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It’s 2AM and Ilya is awake.
Of fucking course he is.
He has tried everything. Dumb movies on Netflix. The news. A documetary, Penguins around the world. A tea, and then a chamomile. He has also googled the side effects of assuming these two together in the span of twenty minutes. He has filled his coffee table with origamis he has learned with his brother when he was a kid. He texted Svetlana only to piss her off, but she hasn't answered, probably asleep. He unblocked three new levels on Candy Crush. And now his TV is glowing with the probably fifteenth action scene for the night. Someone is shouting and shooting at someone else, windows are crushed, and there's probably a hostage situation. Ilya curses under his breath, unimpressed.
He still hasn't touched his socials.
They're everywhere. It's like the fucking plague (yes, he has watched that documentary, too). If he opens Instagram, dozens of accounts are drooling at Shane Hollander holding Rose Landry's shopping bags like a perfect, shining knight. Their photos are squashed on tabloids, threads, profile pictures. It's an epidemic of fan accounts for the golden couple of the year, updating on every single move, every article, every glimpse of their relationship spat out of a fairytale. And it's fucking January. Twitter is feral over them, filling the timeline with theories about their first meeting, photos of Rose in Shane's jersey, edits about their perfect paired faces, bets on when and how Shane will propose, coronating his career like everyone is expecting him to. A hockey phenomenon who has everything he could dream of, except for a wife to present as the WAG of the century. Shutting up all the women crazy over him, enlighting the jealousy of a whole continent.
Ilya almost pukes at that last bit.
It's a weird sensation, it really is. On one hand, Ilya smirks at the simple thought of no one knowing the truth. The real one. Shane Hollander, always polite and collected, his voice sure, sterne, star of Canadian hockey, probably the best player of their generation (and yes, that includes Ilya, even if he will never repeat it out loud), a work of art when he's on the ice, feeding the public with his perfect relationship and his perfect actress. Two faces made for the covers. They'd have the cutest kids, with Shane's freckles and Rose's straight nose- Again, someone on Twitter was really invested in this last possibility.
But no one except Ilya knows how prettily Shane moans. Not even Rose Landry, that's for sure, because Ilya likes to think, or maybe has to, that it's not the same thing. Objectively, it can't be. For various reasons. No one but Ilya knows how fast Shane gets wet, how his hips thrust, bounce, how easily his skin flushes, how it welcomes Ilya's nails. How loud he can get with the right push, how his left nipple is more sensible than the right, how he smells during sex, after. How tight he is, how hot, his body used to welcome Ilya like a nostalgic homeland looking at him from afar. Come back to me when you have time. Like Ilya has educated Shane to recognise his touch, fall for it like the first snow, unnoticed, silent, and yet inevitable.
Ilya's stomach tightens. His mind swings at how Shane's kisses are always slower when he's tired, or when he's still ascending from the orgasm. How his hands are always cold, and how they always slip under Ilya's back, seeking comfort. ''Five minutes'', he mumbles in Ilya's neck everytime, but they're always ten, even more. How Shane likes to rest with his cheek on Ilya's pec, or his stomach, slowing his breath, chasing his moles with his pointing finger, muttering numbers until he's lost count. How he snuggles under Ilya's arm after the shower, mindlessly kissing the inside of his elbow. How he always washes his hair, and then his body, because If shampoos sticks on my skin, I can scrub it away. How many times have they argued about that? How many times has Ilya made fun of him, before stealing his products, apparently to piss him off, but just to smell like him? In that way, Shane could have gone on the other side of the world, something would have still lingered with Ilya. For a bit, at least.
And it's all gone, now.
Because, on the other hand, somehow, exactly when he thought he was doing everything right, Ilya fucked up. He was so close- Shane sleeping next to him, watching TV with his head on his chest, eating in his kitchen, panting on his lap, coming with him, in his living room. No sex condos, no hotel rooms. Just the two of them, Shane soft and pliant in Ilya's clothes. If Ilya rewinds the evening behind his eyes, he knows where's the breaking point all too well. He dreams about it, and it's never a pleasant dream. He's never brave enough to hope there's a version of Shane who’s not afraid to slip in that version of Ilya. A version that doesn't freak out at Shane's name slipping out Ilya's mouth like a pray, a forgotten idol. A version that smiles, even laughs, smacking a kiss on his lips before messing around with him for being the first to give in. Secretly, Ilya himselft hought it would have been Shane, at some point. But he has never dared to imagine what would have happened. Looking at his life now, he was right not to, seeing how the memory consumes him every night.
There is no escape. Sleeping means dive in their best memories, the slow kisses, the long showers, the reverent lips, the sure, fervent touch of their hands, the heat of their skins, the sound of their laughs. Weirdly (Ilya know it's not weird at all), sex is always for last. No matter how it was mindblowing, and with Shane it was always like that. Ilya has been clearly a little bit obsessed, that's for sure. But as he said, that's all for Rose Landry, now. The actress is his living nightmare.
If Ilya is awake, there's no way he won't stumble in them at some point of his day. On socials, on TV, even through the chats with his teammates. And everyone can't fucking wait to hear his opinion. Because Shane is his rival, because Ilya should be programmed to talk shit about his life as nothing, because somehow a bunch of grown-ass men are all interested in the latest gossips. Because Hollander has always been private and discrete at the point of very unpleasant speculations (speculations that Ilya couldn't deny not even if he tried), until he showed up with his hot, famous, lovely girlfriend, shutting everyone up. Of course Hollander had to do everything better than everyone. He was already the best, after all. He was just waiting for the perfect girfriend. What had Ilya to say about it? Are you pissed Hollander has cleared one girl from your radar, Rozanov? Are you into actresses?
