Chapter Text
When Ilya is young, the summer before rookie season and new to Boston, he can go outside. He's a generational talent, sure, and the die-hards might know him, but when he gets there it's still summer. It's 2009, and Pedroia and Big Papi have all of Fenway salivating, eyes wide, tongues lolling, dynasty-high and begging for it, so good, so good – no one’s paying attention to another stylishly scrappy kid at Haymarket in a Bears hoodie.
Boston is, Ilya thinks, maybe the second greatest place on Earth (the first is a hockey rink packed to the rafters, breathtaking and violent). He likes that it's loud like a brawl and cluttered like a root cellar; that the T is creaky, a rollercoaster bound to fall apart any minute. He likes the cobblestones of Downtown Crossing alleyways, splattered with vomit and shattered beer bottles and graffiti. He likes that you take a wrong turn and it's still the right side of town, because it's just brownstone after brownstone after brownstone, a couple glittering glass skyscrapers in the background and a church, hunched over in the shadows like an old babushka.
Compared to New York, the screen lit daydream Ilya has been to just once, and Moscow, its boxy brutalism a snowdrift against the mountains of the past, Boston is like a city in a pressure cooker, throttled by the Storrow, the fervor of the race– rat, arms, and space– coddled by the sprawling stony coastline of New England. Nothing bad ever happens in Boston, because bad is a relative term, and the fried dough is sweet and greasy as the cow trails of the Common unravel before him.
♧♧♧
It's a feverdream, it must be: born in the lazy humidity of Toronto summer and fed shamelessly by the sticky, dirty, delicious claustrophobia of Boston all year round, sharpened into something frantic by the glittery promises of Montreal across the river a few times a season. He plays some beautiful, god-damn gorgeous hockey and he fucks Hollander in all the ways he'd hoped to and then some. If this is delirium, Ilya's not sure he wants to be lucid ever again, because bozhe moy the way Hollander moans, like he was made for pleasure and leisure, Adonis on a chaise, the guilt of sin not meant for men like him. Ilya thinks maybe that's the problem– that his infatuation with Hollander is because he's so infallible, so perfect it makes Ilya's teeth ache, and Ilya just loves an open wound. In his low moments, the same moments where he thinks he understands Mama, he wonders what it is that Shane gets out of this; but then he remembers the thrill of Sasha, barely fourteen and the trashy, lovely pearl of slumming it because nothing matters, and he gets it. He would fuck himself too if he was Shane Hollander.
“God, fuck, Rozanov, do that again.”
And what can Ilya do but oblige.
♧♧♧
“So, Sochi,” says Hollander, hood up and still a little sex-stupid. Ilya hums as he ties his shoes. “Your family must be excited.” Ilya says nothing. After a moment, Hollander continues: “Will they come watch you play?”
Ilya stands, feeling his pockets– wallet, phone, keys–
“My father, yes, probably. My brother, hm, no, I think not.” Andrei doesn't actually care for sports, just the money. Which, fair. Money wasn't so cheap when Ilya didn't have a steady source of it, only condition: his.
“And your–” Shane starts, then stops, words swallowed up, drowned dead as soon as Ilya turns to look at him, and the kiss is almost unnecessary, but Ilya's never let that stop him before. Greedy, stupid, selfish–
“Your car's probably here,” Shane mutters, still close enough Ilya can feel the movement of his lips, and he rewards Hollander with that cocksure smirk he knows draws out just the right amount of love to hate.
“Bye bye, Hollander.” Paka paka, moyo solnysh– ew. No.
Hollander rolls his eyes. “Bye, Rozanov.”
♧♧♧
That’s right: Shane Hollander is Ilya's favorite distraction, but hockey is his first and only love. The nights and days between practices and games and Shane are made bearable by Ilya's second favorite distraction of sex in all forms, and if he's not hooking up with strangers or crashed out on Marlow's couch, then he's tangled up with Svetlana, or he's running the esplanade or yelling at his brother over the phone. He doesn't have time to think about Sochi, and anyways, what’s there to think about? Sure, it's Russia and he's captain, but it's hockey. Ilya's the best at hockey, and he's always been Russian, and he's even been a Russian hockey captain before. It's just the Olympics, which really is just All-Stars with a side of nationalist showboating and a fancy bit of metal, and if Ilya can't handle a bit of showing-off and trophy-mining, then what good even is he?
