Chapter Text
Shane, July
Shane had spent most of his childhood expecting to never see his soulmate’s name on his chest. Everyone knows that for whatever cosmic reason, the name of the person who completes you can only show on your skin once you realize that you love them. Shane just doesn’t think he has it in him, to love like that. He thinks of meeting some woman and waking up to his name on her chest, and her name on his, and he feels sick. Everyone has a soulmate, but not everyone loves their soulmate. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out like that. Sometimes people start out with names over their hearts, and are doomed to slowly watch them fade away. Other times, couples break up after they confess their love but no words appear.
Shane’s parents are soulmates, of course. Their marks had appeared at the same time, on their fifth date, when they had caught a flat tire and worked together to fix it. His mother tells the story once and awhile, as though trying to convince Shane to put a little more effort into finding his own soulmate. It doesn't work. Shane can’t deny that a part of him would like to have the emotions his parents talk about, but it just feels impossible.
It all seems like a lot, and so Shane is happy to not dwell on it, and devote himself to hockey. It’s not like you can fall in love with someone by accident, so as long as he keeps his head in the game, he should be safe.
In the deepest parts of Shane’s brain, he can admit that there’s one person whose name doesn’t make him want to throw up. It just so happens that it’s probably the worst possible name for Shane to bear. Nobody cares that Shane Hollander doesn’t have a name on his chest, but everybody and their mother and their mother’s neighbour’s uncle would care if Ilya Rozanov was written there.
Especially since Ilya Rozanov has disappeared off the face of the planet.
After the humiliating loss to Latvia in Sochi, Ilya just… hasn't come back. It’s been nearly six months now, and nobody in the league has heard from him. The season is over, but the talking heads of hockey podcasters across the country will not shut up about it. They assume he took the loss so hard he went on a bender and just hasn’t stopped. They wonder if he went to a party and OD’d somewhere. They speculate if he’s living it up in Moscow surrounded by beautiful women who help him forget the dismal hockey he had played in the Olympics.
A few reporters had asked Shane about it, before everyone had come to the consensus that whatever happened to the great Ilya Rozanov, he wasn’t coming back. Shane had always replied the same way. “Rozanov and I have always been fierce competitors. Even when they’re your competition, you hate to lose good talent.”
It’s cold and clinical and media-perfect. It echoes what everyone else is saying, without adding any new drama or headlines. Whatever happened to Ilya, it is a loss for the hockey world. Wasted talent is a phrase the media has taken a liking to. It’s a shame, but not a tragedy. Not unless you’re Boston.
Shane doesn’t buy it. Not quite. He’d spoken to Ilya after losing to Latvia, and he hadn’t seemed like a man getting ready to drown his sorrows in substances. He had seemed, if anything, sad. Tense, for sure. Maybe even afraid.
Ilya had pushed him away, and Shane had listened because he hadn’t known what else to do. He regrets it now. They aren’t friends, but they aren’t nothing, especially after Ilya kissed him in the stairwell of his apartment. It had been sweet and wrong and perfect. And so despite himself, Shane cares. And worries. Because yes, Ilya is an asshole, but he’s dedicated to his team. He wouldn’t have just abandoned them.
***
Ilya, February
“We are not anything, Hollander. Go away.” Ilya regrets the dismissive tone as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back. It’s better if Shane is pissed. Then he might listen. Ilya thinks maybe it works, because Shane is quiet for a moment. He looks down hesitantly. Ilya pretends not to watch out of the corner of his eye, facing the rink.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks, voice gentle. Too gentle, for this place.
“Please. Go,” Ilya repeats, voice shaking, and it’s not an answer. He can’t bring himself to lie to Shane, not anymore. He can’t bring himself to tell the truth either. Shane’s face does something that looks uncomfortable.
“You didn’t answer my text,” Shane says, not moving. Ilya needs him to leave before something happens that they’ll both regret.
“No, I did not answer your boring text,” Ilya spits, “Now will you go?”
Shane looks disappointed, “fine,” he mutters, turning away, “fuck.”
Ilya lets himself catch one more glimpse of the man as he walks away, sighing deeply. He thinks of the conversation, and all the words he used when he meant something else.
Boring meant perfect.
Go away meant stay.
We are not anything meant I love you.
The words Shane Hollander have been seared on his chest since that night in Montreal.
Three days later, Ilya opens the door to his Moscow apartment. He isn’t usually here in winter, but the flights back to Boston had been such that a thirty six hour period in his hometown was unavoidable. It’s dusty, because he hadn’t hired a cleaner to keep it maintained this year. It hadn’t felt important. Moscow feels less like home every time he comes back.
Ilya takes off his shirt as he enters the bathroom, needing to shower off the feeling of the airport. If he showers long enough, maybe he can wash away the feeling of failure too. Losing to Latvia had been embarrassing, and everyone blames him. Rightfully, maybe, but that doesn’t make it any better. His father’s rage was especially hard to deal with, because it was interspersed with moments of near childlike confusion that made any sort of retaliation feel cruel. Ilya hopes his family will forget he has this layover at all.