Strange question, considering that Hollander was riding him within a inch of his life last time they spoke. Not that it was everyone's business.
So, yes. Not Ilya's best times, that's for sure. Clearly, things between them are over. If there even was something to close. Judging how foolishly Ilya had prepared his house to Shane's arrival, there probably was. Subtle, under their skin, behind their rushed breaths. Without them noticing. It's not like Ilya has ever imagined another ending- That was impossible, for the both of them. They had to end things at some point. Ilya just... Well, he probably doesn't even know. Wanted a closure, maybe? Something real, something made of words, for once. Something clear. Something that, through the years, has probably switched from the need of knowing he was free when they were in the same city to You have to tell me you don't feel anything for me right in my face. If you are really letting this go, you have to take a fucking position. You have to use you mouth, your tongue, your voice, to swear there's nothing too big to close. Show me how easy it should be to shut the door on us.
Well. Ilya is notoriously known for not getting what he wants.
Anyway, it's probably time to get some sleep. Try, at least. Indulge in the memories before being torn away from them. Ilya turns off the TV, grabbing his phone, distracted, unfocused. Trying to decide if he wants a snack before bed, something he probably deserves. Like a Snickers, or some ice cream. Fuck, is he fourteen all over again?
He's still debating when his phone rings. Ilya’s first instinct is to curse.
Realistically, no one would call him at... Well, 2:17AM, now. That's why he's sure it's his brother, for a second.
He's ready to leave that unanswered, until he dares to look at the screen.
Ilya freezes, heart in his throat. Jane is calling him.
Jane. Shane’s calling.
Shane.
Shane?
They never call. Never.
It’s not like there’s a rule. Everything somehow settled between him and Shane has never been outspoken, it lingers between them, neither specified or written down, even. It’s just what they are. Hotel rooms, warm sheets, quick kisses. Invisible boundaries shaped like Shane’s name, apparently.
And on the other side there’s Shane. Not some casual hookup, some girl ready to call him out of boredom, just to give a turn to the night. Ilya could literally be called by anyone else, even his brother, and he wouldn’t be surprised. There would be a reason behind any other call, except Shane. Shane would never call him. Too risky, too explicit, somehow more explicit than everything else they’d ever done. And Ilya know what he’s saying.
It takes him three rings.
‘’Hollander?’’, and it sounds like he wanted to say it, sort of. How he rehearsed it, in view of the All-Star Game. Even if he can’t help noticing the slight thread of anxiety woven in his tone.
A part of Ilya is already panicking, fighting with all the possible scenarios, each one worse than the other. Maybe someone has find out about them and Shane is calling, barely handling it together— It would be hilarious, burning down his career and his life in Russia now that it’s over. Maybe something happened to Shane and Ilya’s number appeared as a frequently contacted. Is he still higher than Rose Landry? It shouldn’t be surprising. What are three months against seven years, after all? In this case, who’s on the other side? Who has just heard Lily speaking with a deep, foreign accent? Maybe Ilya just fucked up and Shane will be furious with him. His breath hitches. At least he will speak to Ilya, and he’s fucking desperate to know that they are both real, that he hasn’t imagined the warmth of his skin. Shane’s anger is Shane’s presence. He will make it work.
If he’s okay. If he answers.
Which, Ilya realises, still hasn’t happened.
Ilya shouldn’t risk it, but it’s too late for that, and he also, unfortunately, doesn’t care. ‘’Hollander?’’, he echoes himself ‘’Everything okay, yes?’’
Silence. A rustle, like something’s rubbing against the microphone. A giggle. Ilya frowns, looking at the screen: twenty-one seconds in the call. ‘’Hollander, you chose the wrong number? Is this a butt-dial?’’
Another giggle, now closer. He recognises Shane’s voice, and his back tenses. Is Shane Hollander really giggling in his ear?
A grunt, then a snort: ‘’I can’t. Mhm, have to control myself. No laughing. ‘M breaking the rules’’ he whispers, conspiratorial, voice still uneven, clearly holding back more laughs ‘’You can’t tell anyone!’’
Okay. Maybe Ilya has fell asleep watching Penguins around the world, and this is not even happening. ‘’Hollander, I do not have time for this. I should sleep. Do you even know who you are talking to?’’, he demands, inpatient. This is so fucked up. No matter in how long he will hang up, Shane’s voice talking to him after all that happened will follow Ilya up to his bed, right in his dreams. Even a single drop is enough to send his sea into a storm, inaugurating days of hurricane.
‘’Of course I do’’ it’s the slurred answer. Slurred. Shane Hollander as Ilya knows him would never slip on his own voice. Except during sex, of course, but that’s a different, almost unique exception, a sweet sound that Ilya intertwines with his own hands by Shane’s vocal cords. And definitely not the actual case. Shane’s voice drops to something crumpled, apologetic: ‘’Oh. Are you… Are you mad at me? Were you… Sleeping? Can you sleep?’’
‘’What— What does this even mean?’’
‘’You don’t, like. Um. Think about it?’’
‘’Think about what? Hollander. What is this even about?’’, but realisation is already creeping through his mind. Ilya looks in front of him with wide eyes: ‘’You are not drunk, are you?’’
That’s basically impossible. Shane doesn’t even drink, at least not that much. And he hasn’t played that night. No reason to go out celebrating some crushing victory. Shane hates clubbing, and even if he has been dragged into it, he surely hasn’t drank that much to get wasted. At least not on purpose. Not by his own decision. ‘’Hollander?’’ Ilya is almost sure Shane has been muttering something under his breath ‘’Where are you? Who made you drink? You are safe, yes? Who is with you, Pike? That asshole made you drink?’’
