Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander -- I wanted to introduce myself.”

His handshake was firm. His grip was warm. He looked at Hollander like… like he was curious. Like maybe Hollander hadn’t heard the rumors of Rozanov’s bad attitude. Like he didn’t know Rozanov was notoriously a dick, a jackass, and a piece of shit all wrapped into one. Hollander, for his part, walked up to him and acknowledged his talent, then wished him luck, and he offered the barest of smiles at Rozanov’s teasing remarks. 

They parted ways. 

Russia won the match, Canada right behind him. 

Rozanov got the first draft, Hollander right behind him.

Montreal won the Prospect Cup.

“See you in October.”

Thus began a competition neither man would let go of for years to come.

Rozanov couldn’t help it -- Hollander did interest him. He was attractive, sure, and talented, but most of all, Hollander was a mystery. He was quiet and had virtually no press around him, no presence off of the ice, and it interested Rozanov more than he wanted to admit. 

He was interested in Hollander, and Hollander couldn’t hide his own interest in Rozanov. He tested the waters in the showers, and Hollander’s not here echoed around Rozanov’s mind.

If I come to 1410 tonight at nine o’clock…?

I might open.

I might knock.

Rozanov almost couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that quiet, good boy Shane Hollander was willing to spend an evening with him. Couldn’t believe that Shane Hollander would go down on him so quickly. Couldn’t believe Shane Hollander would have the audacity to tease him or make him smile so hard almost hurt. 

Goodnight, Rozanov said, and it should have been a final farewell, but something in his stomach fluttered at the sight of Hollander reclining against the hotel’s headboard, watching him dress.

Nashville’s All Star press tour had them reunited and Rozanov listened to him talk, let him answer for him when his brain couldn’t translate as quickly as it should have, let him be the smart, eloquent, goody-two-shoes he’d made himself out to be in the press.

But back in the hotel room, he launched himself at Rozanov. Hollander lit up at the words next time (words that slipped out of Rozanov, but he knew he wouldn’t take them back even if he could) only to dim just as quickly, and Rozanov could feel his pulse begin to race, could see his eyes darting back and forth, and he pressed tender kisses to Hollander’s lips. 

They exchanged numbers. 

It would take two and a half years for next time to come, and then three more years of next times. Five years, nearly, of meeting when they could and texting when they couldn’t. Of stolen moments, of silence.

Five years of publicly denouncing each other. Of Rozanov being the quintessential dick to Hollander's prodigal son. 

Five years of moments that should’ve meant nothing, but that meant more than either of them were willing to admit.

And neither of them were willing to confront that.

Staying over, for the first time.

Eating together, for the first time.

Talking, for the first time.

Domesticity, for the first time.

Oh, fuck, Shane.

Ilya.

Five years of togetherness, crumbling down in a single afternoon.

Rozanov wasn’t willing to address the obvious elephant in the room. He wanted Shane Hollander. He wanted to fall asleep next to him. He wanted to wake up next to him. He wanted to eat meals with him. He wanted to talk about family with him. He wanted, and wanted, and wanted Shane.

He also knew he couldn’t have him.

News about Shane-and-Rose bombarded him everywhere he went, whether he looked for it or not -- and yes, sometimes he did look for it, if only to see if it hurt any less this time. (It never did.) He looked for it to see if he had gotten over it. (He’d never gotten over it.) He looked at it to see him (and oh, how his chest hurt and his mind raged at seeing their hands held together, and her in his jersey, and his lips on hers, and Ilya wondered if she knew where his lips had been, if they still tasted like Ilya, if Shane ever thought of fucking Ilya when he fucked her.)

He told himself it was fine. 

He ignored them (mostly). 

He continued playing (badly).

He didn’t think back on how warm Shane had been in his arms, in his bed, in his home, in Boston.

He didn’t want to get his hopes up, either, in Florida, when Shane was named Captain of the East Side team and Ilya his alternate. He didn’t want to think about Shane playing at his side when Ilya could barely even look at him without feeling an emptiness he refused to acknowledge.

But then Shane talked to him. Shane said he and Rose weren’t compatible. Shane smiled at him.

On the beach, Shane asked for his room number.

It’s not just me, right? You feel it, too, don’t you?

We get together. We fuck. It’s simple.

Simple?

Simple for me.

Bullshit.

In his room, Shane held him. He held Ilya as the walls he’d built to protect himself began to crack. He kissed him when Ilya couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

Ilya wanted to hold him tight and never let him leave, but he allowed himself the tiniest thought that maybe, maybe Shane would want to stay.

