Work Text:
Is Rose Landry Dating NHL Star Shane Hollander?
It would be so easy. Ilya muses.
It would be so easy to bait the question at his next post-match interview - What do you think about your rival’s rumored relationship? - and feed hungry microphones a legendary soundbyte - Huh. Always thought Hollander liked Lilies more than Roses.
It would be so easy to send four dozen of himself in white to the Montreal locker room tomorrow night - To: HOLLANDER #24, From: YOUR LILY - and let the smoothest stems still prick prick prick at the recipient. Tiny, invisible wounds, inflicted until Jane remembers every fucking detail from Regina, Toronto, Vegas, Montreal, Boston, Montreal, Boston, Montreal, Boston.
Ilya Rozanov has always been as lethal as his skate blades.
Restless. Relentless. He knows he can carve through glittering ice and all things pristine: the fairytale of an A-list couple, the treasured innocence of a rival captain, the romanticism of a Rose. Fonts that form a headline, gossip on a page - no matter how bold or callous, he will keep gliding towards accolades no entertainment tabloid cares to cover, dodging the one spotlight he'd rather not pass beneath.
But a starlet’s name now stings him, its menacing thorns puncturing his grounded stalk. No, no, he will not fucking wilt now, not after years successfully weathering a patriarch's fury and a sibling's greed. No, this is simply a new rivalry away from the rink, where the sharpest strategy still triumphs, where the best swings still score.
Google: where to order 48 lilies—backspace backspace backspace backspace backspa—
Bitter pride interferes then, scolding how he should never be remembered by another moniker. “Ilya” embodies neither romance nor passion, but it embodies him: not a floral falsehood meant to disguise, but a truth whispered tenderly in Boston only weeks ago, only a precious once.
(How many times has Hollander already whispered her given name since? Caressed her delicate petals?)
He’s certain even his mother's favorite might have been Roses.
Irina. That first thorn of thorns. Perhaps, the coldness of her corpse is what had permanently frozen his fledgling roots. Perhaps, this is why he solely blossoms amidst the chill of hockey ice. Perhaps, such a stain is the reason a Lily opens towards the purest of Canadian souls, trumpeting taunts in daylight yet withering before him during penthouse nights.
Rose. Name aside, all beauty and warmth comprising a thornless paradox, resilient against wither in the darkest of hours. Between catalysts of mutual fame and Hollywood narratives, she’s half of an ideal match for the ages, four dozen red confessions a pure Canadian soul actually deserves. Beneath one headline, mere seconds become endless paparazzi shots of a relationship’s healthy, destined budding - no discretions necessary, no photo deletions required.
Ilya. Full discretion, full deletion. Another bud seeking those mere seconds of together, but left forever disoriented in the woods of sport, sponsor, and secrecy. Even as he skates free, blossoms wide, a constant winter entraps him within the forced boundaries of a rink. A joking interview response exposed as sincere, a locker room flower sender identified - these celebrated notions in a Rose’s world would detriment him instead. In the end, he only manages escape every few months, claiming fleeting ownership of noises as white as his petals, of moans gasped into sheets and skin.
Shane. Also a Boston truth whispered, only a precious once.
Jealousy? No, Russians do not do this. Any flower must be tethered to its species, stubbornly accepting of its fate. You will never be a fucking Rose, LILY - and thus, steadfast must he skate, unperturbed must he react, stronger must he grow.
But envy…envy is different. Permissible. No shame exists in coveting what one never possessed, in desiring what one never lost. Fuck, she can have him - no - she already has him, has always had him to start. Halting at the threshold of envy is how a withering Lily severs entangled stems, slows an inevitable demise.
Nonetheless, a caveat lingers, as both jealousy and envy breed disdain. It festers towards the sport that he lives for, but also the self that cannot mutate into another genus. Even if anguish converts to drive, winning The Cup once, twice, thrice imposes further silence to desire. From here on, the sole path points downward through a frozen surface, where he alone must haul the secrets of two young phenoms deep, deep into the soil of could-have-beens.
Within those merciless depths, it dawns that he would exchange it all: each goal for one more kiss, each victory for one more embrace, each record for one denied lifetime. This utopia empowers him to shake free of every prickling thorn. There is only the glittering gold of skin, not medals, for Ilya’s eternal worship; the unlikely choosing of him that melts, not waters, a Lily’s frigid roots.
Choose me, Jane.
Jane. A fabrication. A memory. An impossibility.
Ilya.
Ilya…
Frozen, he watches as familiar, calloused fingers elude him to collect a thorned red bloom.
Four dozen white flowers remain unsent, four lines of mediocre poetry stay unwritten.
Roses are red.
Rozanov is blue.
Lilies would've loved you better, Shane.
(I already do.)
[Fin]