‘’You are mad at me’’, Shane whines, ignoring his questions. His voice is wobbly, weak, small like Ilya has never heard it ‘’You are, are you?’’, and it breaks on the last letters, like a wire finally snapping.
Ilya does not have time for this. It’s almost incredible, and frankly humiliating, how fast his anger has been extinguished by burning worry. Shane’s right, he should be furious. But that’s not Ilya’s priority, now. ‘’Hollander, are you listening, yes?’’, Ilya insists. He confusedly stares at his reflection on the window. When did he even got up from the couch? ‘’Where are you?’’, he repeats, stressing on every word with a careful pause.
Shane seems intentioned to ignore Ilya’s bleeding questions like’s a sacred mission. Just to make his heart dry out from paranoia, probably. The silence is broken by a sniff, followed by a gulp. Shane sounds now far from the phone:
‘’Rose. Rose, he’s mad’’, he moans in a strangled whisper.
Ilya’s body freezes.
It must be past 2:25AM now. The house is quiet like a secret, like the alcoves of a church. Churches such as Ilya knew them, back in Russia, cold, towering, unwelcome, and yet capable of a solid embrace, once you slided inside. The kitchen tap leaks a bit, pling pling pling of single drops of water falling in the sink. Something Ilya has planned to fix soon, now marking one second after another. The sound digs in Ilya's muffled brain.
Another voice steps in, further than Shane's. ''Oh, sweetie'', a woman. That can't be- ''What have you done?''
Shane's voice is equally far, now: ''What you told me! I was here, you where there, and we were talking, and you said-''
''I know what I said'', Rose doesn't sound mad. Or sad. Simpathetic, that's the word, probably. ''But I've also told you to wait. Wait until you sobered up, or until the All-Star game. You'll see him in two weeks, remember?''
That can't be right. Ilya, standing like an idiot in his own, slightly pathetic living room, in his slightly pathetic state, is not hearing Rose Landry, Shane's fucking girlfriend, pep talking him on facing Ilya about... About what? Rose Landry can't know about them. Shane would never be that stupid, considering that they are somehow over, considering that, again, that's Shane's girlfriend. The last person that should know about Shane seven year's sexual fling with his declared rival. The same fling quite hampered by Rose Landry herself. No, no, no, Ilya is definetely dreaming. Or maybe this is Hell.
The following conversation is clearly unaffected by Ilya being still on the line. '''M sober'', Shane disputes, slow. Probably with that concerned frown that makes him look like an angry kitten. Or even, with a slight pout on his lips.
Rose breathes. ''Okay. How many fingers am I holding up?''
A pause. Ilya has still his eyes pinched on the wall. Ridiculously, he's waiting, too.
Shane's answer is: ''Wow. Your nail polish is really nice.''
''Alright. Give me the phone now.''
What? She couldn't mean to-
Shane seems to focus for a second: ''I can't, Rose, he's mad, and he will never speak to me again.''
''Babes, he's probably really confused, now. Let me handle this for a second.''
''Will you convince him to forgive me?'', it's Shane's hopeful request, voice sweet as honey. He must be really wasted, that's for sure. There he is, Shane Hollander, star of Canada, asking his girlfriend to mediate between him and his ex... Situationship? Friend with benefits? Lover? Significant... Rival? Ilya is about to have a headache. Rose tries, voice patient:
''I'm on you side, and you know that. The phone, please? Otherwise'' she tempts after a pause ''Ilya will hang up and we will have big, big problem, isn't it?''
Ilya. For some reason Ilya has been sure sure that, even if Shane has been somehow able to admit his true preferences to Rose, filling her in with their pasts, his name was left unpronounced in the entire process. He still can't come up with a single reason why Shane has done what he did, knowing him so attentive, so scared of the consequences for the both of them. Telling his girlfriend he has been fucking a man for almost ten years is already a risk, even someone like Ilya can see that, but admitting that the aforementioned man is also his public rival on the ice, the guy everyone was sure Shane blindly hated, the one coming from a country with absolutely zero tolerance for homosexuals? That's something else entirely. Something neither Shane or Ilya would have done, not even tortured. And now Ilya is... In this. Even if the hows and whens are still unclear to him.
''Let's do this thing'' Shane whispers, voice unsettled ''Let's not tell Ilya, okay? You will speak to him, and you will be my... My spy! Yes, a spy. You have to tell me if he still sounds mad at me. It's easy. You can tell when Ilya is mad. I can. I can because he's always mad on the ice and never really mad at me, so. Actually- There's a difference between his pissed tone and mad tone and sometimes-''
''That sounds like a wonderful plan Ilya will never hear about. Let's just start, shall we?'', and then a quick sound, someone grasping something. Shane muffled hey!, somewhere. A shush. Ilya is still stuck on Shane's voice pronouncing his name with such an ease, even when last time that was exactly what broke them apart, when Rose greets him with:
''Finally, victory. He's really insistent when he's drunk, you'd never imagine, looking at him. Oh- This is Rose, by the way. Please don't hang up. I feel like we have a lot to talk about.''
Oh, they do? Ilya feels so blessed, all of a sudden. Yes. Rose Landry's presence in his life is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Couldn't you all notice? ''You know nothing'', he snaps, harsher than he meant. Maybe, or maybe not. He's back on the couch, knees at his chest, almost hugging his own legs, seeking comfort.
Rose doesn't backtracks at Ilya's animosity: ''I know I don't. I mean... Maybe I do, though? Shane has filled me in with the basics. Like, a hour ago. I'm new to the party.''
''What party?'', that's Shane.