He places his hands on the lip of the sink and stares down his reflection in the mirror. Shane’s name stares back. It’s a cosmic joke, a cruel curse from the universe. In locker rooms, he has to wear a skin-toned bandage over the letters. It’s bad enough that he loves Shane, but for Shane to be his soulmate…
Shane did a shirtless interview last week, after winning Olympic gold. There was no patch on his chest, and it’s maybe worse now that Ilya knows that. Before, he could at least pretend that maybe they were both losing their shit about this, but if it’s just him, he isn’t going to drag Shane into it.
People lose their marks sometimes, if they fall out of love. That seems like the only course of action here, because if Shane finds out, he’ll freak out, and if anyone else finds out, it will be a headline in hours. And Shane will still freak out.
Ilya had come to the conclusion that he had to stop loving Shane, and then Shane had immediately made that a million times harder, sending him texts and even seeking him out. Ilya had pushed away. It had been necessary. It had been smart. It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.
Ilya steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel loosely around his waist. He wanders out of the bathroom and into the living room, pulling on a pair of Boston sweat pants, but no shirt - he only has one clean shirt left, and he’d rather wear it on the flight.
This is his first mistake.
He pours himself a glass of vodka, probably more than he should, but he just lost the Olympics and he’s allowed to wallow a little. Ilya flicks on the television and puts on nothing in particular. He scrolls on his phone absentmindedly, responding to Sveta and Cliff and steadfastly ignoring Shane. He’s relaxed and just on the verge of being tipsy.
This is his second mistake.
There’s fast knocking at the door, and Ilya groans. Checks the time. It’s six in the evening. Who could possibly want something from him bad enough to come to his house? Who even knew he was here?
“IIlya, open the fucking door!” Oh. Right. Alexei would know he’s here. And Alexei always wants something from him. Slapping his palms on his knees, Ilya gets off the couch, phone abandoned on a cushion. He strolls over and wrenches the door open aggressively.
This is his third mistake.
“The fuck do you want Alexei?” he asks roughly. Alexei pushes past, making his way into Ilya’s apartment. He’s still in his uniform, clearly just coming from work.
“The fuck do you think?” Alexei yells, “You fucking embarrass the whole fucking country, and still you’re too selfish to help your family.”
“I help plenty. Who the fuck do you think pays for all your shit?” Ilya responds, getting in Alexei’s face.
Alexei scoffs, “It’s not enough, Ilya, life is expensive, and-” he freezes. His eyes narrow dangerously. “What the fuck is that?” he asks, and he isn’t loud anymore. He’s quiet, and calm, and it’s Ilya’s turn to freeze.
He didn’t put on a shirt.
Alexei might not know English, but he has enough of a grasp to understand the Roman characters, to recognize what they mean. Alexi definitely knows who Shane Hollander is.
Ilya wracks his brain for an explanation that would save him, but everything is clouded by fear. Ilya’s a strong guy, and he knows it, but Alexei has always been stronger. Taller. Alexei is a cop. Alexei- Ilya swallows thickly. Alexei came straight from work. His eyes sweep his brother’s frame. They land on his belt. A knife, a baton. Fuck. Something that looks like it could very well be a gun.
“Alexei,” he says carefully, his voice cracking, “please.” It’s begging and Ilya doesn’t care. He doesn’t know what he’s even begging for.
Please don’t say anything. Please don’t do anything. Please remember when we were children and didn’t hate each other.
Please don’t hurt me.
It doesn’t work.
Alexei’s face contorts into an evil ugly thing, and he crowds Ilya against the back wall of the apartment. “So this is why you lost then,” he spits, “you were too busy sucking American cock to care about your country.” A laugh, but nothing is funny. Ilya thinks distantly that Shane would hate being called American. “I always wondered if you were a fucking faggot,” Alexei shoves Ilya, hard, and he falls to the ground. “Fucking pathetic.”
“Alexei,” Ilya tries again, but he’s rewarded with the sharp collision of Alexi’s boot to his ribs. He curls inward, groaning. He wishes his body would cooperate and fight back, say something, do anything but lie there, but the panic and terror is paralyzing.
“My boss is going to have a field day with this, holy shit,” Alexi says, and he’s grinning now.
Some amount of time later, Alexei grows bored of slinging insults and kicking at Ilya’s body. Ilya is barely present, not sure if it's the physical or mental pain that makes it impossible to follow what is happening.
Suddenly, there are hands on him. Too many hands. They are rough and bruising and they wrench his arms behind his back. He’s dragged to his feet and out the door, shoved into the backseat of a car.
“Please,” he whispers, and he doesn’t even know what he’s hoping to achieve anymore. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Everything is bad. Really bad.
Ilya fades in and out of consciousness, head resting against the cool window of the car.
His last coherent thought, as always, is of Shane.