And then, suddenly, he's in Sochi, and it's exactly what he expected it to be, which doesn't explain why the night after the first team practice Ilya begs off the bar to vomit, alone, in his two-bed hovel. But Ilya chalks that up to not eating enough or too much vodka in the name of national pride or maybe pushing himself too hard at the practice because they suck. A fatal car wreck in slow motion and Ilya needs to fix it, it's his job to fix it– like Boston is– like his family is– and Ilya needs to keep himself alive and there's just not enough time. There's always time, though, Ilya's just lazy. And he really must be, he always thought maybe his father was full of shit, but he must be, because they lose to Latvia, fucking–
“You didn't answer my texts,” Shane is saying. The noise in Ilya's head dulls everything, but Hollander, stupid fucking perfect Hollander's never met a barrier he couldn't overcome. It's irritating.
“No,” Ilya spits. “I didn't answer your boring texts.” The abuse of the word is sacrilege, but Ilya’s already doomed.
The problem, though, with kicking Hollander is that it's a little like kicking a puppy. Ilya knows that Hollander is here, in the rafters of the Sochi rink, asking after Ilya's wellbeing, ugh, because he cares, because, like a puppy, he loves you for the scraps of affection you feed him. It’s pathetic, actually, like all kind things are and Ilya's never hated Hollander more for being so flawless– so good– and why is he wasting his time on Ilya when he should be, could be– Ilya does not need to be sa–
“Just go away, Hollander.”
Hollander shifts, ever so slightly. Not to leave, but because he's– no, absolutely not– “I just thought that we–”
“We aren't anything,” absolutely not, and Ilya's tired. He'd just like Hollander to leave, so that Ilya can leave (he was here first, Ilya was first, dammit) and crawl into bed and go to sleep and, maybe, hopefully, god-willing never wake up.
Hollander sets his jaw, which Ilya doesn't see, because he's pointedly watching the ice below, and Hollander says,
“Right.” Hollander waits another half-second, and then he bites, tightly, “Bye, Rozanov.” Da svidanya, asshole.
And, finally, blessedly, Ilya’s alone.
♧♧♧
Ilya doesn't see Hollander before he's flying home back to Boston, and they don't play Montreal again that season. In fact, in the same way that Ilya never thought about Sochi before it happened, he never thinks about Hollander, though mostly now it's because he's playing hockey, because his hockey needs work. He can't believe he didn’t realize– He was so careless, so full of it, drowning in distraction to the point that he was suffocating the most important thing, the only thing he loves that's ever loved him back.
Hockey can't love, of course, and it very brutally reminds everyone when after a particularly hard hit Hollander is out for the season. It is, in fact, the only time in those few months between the Olympics and the playoffs that Ilya thinks of Hollander and a part of him, the gluttonous, selfish, lazy part of him thinks maybe one text– one measly little message– wouldn't be so bad. He even drafts it, once, twice: u ok? and i kill kent for hurting you.
He deletes them, chews on the chain of his cross in consideration, and then closes out of the app. Why is he wasting time when there’s hockey to play?
♧♧♧
Because he's Ilya fucking Rozanov, he wins the Cup that year, and it's the happiest he's ever been. It's moments like this that make every single second worth it, all the tortuous seconds a resounding proof of life. On the ice, Cup raised, he shouts. Spasiba, Mama.
At home, he sobs.
♧♧♧
Railing Hollander never felt as good as winning the motherfucking Cup, so Ilya continues not to think about him. He's staring down the barrel of a week and a half between cup finals and the awards in Vegas and he absolutely does not think of Hollander, of texting him, of how he'll see him soon, of how Ilya's accomplished everything he's ever dreamed and, maybe, just maybe, he deserves a little distraction.