''There is no party'', Ilya deadpans, jaw tight. ''I do not know why you know. And I do not care. You should. You are his girlfriend and you are talking to... Well. Me.''
There's a pause. Has Ilya just remembered Rose she's the one dating Shane? Who the fuck is trying to punish him from above?
''Actually'' Rose is really careful, now, voice reduced to a whisper ''We broke up tonight. Or, I broke up with him? I don't know. Shane came out to me, or maybe I convinced him to... Jesus'' Rose puffs ''The point is. I knew me and Shane were not... Compatible, we could say. And I also knew he was trying his best to fit with me, which is... Cruel. Really, emotionally cruel. He's a bit of a mess now. He has been for a couple of months. So I confronted him, and we broke up. Which means, no. I'm not his girlfriend anymore.''
Ilya doesn't really have a proper answer to that. Shane and Rose are not together, not anymore. Rose confronted him about it? Shane came out to her? Shane, who also happens to be a mess, recently? And what the fuck does compatible mean? ''You broke up'' he echoes, and he feels like his whole body is empty, a cavity filled with nothing but wind ''You... Tonight? Why?''
Rose chuckles at that: ''Oh, Ilya, you sweet boy. I think we both know the answer to that.''
Words fall out of his mouth and down to the floor, leaving Ilya speechless, like something's scraped mind and soul from his insides, tearing them away. And now he's empty and useless (Ilya sometimes feels like this, like he's just a hollow thing moving through someone else's life, pushing through as far as he can), and Shane and Rose are not together anymore, and he's implied in that, in the very equation, and apparently no one's mad, and his world is not burning down. ''I think I need more information'', it's his honest request. Rose probably steps away from Shane, judging by the sounds on the other end of the line:
''Of course. Well, there's not too much to add. I love Shane and he loves me, too, but probably not in the right way. Don't worry about me, I'm an actress. It's not my first rodeo.''
''Rodeo? Why do you talk about rodeos?''
''Right. Sorry, sweetheart'' Ilya has been pissed, just minutes ago, about Rose's endearements for Shane, but he's slowly realising that those are probably just a part of her, like her bright eyes and thin shoulders ''Linguistic barrier. Shane is not my first gay boyfriend'' she admits, pliant, quite amused, even ''And I don't think anyone's the problem here. It's just funny, you know? But we're not talking about that. I was saying: me and Shane care about each other, a lot, but there's probably nothing more there. I could've fall in love with him, if he gave me the chance. But when I met Shane... Well, now I know you two were already over, but I've always suspected something was bugging him. He needed a distraction. And you know how Shane is. Very easy to love, even if he probably has no idea.''
Ilya clears his throat: ''Yes. It is... Insecurity problem, I think.''
''You tell me. Anyway, you probably already know most of the interesting bits, since the world is apparently nuts over two people holding hands'', and that's the very first time Rose sounds actually pissed. Not because his ex-boyfriend is a professional closeted athlete emotionally involved with his rival, nothing like that. She has beef with The Daily Mail, though. ''But we almost acted as friends the whole time. Shane is a private person, and he has his ways to show affection, but I... Sensed there were some problems. You can imagine where they happened to be the most consistent ones'', and no, no, nope, Ilya won't hear a single word about any of the sex between Shane and Rose Landry. He would rather swallow a cactus.
''Yes, I can. Please continue.''
''Thank God'' Rose breathes a genuine laugh ''And... That's it, mostly. We had dinner today, and I tried to... You know, address the elephant in the room. Like, we both knew there was something wrong'', she supplies, and Ilya drops the weak attempt to ask for further explanation. He must be the elephant, then.
''In the beginning, Shane just admitted he liked men. That he had been with a man, and that it was better. And we were fine!'' Rose swears, quick ''Both, really. It was a bit emotional- Do you know when Shane doesn't actually cry, but he has those doe eyes full of tears? Because I felt like I was killing an infant. But after that things went smooth, and we were even laughing at the end of the... Well, date. You know what I mean. So, now we're chatting, I'm relieved, Shane is a little bit less miserable, and we decide to be friends. Like, bestfriends. And then I have an idea'' Rose pauses, then mumbles, now shy ''That, as brand-new bestfriends, we should've celebrate our... Our breakup'', she fills in a murmur. Ilya blinks:
''I do not understand. You were drinking to celebrate your breakup?''
''Yes! Because we were undeniably mismatched, as a couple, but we still wanted a day to remember our bond. And if all the couples celebrate their anniversary, I just thought that we could celebrate our breakup. Like, the day we finally understood what was our best form. And Shane kind of agreed- Again, he's not at his best. He needs distractions'', yes, distractions like that stupid club Rose dragged him into. Not that Shane has confirmed it to Ilya in any way, but Ilya knows he'd hated it. Shane is not made for clubs, not when anyone could push him, elbow him, spilling sticky drinks on his skin. He has a routine, for that, alcohol would probably mess it up and gross him out, that's for sure. They should've booked a VIP section, something with a couch and even a window, those rooms with muffled walls and a huge stock of water. Or Ginger Ale, even better. It's not that difficult to sort it out. Ilya would've done it in a blink of an eye, if Shane asked, even if knowing him he probably wouldn't have asked in the first place. Ilya is realising that most of Shane's needs he's aware of never came from Shane himself. He just observed because- Well. He knows why. Doesn't make it less terrifying saying it out loud.
