can tell me.” Shane stares right into Ilya’s eyes. “If that’s what’s going on. We can figure something else out.”
“It is not about Canada,” Ilya sits up and pulls away. He misses Shane’s warmth almost immediately. There’s a damp stain on the sheets next to Ilya’s foot and he stares at the drying edges. “It is not about you. It is not…”
“Not what?”
“Anything.” Ilya finishes.
Shane sits up to meet Ilya. “You promised me. When we decided to do this for real. You promised that you would stop hiding.”
“I am not hiding!” Ilya throws his hands up and then scrubs his face roughly.
“Yes, you are!” Shane is properly upset. Ilya hates when Shane is upset. Still, this is maybe better than the gentle words from before. The quiet care Shane saves only for Ilya. The kind of care that pricks at Ilya’s skin like fishhooks, bleeding him little by little until he is pliant and raw. “I know I’m not very good at - like,” Shane makes a frustrated noise, “Emotions. But I’m not stupid, Rozanov.”
Ilya doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Just prods at the damp spot with his toe and breathes in and out of his nose.
Shane breathes too. Waits Ilya out.
Both of them are very stubborn.
“I am tired.” It’s maybe the only true thing Ilya can say. “I am…very tired.”
Ilya’s eyes feel hot and tight and he thinks please, no. Because if he cries, Shane will know that ‘tired’ is only a symptom.
“From your roadie?”
“Maybe, yes. But also,” Ilya searches for something else to say. He does not want to lie. “It has been hard. Keeping things from Marley. Not telling the team.”
“About us?” Shane asks. He seems surprised. Off balance.
“Ah, no.” Ilya can’t help the fondness that creeps into his tone. Shane is so bad at guessing. “About leaving Boston. They are going to be very angry with me.”
Ilya isn’t sure angry is the right word. But all the other ones he can think of are worse.
“Oh.” Shane scooches closer and drapes himself across Ilya’s back. Wraps his arms around Ilya’s chest. “Yeah, that sucks.”
Ilya snorts. His Shane. Who folds his clothes before sex and labels his food with purchase dates in neat black sharpie, and says “that sucks” to something that will rip out roots deep from Ilya’s chest.
“Yes.” Ilya says. “It does suck.”
“But you still want to?”
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says, kissing the back of Shane’s hand where it rests over Ilya’s heart.
“That’s not an answer.”
Isn’t it? Ilya never thought he could have Shane for real and now that he does – moving to Ottawa is easy, compared to the rest. Giving up Russia. Giving up his niece and his Mama’s grave. Keeping his love a secret when all he wants to do is talk about it to everyone, constantly, as loud as he possibly can.
“I am going to sign with the worst team in the league,” Ilya says, kissing Shane’s hand again. “And move to boring Ottawa, to do boring puzzles with your Dad –”
“You love my Dad and you love his puzzles.”
“And I will bring flowers to Yuna every day until she finally likes me –”
“She already likes you, Ilya, oh my god, how many times do I have to –”
“And one day we will get married at your cottage and adopt four dogs and when we retire I will get the name Shane Hollander tattooed on my chest so everyone will know you are mine.”
“You are not getting my name tattooed on your chest. You are not getting my name tattooed anywhere.”
“Yes, I think so, it will be very big and maybe underneath it will also say Hayden Pike is a bad hockey player –”
“You’re obsessed with him.”
“Am not!”
“You want to tattoo his name on your chest! You can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Blech,” Ilya sticks out his tongue. “Do not say this.”
“Should I be worried?” Shane teases. “Are you going to run away with him? Become Ilya Rozanov-Pike.”
“This is not funny.” Ilya leans back heavily, so they both fall into the pillows. Ilya flips quickly on top of Shane and pins down his wrists. “Say it is not true.”
“I don’t know,” Shane grins, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He is exquisite. The most beautiful thing Ilya has ever seen. “There’s a thin line between love and hate.”
“Oh?” Ilya stares at his boyfriend, aching with want and something deeper, something he can’t stand to think about. “What is this line? Why don't you show me.”
For the rest of Shane’s short visit, they don’t talk about the belt joke, or the hollowness behind Ilya’s eyes, or the the upcoming move to Ottawa. But when Shane leaves, he holds Ilya a little too long, and kisses Ilya’s head, and Ilya knows Shane hasn’t forgotten.
The Bears are confused when Ilya finally announces his departure. Some of them do get angry. Some give Ilya big, violent hugs even though it’s clear they feel betrayed. Connors brings Ilya homemade banana bread and a letter that Ilya can only read half of before his eyes get too blurry.
Marley is hardest. He doesn’t understand. He begs Ilya for a reason and when Ilya can’t give one, he still offers to help pack up Ilya’s house. It’s so fucking awful. Ilya almost tells him a hundred times. But then Ilya thinks of Shane, how scared he would be that someone else knew, someone in the MLH, and Ilya keeps his mouth shut.
Sveta is a little easier. She at least knows why. Not the whole why, but she knows it is for Jane. It has never mattered how far apart they are, anyway. Svetlana is his family. The only family he has left.
Marley and Sveta spend 2 days boxing up Ilya’s life, scowling the entire time, bonded in their disappointment.
In the end, there’s not much he wants to bring.
The pieces of himself Ilya does leave behind are pressed into the cobblestones near his favorite Ukranian bakery. Threaded into Sveta’s expensive, rust-colored sofa. Etched in the wood of the Bears locker room and stuck under the arena seats like old gum.
There is going to be so much time in the off season for Ilya to build his new life. To learn Ottawa. To be with Shane.
But Ilya is not made for rest.
He’s made to be a rocket, burning fast and hot. He is scared, a little, of what he will do once he stops moving.