He almost does, at 3 A.M. three nights before he’s due to fly out. He’s drunk to stumbling, somewhere in Back Bay. Boston’s stupid, so the bars all closed at 2 and the streets are empty. Marlow went home with some chick and they lost St. Simon three pubs back. Ilya shouldn't actually walk home. The house he bought himself as a consolation prize a couple seasons ago is on the far side of Brookline, and everyone said it was still too in the city but Ilya likes riding the green line, likes pretending sometimes he’s still that scrappy kid at Haymarket fresh from Moscow, that maybe instead of hockey he’d been good at math or chemistry or physics and the schools had begged the privilege of his attendance. Maybe in another life he’s the world’s steadiest heart surgeon, or maybe he’s the space flight engineer on the world’s first manned Mars mission or maybe he’s a multilingual secret agent crippling shitty governments in shitty countries in the name of his countrymen. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Bolshe, bolshe, bolshe.
As it is, he can’t ride the T anymore without getting recognized, and anyways, the trains stop earlier than the bars, like either will make people drink less. So he’s in Back Bay, walking home, and he thinks of Hollander, because this is how people die: drunk in an alley, asleep in dumpsters when the dumptrucks come or jumped by handsy men in balaclavas. There’s also an apartment doorway that so sharply reminds Ilya of Shane’s fuckpad. He snorts, snaps a picture. Queues it up to send to Jane: Lost your chance–
Ilya drops his phone into the stacks of rubbish he’s apparently been leaning over, and he tumbles down after it.
Distantly: “Holy shit, was that Ilya Rozanov?”
♧♧♧
He’s not late. Fucking Vegas is just too bright, but its the West coast, and Ilya was warned.
Hollander is already there, looking very perfect in his classic tuxedo. Ilya’s, proudly, has a bit of flair to it, the jacket a more modern cut, but Hollander looks good in anything from last century.
“Didn’t think you were going to show,” he says. “We’re on 5 seconds.”
“Twenty-five,” says Ilya, fixing his cuff. He thinks Shane huffs in amusement, but that would require Hollander to find Ilya amusing, which would require them to be talking, friendly-like, which they’re not. Shane probably hates him, actually. That’s fine.
“Let’s go,” says the stage check, waving them on, and then they are. On.
♧♧♧
Shane delivers all of his lines perfectly, and he doesn’t bat an eye when Ilya delivers his. Not even when Ilya takes the hyper-performative selfies. Ilya wonders, momentarily, what the writers expect him to do under normal, hated-rivalry circumstances, and then he realizes that they wouldn’t know one way or another, and Ilya gives momentary consideration to the joke, and maybe the answer is professionalism, but maybe it’s that they’re all in on this together.
Or not, because Ilya gives in and lets his hand slip low, to the dimples on Shane’s lower back, shielded by the stupid suit jacket from 1996, and Shane cringes. Ilya pulls away quickly at that, and they’re still on stage, but Shane throws him a sideways grin, like he’s somehow grateful Ilya is aware of him. It might be wishful thinking, but Ilya thinks it might the only genuine look Shane's had all night.
“Sorry,” Shane says later, backstage. “I’m not big on touching.” Ilya nods, because that’s okay. It’s– That’s– well, exceptions can only be made for so long, Ilya supposes.
“Anyways,” says Hollander, “I’m glad we can, uh, do this.”
And by this, Ilya assumes he means exist in the same place. Which is maybe the bare minimum? Ilya’s not sure how low he’d go under certain circumstances.
“Sure, of course,” says Ilya. Hollander's grin is fragile this time, a little wobbly like the soft skin of an overripe fruit. They linger too long, like Hollander's asking for something but Ilya isn't quite sure what, and Ilya is on the cusp of making a decision for both of them when Hollander cracks: he coughs, wipes his eyes.
“Um, ah, excuse me–” That feeble little smile again and then Hollander shoves past, and Ilya can only watch him walk down the hallway.
♧♧♧
The bathroom door shuts, about six feet from backstage, and Ilya counts to ten, crosses the distance in half as many steps, and barges in. Knocking would be polite, ignoring the whole situation healthy, but since when has Ilya been either and since when has he given two shits about Shane Hollander’s space. What space? He doesn’t have any.