Rose is still rambling in Ilya's phone: ''And you know, hanging out is becoming impossible, for us. It's like we're preys for bloodthirsty hunters. They'll be so pissed to hear about our breakup'', she assumes, voice smug. Like's a kid happy to scrawl the wall with her crayons, just to enjoy her mother's fury. Rose Landry must be a secret troublemaker. ''That's why we're at Shane's, now. And he's perfectly safe, by the way. I'm just a little bit tipsy, and he's close enough to his bed to collapse in it. I knew he needed a night to loosen a bit, and I'm still in town for a couple of days. He hasn't said a word about you, back at the restaturant- You know... It's Shane. But after a couple of glasses it kinda... Fell out of his mouth. He really needed to talk about you with someone, Ilya. He's been so sad, and... You know, when he started he was already a bit wasted. Of course he was, I perfectly understand why it could be impossibile to mention any of it otherwise. Do not be mad at him for that. He was careful enough to be at home, alone with me, and no one's heard a thing. I think you know better than me that Shane would have never underestimated something like that. He protects you like an exposed organ.''
Ilya lets her words sink in, navigating in them for a couple of seconds. Of course he's not mad at Shane- At least not about that. Quite the opposite, he understands. The need to unpack that situation with someone not involved in it, someone that could give a good piece of advice, a different point of view. This need frequently emerges in Ilya, that's undeniable, but it's cruelly suffocated by how difficult it would be for anyone to fly over the shock of Ilya Rozanov fucking Shane Hollander for seven years under everyone's nose. He doesn't want to talk about that, he doesn't want to explain something that belongs to him and Shane only. He wants to create this strange muppet that would only nod at the news before listening to him. Oh, yes, okay, you guys are having sex. Cool. So what's bugging you? No question about his sexuality. God, no questions about his nationality. No questions about Shane, how it happened, when it happened, how they arranged it every time. No you are supposed to hate the guy bullshit. No you spent seven years pissing him off. No you barely talk to each other. Ilya is sick of people automatically melting him with the athlete, until there's nothing but a deformed bulb of skin and hard feelings. Like Ilya's not anything else. Or he has to explain why he's anything else. Including why he sometimes slips in his rival's bed, praying in the back of his mind that it will be enough for his longing, starving heart.
''I am not mad'', he manages to say, voice even, after swallowing saliva. Rose seems relieved, too:
''Good. Good, that's... That's good. Shane is still kinda private, so I had no details. Unfortunately, I mean... I was curious'', this is the strangest night of his life ''But he started spilling, and I hadn't the heart to stop him. He seemed so eager to talk about you. I know how long you've been seeing each other. And I also know how he fucked up last time- Don't start'' Rose insists, probably hearing Ilya taking a breath ''He fucked up. You organised a night out without Shane even realising. He had no idea even while he was explaining it to me.''
Whatever. ''Oh, Jesus, thank you.''
''Yeah, I know you needed to hear that. That's why I told Shane he'd fucked up, and I suggested to talk. You know, properly. About what the fuck you two are doing, for example. Feelings and thinking involved. I mentioned the All-Star Game as the perfect occasion, but he started talking nonsense about calling you right on the spot, becase he was single now and he needed to let you know, because you two had to fix it and such... I thought I'd colnvinced him to give up on it. Time to use the bathroom, and he's doing his most desolate voice to talk to you. Which is completely unappropriate for the situation you two are in. I apologise. I should’ve been a better guardian'', she sighs, probably shrugging. Ilya himself can't believe what he's saying:
''You have nothing to apologise for. Thank you for talking to me.''
''Oh, babes, don't say that. If Shane had me and he was like that, I can't even imagine how the last months have been treating you. You knew nothing about us, did you?''
''Only from tabloids and stuff.''
Rose spits, sour as a lemon: ''Just shit talking, then. Well, I'm still sorry. I should've stopped him-''
Shane's voice comes back, not exactly close: ''Stop who? Is Ilya out?''
''Sweetie, I think that's impossible.''
''No! I mean... Out of his house. Like... Under the sky. In a park. With, mh, someone. I don't know.''
''Aren't you cute? You should be always drunk'', Rose coos, now tender ''For your own good. No, baby, Ilya's home. Are you?'', she double-checks, after a pause.
''Ah, da. Yes. Home alone. A little bit miserable.''
''A match made in Heaven, you two.''
Ilya is not really sure to know that expression, but he likes the sound of it. It dances of Rose’s tongue like a possibility.
Shane’s voice interrupts again, shy: ‘’Um, Rose?’’
‘’Yes, Shane? Are you tired?’’
’’A bit. A bit, but… Are you—‘’ his voice drops to a whisper ‘’Are you doing what I’ve asked? Is he mad?’’
Something dangerously close to Ilya’s heart cracks at how Shane’s voice sounds so wobbly, mortified, wounded. Like he’s bleeding somewhere intimate and hidden, a deep cut leaking in his lungs, his throat. Rose clicks her tongue, before sweetly answering:
’’No, dove, not at all. Maybe a bit tired, too.’’
’’Tired? Oh. That’s bad, isn’t it? Even if he’s always a bit tired—‘’
’’Shane—‘’
’’You should scrap his head. It usually works—‘’
’’Baby, Ilya’s—‘’
’’And why is he even awake? It’s late late.’’
‘’Probably because you’ve called him out of the blue, you delicious menace’’ Rose presumes, before Ilya hears something close to a soft kiss. Shane now slurs, sounding more relaxed: ‘’I love forehead kisses. It’s like you’re kissing my personality.’’
’’Because I am, love. Now that’s what we’re going to do: I’ll leave you to Ilya, alright?’’
’’Ilya? Like, he’s here?’’ and isn’t that pure hope spilling from Shane’s voice? ‘’Here, now? He’s not mad and he surprised me?’’
