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Svetlana is really worried about this new pathetic Ilya. She eagerly brings herself over to Ilya’s penthouse, awaiting his return from his home game against Toronto. And he’s definitely excited to see her, yes, but there is some undertone she can’t shake, one that draws his eyes away every time she makes an approach or gives him a heated look. Whatever. Ilya hasn’t accepted her advances for a while and she is perfectly fine satisfying herself somewhere else. He is still her best friend; she values that over any sexual aspects to their friendship. But her curiosity has been piqued for years now, wondering just how special his Jane was for the notorious Ilya Rozanov to give up his womanizing lifestyle.
Today, though, she doesn’t question him. He seems angry—he always is these days. Something with Jane, she knows, but every time she brings it up she receives the coldest look he’s ever given her and it’s awkward for the rest of the day.
They’ve been lounging on Ilya’s large bed, talking about Svetlana’s recent deal at the luxury dealership she works at. Someone has spent an egregious amount of money on a few cars—even Ilya himself balked at the price—and she plans on buying herself a solo trip somewhere nice.
They’re brainstorming ideas for a while, and the conversation tapers out slowly into a comfortable silence. In a need for a casual distraction from the strange distance in Ilya’s eyes, she turns on the television to the Voyageurs game against the New York Admirals. The commentators prattle on about statistics, about Shane Hollander’s recent relationship with Rose Landry: it’s mind-numbing and right up Sveta’s alley. Statistics and hockey are always a safe and satisfying conversation for them.
Except, it’s apparently not. Svetlana watches as Ilya’s eyes soften at the commentary about his rival and then quickly harden into something icy. It’s a look she’s become accustomed to in these last few weeks, but not to this extreme. And apparently it’s to do with Shane Hollander, the golden boy himself. Something in the back of her mind knows just exactly what that is. She ignores it in favor of turning the volume down.
Ilya rises from the bed like a bat out of hell and mumbles something like “Be right back.” It’s almost confirmation of something she doesn’t believe quite yet. His promise is met: he returns with efficiency and a large bottle of Russian vodka. Figures he would want to drink away his misery. He’s always had unhealthy coping mechanisms. Drinking, drugs, and sex until recently.
She doesn’t comment on his distress out of a very real fear for her life. She knows the only thing she can do now is catch him as he falls.
As the game continues, they trade the bottle. Eventually she feels the pleasant buzz of tipsiness, even with her own respectable tolerance. She can almost connect the timing of Shane Hollander appearing on screen or starting a shift to when Ilya takes a generous sip of their shared bottle. Before long, Ilya’s obviously sloshed. He doesn’t speak, and neither does she except for intermittent observations and statistics, or something equally trivial and unimportant.
Ilya’s lids droop with the heaviness of alcohol and exhaustion. He still watches the screen with a lazer-focus. It’s all Sveta can do not to remark on it.
She almost misses it when he finally speaks. It’s a breathy murmur, not intended to be spoken most likely. He’s definitely drunk—Ilya is the most guarded person she knows. He only gets like this when his brain is foggy enough to lose the ability to discern thoughts from spoken words. She’s only seen him like this a few times since she’s met him, and it scares her. This time, it’s less terrifying and more pitiful.
Shane Hollander’s freckled face is centered on the screen. The score reads 1-0 New York. Sveta’s never told Ilya, but she always secretly roots for the Voyageurs whenever they aren’t playing the Bears. Hollander’s skill is nothing to be scoffed at; occasionally she would bring up his stats’ and point out the holes in Ilya’s game just to rile him up. It doesn’t hurt that Hollander’s cute, either.
She’s ripped from her thoughts by a sniffle. Ilya’s eyes look suspiciously shiny. Weepy drunk Ilya has made an appearance. His lips form whispers of words that he says without hesitation and softly cradles them like they’re precious.
“Ilyusha?” Svetlana lightly nudges Ilya’s shoulder, but he keeps staring blankly at the screen. Perhaps not blankly—there is a lot to be seen behind his eyes that’s hidden. It sits in the glimmer near the corners of his eyes. It’s not intended to be seen, but alcohol has made him sentimental and stupid. Her stupid best friend scarcely opens up, and when he does it’s in a crashing wave of everything at once.
Sveta watches silently in a buzzed and perplexed stupor. Ilya has zoned out, looking somewhere above the mantle, a sleek electric thing. She absentmindedly turns the volume to a murmur in the background as commercials come on after the second period. His lip trembles, miniscule and he violently bites his lip like something urgent. She finally decides to reach out, and rubs his shoulder reassuringly. I’m here and I’m someone you can talk to. I want to help. I’m only ever here for you.
“Sveta,” A quivering, wet noise. It sounds like it was forced from his throat.
“Oh, Ilyusha.” Her arms find their way around his broad shoulders unhesitatingly and squeeze tightly. He clenches the hoodie draped across her smaller stature in his fingers like he’s trying to hold onto something he wishes had stayed.
They sit for a moment, as Svetlana rocks him back and forth in their awkward, clutching embrace almost maternally. “Sveta I miss him…I-” He hiccups, “I miss him so f-fucking much it hurts, and I-I want my mama and-”
She sits for a moment, eyes wide, because Jane is a man? She has sometimes considered it, because it makes sense with the secrecy…and another detail that lines up horrifyingly accurate to the timeline of their involvement. She doesn’t let herself hesitate too long, though, for his sake. “Shh…I do not know your Jane but I know that it must be complicated between you two.” That’s an understatement if her suspicions are true. She brushes his curls from where they’ve fallen into shadows covering his eyes. “You don’t have to be perfect for everyone.”
It seems like he either needs to hear that desperately, or it’s the last thing he needs to hear because he breathes shakily and separates from her embrace, letting himself fall back into the askew pillows and rumpled sheets. “I went too fast. He wasn’t ready. I just couldn’t,” When he speaks, it’s clearer this time, but more distant, like he’s reliving a memory. Ilya’s jaw clenches and his hand finds her smooth, manicured fingers. “I couldn’t keep seeing him and acting like it was nothing because it was never nothing. We’ve always had something. I’m not surprised, though. He’s always hated change, and he saw where it was going. Maybe, this was always going to happen, even if I’d never done anything.”
She doesn’t know what to say to him—words of affirmation? Of pity? Staying silent may be the best option here. Saying the wrong thing to him was always the equivalent of a bomb going off and she loves him, but wisely strays from that option.
Ilya also seems to have run out of words, but she’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the emotions. He slowly lowers his head into her lap and then relaxes abruptly like a string has been cut. She wonders idly how long it has been for him to completely let his facade dissolve—even with herself, she feels it, present a little in the tightness behind his eyes. The alcohol and grief spoke for him tonight. Jane…Shane has probably seen this side of him, at least in increments. Svetlana suddenly feels the undeniable weight of someone else’s—Ilya’s—anguish, because they had been together in secret and Shane had left and now he’s off with Rose fucking Landry pasted on the front of every gossip magazine. If that’s not psychological torture, she doesn’t know what is. She wants to shake Shane Hollander and maybe slap him or hug him. When Ilya loves, it is with the gruesome totality of himself and it has been way too many times that this exact fact has ruined him.
Right now, as she threads her fingers through his hair and sighs, exhaling the sad sediment that’s settled deep within her lungs, she only sits. And waits for him to wake up so they can pretend this never happened.