He’s hunched over, arms spread and whiteknuckled over the edges of the marble. He’s breathing so sporadically it moves his whole frame, and its with that stupid look on his face, the one where he’s moving his lips, trying to inhale, exhale, stop, start, force a rhythm back into play, that the reflection of his gaze flickers to Ilya, and suddenly, Ilya feels like the biggest fucking tool for the way he’s lounging on the towel dispenser. He leans into it, because he’s shameless. He rubs a finger over his lips. Unabashedly looks Hollander over.
“Do–uh–do you mind?” Hollander gets out between gasps. Ilya blinks at him.
“Mm, no.”
“Such–huh–an asshole.”
“Bozhe, breathe, Hollander. Did you forget how?” Ilya’s only half joking, because Hollander is going a little blue around the edges, and his face is so pale his freckles are like mud in snow.
“I can’t–” a gasp like a punctured lung– “hit me,” Hollander snaps. “Or– heh– something,” he chokes out when Ilya’s eyebrows lift.
But Ilya is nothing if not a martyr so, with only the slightest pout, he takes a couple steps forward and thumps Hollander on the back. It doesn’t help. Shane wheezes.
“That didn’t help,” Ilya states, and feels it in his toes when Hollander’s reflection glares at him.
“Fuck–huh–off if you're not going to–”
“Hollander.” They stare at each other in the mirror and it's as if the room has flooded with molasses, the wet heat of summer, the insatiable, gnawing ache of sugar on a rotting tooth. Ilya is touching Hollander– when did that happen– one hand skating across shoulder blades, the other winding up flush to Hollander's chest. The man could complain but he doesn't. He shifts, ever so slightly, inviting Ilya to do the same, and then, instead of through a fun house maze, they're looking at each other, face to face, eye to eye.
“Breathe, yes?” says Ilya softly. “With me.” And it's a little exaggerated, but it works, and has the added benefit of dragging Hollander's eyes to Ilya's lips. The molasses runs gooey, drips from the ceiling to pool around their feet, but Hollander breathes, finally, and he might not die. Ilya knows this is a good thing. He's done a good thing.
They don't break until Shane looks up at him again, feeds him that wobbly, wet noodle smile, and Ilya attempts to muster something friendly back. He drops his arms, but only because Shane's shoulders start to creep up and his expression goes tight. And then he looks at Ilya, really looks, and–
“God, this is so awkward,” Shane says. “I'm sorry.”
Ilya would say, You're sorry? but he's incorrigible, so instead he nods. “Da, is okay. I am good teacher, yes? Teach you many things– how to be breath, how to be better hockey player, how to–”
Hollander laughs. It's beautiful, he's beautiful. “God, you really are the worst, aren't you?”
Ilya grins, because yes, he really is, and he takes the invitation for what it is and steps closer. He's so close he could reach out and touch Hollander, but he won't, not yet, it's enough that Hollander isn't backing away, that his shoulders have rounded back out and he's smiling at Ilya, an small, sure one, and they're flirting. Shane Hollander doesn't hate him, and they're talking; it's Saskatchewan in a Vegas bathroom, and Ilya's been born again, baptized anew. He won't fuck it up this time. (He will.) He won't.
“Hollander–”
“God, ugh.” Shane hides his face in his hands. “This sucks. I know everyone says we hate each other–”
“Everyone can–”
“But I just–” Hollander looks up, like he's pleading, but Ilya doesn't know what for.
Ilya echoes, “You just?” Tell me, whatever it is, I give it to you. I fix it for you.
Hollander's eyes skitter like a caged rabbit, like he's studying Ilya, weighing him for wanting. Then he exhales, poignantly, and drops his hands.
“It's not a secret,” Hollander says, “but if I tell you– can I trust you, Rozanov?”
No. “Yes.” And it's Ilya that's forgotten how to breathe.
Hollander smiles, weakly. “It's– uh, it's pretty wild– you probably won't even believe me–”
Fucking– “Blyat, Hollander, just tell me.”
And like he's puking his guts out, Hollander does: “It's– the thing is– I don't remember anything.”
♧♧♧