The distance between Boston and Montreal is 318.2 miles. Ilya has googled it, when him and Shane still had things going on, one night he was feeling particularly lonely. He was not missing Russia, and he was not missing his friends, he wasn’t even missing his old life. He was missing Shane, and he knew it. He needed to know how much space there was between them. How impossible it was to fill it, how they were separated by houses, roads, highways, neighbourhoods. It made it for him easier to breathe. Letting that space dividing them allowed Ilya to deceive himself that Shane wasn’t even real, but something he made up in his mind to feel less empty, to direct his affection to a name, a purpose. But it was too far to be something Ilya could hold into.
He’d sell his soul on the spot — tired, crumpled, maybe corrupted as it is — to erase all those miles right now. Just to be able to grab nothing but his jacket and his keys, driving ten minutes and personally guiding Shane to bed, whispering in his hair, kissing the nape of his neck. They would’ve made up things ages ago, maybe without the need to have any Rose Landry in the picture. His hands are tingling with need, now. A voice just keeps chanting in his mind there’s no one else who should take care of Shane.
Rose’s voice is serious, now, almost sorry: ‘’No, Shane. He can’t, remember? He’s still in Boston. He’s here, though. On the phone.’’
Silence. ‘’Yes’’, and Shane fucking sniffs, embarrassed, words tiny and tinier in his mouth ‘’Of course. That was stupid. I thought… That was stupid, sorry, he’s not here, of course, sorry’’, why’s Ilya not there? What’s hockey, his career, his own life as a living being, if he’s not next to Shane right now, shushing away all that sadness with his kisses? This is so unfair he might go crazy. He’s never been more aware of the emptiness of his arms.
’’I know, baby’’ Rose coos, clearly holding Shane’s attention ‘’But he’s on the phone. I’ll leave you two alone, okay? We’ll have lunch tomorrow and I’ll laugh of your remarkable hungover. My treat, bunny’’, she promises. The sound of another kiss: ‘’Here. More forehead kisses just for you. Goodnight, love. Let Ilya take care of you, yes? I’ll call you tomorrow. Time for bed. Hold here.’’
’’Bye bye, Rose. I’m so happy we broke up’’, it’s Shane comment, before a small chuckle. His voice is clear, now; he must have the phone back in his hands.
‘’Me too, hon. Bye Ilya’’, she adds, higher. Ilya’s voice is hoarse:
’’Bye, Rose. Thank you.’’
Steps. A distant sound of someone grabbing things, then closing a door. For just a couple of seconds, both men stay in complete silence. Shane is the first one who breaks it: ‘’Ilya?’’, he calls, unsure. And yet, his name rolls on Shane’s tongue like an ode. Exactly like the first time. ‘’Are you really there?’’
Ilya has two roads. Either he firmly guides Shane to bed, without giving in for shit, talking the strict necessary to secure him before hanging up, or he just spills his heart through his phone, hoping it will be enough to have Shane back. If he ever had him in the first place. If he could hope to have him now.
Well. It’s 3:07AM. And Ilya is tired of pretending. He’s been for a while.
’’Shane, lyubimiy, were you not using your pretty head tonight?’’ he basically purrs, while he start walking to his own kitchen ‘’You eat like bird, kotik. You cannot handle alcohol, you do not even like it.’’
‘’I know’’ it’s Shane’s weak response ‘’I hate it. It burns my tongue and makes me sleepy.’’
‘’Yes, that is usually the outcome, sweetheart.’’
‘’But I was with Rose, and we wanted to celebrate, now that we are both much happier as friends, and I… I wanted a bit of courage’’ he admits, dismissive ‘’To talk about you. I needed to, Ilya, sometimes I feel like it’s all in my head. Like I have imagined everything, even what you said to me.’’
Shane feels like that, too? This means Ilya is not as alone as he thinks. Shane’s with him, and apparently they’re both really stupid. ‘’And’’, Shane adds after a quick breath ‘’And I also wanted to apologise for what happened at your place. It was so messed up, Ilya. I had no right to run away, it was childish and unfair and sometimes I dream about how disappointed you looked and I almost throw up, I really do.’’
Oh, great. Ilya is apparently not as nonchalant as he hoped to be. It’s a night of great revelations. In the meantime, he’s putting the kettle on in his kitchen, gestures almost absent. ‘’We will talk at the All-Star Game, yes? You are tired, now. And drunk. This is not fair, you should be in control of what you say. We will have time.’’
‘’But I wanted to—‘’
‘’Shane. I am telling you that we will talk. I will not run. Before meeting at my place, I was messed up, too. I screwed up a lot of times. Remember Vegas?’’
There’s a sudden hurt in Shane’s voice that Ilya should probably investigate soon: ‘’Um, yes. I do.’’
‘’I know. That was bad, too. But you are so good and patient with me and you always come back, even if I do not deserve it. We will also talk about that, if you like to, but not now. I need you to know that I am not mad and I will not avoid you in Tampa. Okay?’’, well, maybe he is mad, a bit, and he’s sure Shane is, too, and that he will understand his reasons once he’s sober. Trying to explain his bitterness right now will only make things worse. ‘’Now, do what I say, yes? I will make you company while you go to bed, but I need you to do something for me first.’’
‘’You are really not mad’’, Shane murmurs. He sounds mesmerised. Then: ‘’I still have you?’’
God. Since 2009, probably. ‘’Of course. Now’’ Ilya himself grabs his mug with one hand, sipping his chamomile ‘’Go to your kitchen. Can you walk, yes?’’
“Yes. Walking is actually quite fun” Shane begins to explain before a groan “Uhmm. The room’s spinning. ‘S like being on a… Dunno. Mental rollercoaster.”
Ilya is about to drop on his knees, face in his palms. Montreal could be on Jupiter, for what he knows. The distance is now physically reaping his back out of his flesh. He goes for a sip of his mug instead: “Please, moya dusha, careful. Hold onto something and walk really slow. You just have to grab crackers and some water, and we are done, yes? That is all.”
“‘Kay. I’ll do it right now”, he swears, slurring a bit. Muffled steps fill Ilya’s ears, before a thud and a sweet moan. “Mhm. My fridge is cold. I like it.”
“Shane. The water, please.”
“One second.”
“Now.”
“Alright, you grumpy thing”, it’s Shane’s weak insult, before presumably opening the fridge “Okay. Water. You said water.”
“I did. One big sip and you will feel better.”
Silence. For just a couple of seconds.
Then: “Um, hey, Ilya?”
“Yes, sweetheart, still here.”
“I know we said I needed water, but, uhm… The ketchup label is really cute”, he swears, shy. Ilya lowers the empty mug in his sink, biting back a fond smile:
“Baby, you can’t drink ketchup to fight alcohol. You will just feel nauseous and even more sick, later.”
“But there’s a tomato on it. He’s winking at me.”
“I am sure it is just a nice picture. Tomatoes do not wink. And ketchup is not drinkable, I am sure. Let’s stick to boring water, yes? Not too cold, please. And crackers.”
“Water and crackers, yes. I can hear. I have ears. Didn’t you know?”
“I do. Very pretty ones.”
A pleased sigh: “You think that?”
“I think you should grab that water for me, now.”
Soft, obedient sounds picture in Ilya’s mind Shane moving through his kitchen, adorable and tired as he is. Not too long after, a crispy rustle, then a bite: “I’m eating”, Shane announces, mouth full. Ilya chuckles, meeting his bed with the back of his knees. Shane Hollander would never speak with food in his mouth. He must be really out. He should consider getting wasted together just to enjoy the full experience; maybe Shane is also clingy and needy as he sounds.
“Good, you are so good, Shane. What were you even drinking to be this drunk? I suppose you do not have great… Mh, how can I say? You get drunk easily.”
Shane doesn’t pick up on Ilya’s sweet fooling around, falling silent all of a sudden. He probably eats another cracker and drinks a bit before saying: “Remember the vodka we had in Vegas?”
“Shane Hollander. Did you just drink exquisite Russian vodka without me?”, he gulps, trying to sound wounded. Shane almost panics:
“Not because I didn’t want to do it with you! But, you know… We didn’t kiss. In Vegas. I like to sip how your mouth was supposed to taste that night.”
Ilya’s heart is abruptly divided in two by a cold, bitter knife, ready to twist in his weak muscles. You fucking idiot. Look how miserable you got him. How can you deserve something like that? “Moy angel, I will bring one in Tampa, promise. Just for us, da? We will have a glass and then I’ll let you kiss me the whole night. No” he corrects himself, realising how that last sentence sounds too much like indulgence, hypocrite concession “I will. I will kiss you until your lips are sore. And then some more, until you beg me to leave you some space. I will whine and protest, but I will listen to you.”
“Yay”, Shane beams, and Ilya can finally hear a smile in his voice “We have plans!”
“We do, yes. Are you done eating?”
”Almost, yes. If I keep being good, will we have sex again?”, it’s Shane’s unexpected question. Ilya blinks, not sure how to answer to that.
He goes for what his heart whispers is the best way: honesty. A word Ilya always used to reject, when he wasn’t too busy twisting it as he pleased. “Of course” he lets go, voice hoarse “I mean… It is really not up to me. You ran way. I can’t know what you want.”
“Mhmm” Shane seems to weight his words carefully “You’re right. I do want the sex, though” he resonates “In fact, um. I want much more than that. It’s like we’re playing cards and I’m trying to grab everything there’s on the table until I can. I know there are rules and that is really easy to fuck all up” he slurs— He’s been doing so since the beginning, really, and Ilya keeps frowning more and more, trying to hear him even before translating “But it’s better than giving up. And… And sometimes you’re my opponent, Ilya. You really are. You stole cards. You hide them. You say the game is not even that important. And I always believe you, I’m always compliant.”
“I know. I know, I am sorry.”
Shane’s voice is wobbly all over again: “I’m not even talking about cards, Ilya.”
“Yes. I know that, too.”
“‘Kay” Shane sounds relieved in his upcoming tiredness “That’s why I ran away months ago. I was ready to have it all. I wanted all. It terrified me. But knowing there’s a version of me who doesn’t have you sounds worse. It makes my hands itchy. Doesn’t matter what I get, Ilya, I want the cards, okay? All the ones I can get. I don’t care if you don’t agree. I mean— I will, eventually. But I will… Mhm. Probably fight first. Verbally. Hitting you with my… Words. Not too hard—“
“Shane. It is okay”, Ilya’s voice is cruelly tight and fuck, why is his vision blurred now? “I told you we will talk. I want all the cards, too. And I have already seen a version of you that does not belong to me. It was actually everywhere.”
“No! No, no, no, Rose is not like you. Nothing is like you—“
“Okay. Okay, I told you we have time. I need you to sleep now. Please, grab your water and another pack of crackers. Go to the bathroom and wash your face. I will talk to you in the meantime.”
“Yes. I like that. Your voice’s sweet.”
“It is your fault, moya dusha. You make me weak man with candy heart. You could even bite it.”
“No biting” Shane forbids, intransigent, while cautious steps drop through Ilya’s phone “I need that. I’ll keep it safe. I’ll even give it little kisses”, he punctuates with a smoochy sound.
“Yes, you will very soon. Only if you wash your face. Put me on speaker and let me hear you.”
’’’M so happy you’re not mad at me.’’
’’I know. Now you need some sleep. Wash your face, you’ll feel better. Take some medicine from your nightstand’’, because Ilya just knows it’s there. It’s one of those things Shane said to him through the years without even thinking. Without even imaging how Ilya would’ve stored them in a mental box, together with all the minor details he could grasp about Shane’s life. He’s been living with crumbs since almost ten years now. I’ll never know how your bed smells, he used to repeat to himself, but I know where you put your medicines. How you organise your fridge. Why you don’t have plants in the living room. The colour of your new rug. If this is the closest I’ll ever be to you, God, allow me to remember.
‘’How do you know about the nightstand? Are you sure you’re not here?’’, Shane inquires, curious. Ilya huffs, spread on his own bed, one knee bended:
’’I am not, unfortunately. I just remember everything you say to me. Have you washed your face? With cold water?’’
’’Yeah. I feel a little bit better. Like my face has been scraped.’’
That doesn’t sound either pleasant or relieving, but Ilya doesn’t question it.
Shane must have been slipped in his bed, because everything now is muffled and quiet. Ilya can almost picture the duvet, the pillows, how Shane’s head pops out, a pool of black hair on the white covers. He checks the time: 4:01AM. They both should be long asleep, but Ilya is too aware of how he’s not with Shane. How his arms are empty, his bed cold, ungrateful. It’s not even logical, considering that Shane has been there just once. That’s probably what Ilya finds so unfair. You didn’t even give your scent the time to linger. Why are you so afraid to leave yourself behind to me? But he can’t tell him that now, it’s unfair. Shane is vulnerable and tired, probably unreasoning.
‘’Lyubimiy, I need you to sleep now, yes? I need you to rest those pretty eyes of yours. You will feel a bit sick tomorrow, but you can call me. I will make you company again.’’
’’No’’, Shane whines, breathless ‘’Don’t hang up. Please, please, stay with me.’’
’’Of course, moye serdtse. I will not leave until you are completely asleep.’’
’’Good. Good, yes. Okay. I like that’’, a sigh ‘’I can close my eyes and pretend you’re here next to me. It is so sad’’, Shane admits, voice small ‘’When I need you and you’re not within reach. I wish you could live in the palm of my hand.’’
‘’Yes’’, has swallowing always been so hard? ‘’Me too. I could have you all for myself, everyday. Hide you from everyone. I’d forget about the world to have you’’, and he has to say it in Russian. He’s weak, tired, and on top of it all even a coward. He’s perfectly aware of how he can express himself in ways Shane can’t reach.
But Shane has always had a talent to surprise him in the most unexpected ways. ''I like when you speak Russian to me’’ he whispers, sounding sleepy ‘’You have that tone. I don’t scare you anymore. It almost looks like you could actually love me, somehow.’’
Ilya stays perfectly still, breath stuck in his throat. He knows that Shane’s not reasoning right now. He also knows that saying that Ilya might love him doesn’t mean that Shane loves him in the first place. But most of all, he knows that there’s a part of him — a part of Ilya who’s still thirteen, somehow and forever — that only needs to be loved. Unconditionally. Loving, for Ilya, has always been a synonym for loss. He loved his mother, and she killed herself anyway. He learned how to love his father only when it was too late, when Grigori acted like Ilya himself was a memory. A memory. Something caged in his head, that truly doesn’t exist anymore. The only space where he was able to love his own son.
Shane could be different. Shane could be able to fill, for once. Not that Ilya has any intention to let all of that weight on Shane, of course. He could never; it’s nothing it’s up to Shane to fix, even if he could. No, it’s not about that. It’s about being tired of engraving hollows in his flesh, in his soul. Tired of losing pieces along the way.
‘’We will talk’’, it’s the only promise he’s able to whisper, now that Shane is drifting away ‘’I swear, moya dusha. I will not let you run again, if you do not want to. I will keep you all for me. If I am lucky enough.’’
’’You already are’’, Shane mutters, sounding almost gone. A minute goes by in perfect silence. Then: ‘’Ilya?’’
’’Yes, moya lyubov’?’’
’’At the All-Star Game… Hm, Can I… Can I sleep in your room?’’, it’s Shane’s shy request ‘’Not like… We can do something else, but I need… I need you close. I know how it is to sleep without you, ‘m doing it now. It’s sleeping with you that’s starting to fade. And I hate it’’, Shane admits, and it sounds like he’s about to cry again. Ilya shushes him:
’’Please, Shane, moy angel, do not cry now. Of course. We will sleep in the same bed.’’
’’In your room’’ Shane underlines, voice pinched ‘’In… In your room, okay? Want the covers to smell like you.’’
’’Okay.’’
’’Swear.’’
’’On my life, Shane.’’
’’No!’’ Shane gulps ‘’That’s too much. Swear on… Dunno. The Stanley Cup.’’
Ilya chuckles: ‘’Alright. I swear on the Stanley Cup, is it good for you, my love?’’
Oops. Definitely not Russian. Shane lets out a dreamy breath, before murmuring, clearly in awe: ‘’Okay. Can’t wait to see you. I want those kisses.’’
’’Yes. They are waiting.’’
’’Hold them, then! For me’’ Shane adds, before a yawn ‘’Okay. I’m really tired. Goodnight, Ilya.’’
’’Goodnight, solnyshko.’’
Shane is asleep within five minutes, but Ilya hangs up in thirty. Ilya dozes more than a hour later. This gives him three hours of sleep, more or less, before his scheduled morning practice. It’s his best hockey in months.
And he has never slept so good.