Shane stayed.

Shane continued to stay.

Ilya detested returning to Russia. He detested his brother. He detested his step-mother. He detested being treated like nothing more than a bag of money to be dispensed until there was nothing left to give. He wanted --

He wanted Shane.

He wanted to hold him and be held by him. He wanted to kiss him and be kissed by him. He wanted Shane to melt away all of his thoughts and replace them with new ones, better ones, happier ones.

English is too hard right now.

Where are you?

I’m just walking. I needed to get out.

How about you tell me everything that’s on your mind, but in Russian? I won’t understand, but maybe it’ll help.

For the first time in his life, Ilya talked.

He opened up.

Do you feel better?

Yes. Thank you.

Maybe you could teach me Russian someday.

Yes, but only useful phrases.

How about ‘I wish you were here right now?’

I wish I was, too.

Losing his father hurt, but he’d lost his father years before he passed. 

Leaving Russia hurt, but Russia hadn’t been home for a long, long time.

Shane stayed.

You still on for tonight, after?

1919. That’s the code for the front door.

Shane smiled at him, and his eyes seemed to glitter.

And then, Shane went down.

Ilya felt his heart fall the same time Shane did.

Shane didn’t move.

Shane stayed.

Ilya stared at him, his eyes unseeing, his mind conjuring up memories he’d never wanted to relive.

Shane’s hand had let go of his stick and lay slack on the ice.

Ilya saw his mother’s hand, dangling limp from her bed.

"Hollander?"

“Мама?” Mama?

They pulled a brace onto Shane, strapped him to a spinal board.

They put a blanket over her, shielded her from Ilya’s view.

“Is he alright?”

“S ney vse v poryadke?” Is she okay?

“Ilya, please stand back.”

Shane tried to reach out, wanting to find Ilya, following his voice, but Ilya couldn’t move. He was actively being pushed away from Shane.

“We’re not alone. Ilya, they can see us.”

“Is he alright?”

“Tell him. Tell him I’m fine.”

Ilya watched, frozen, as they took him away, their words indistinct as the sounds of the game and the crowd all came back to him at once. The audience was cheering, acknowledging Shane’s signs of life.

Ilya could only force himself to breathe.

He didn’t remember the game. He didn’t remember being on the ice. He didn’t remember exiting the rink, taking off his uniform, showering, or returning to his hotel. He didn’t remember eating.

Lily:
Are you okay?

It was such a useless question. A distant part of Ilya, the rational part of him, knew that even if Shane were okay, concussion protocol limited his screen use.

Lily:
Talk to me as soon as you can

His vision blurred, and he was grateful to be alone. Grateful that no one could see him break down. Grateful that no one could judge him for the tears that spilled over his cheeks.

Lily:
I’m sorry I can’t be there with you

He wanted to be. He wanted to leave the game as soon as Shane had. He wanted to sit in the waiting room at the hospital. He wanted to sit at his bedside and hold his hand. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted

Lily:
Shane

Lily:
Please

Lily:
Talk to me

He was crashing out and he knew it. He wouldn’t have even been surprised if his teammates heard him in his hotel room, but he hoped that turning the shower on and running the tap would be enough to drown him out. He thought of Shane, still and cold, and he pictured his mother, still and cold. He needed to see Shane, needed to hold him, needed to know he wasn’t gone, needed to replace the touch-memory of his mother’s cold skin, needed to hear his voice, needed to feel him in his arms.

Lily:
Shane, I need to know you’re okay

Lily:
I need you to be okay

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t close his eyes. He could barely breathe without feeling his lungs ache, his chest ache, his body hurt. He stared at his phone and absently reached for his mother’s crucifix. He didn’t mean to hold onto it so tightly as to dig into his skin, but he welcomed the sensation. Pain was good. Pain he could deal with. Pain meant he was still alive, even if he felt like he was dying.

His phone went black, the screensaver kicking on, and he opened it back up to see his lock screen. He’d changed it on his flight back from Moscow. He looked at the All-Star East Side team, where Shane knelt front and center, the C badge plastered on his chest and a grin stretched wide across his face. Ilya, an A badge on his own uniform, knelt beside him, wearing a matching expression on his face. 

They had their arms around one another for the photo, a suggestion made by the social media team. They both pretended to be annoyed by it and made a show of rolling their eyes and grumbling to the laughter of their teammates, but that night, they’d each stolen a copy from the NHL’s official social media pages. It was one of the only pictures they’d ever allowed themselves to have taken of each other.

His phone pinged.

Shane:
This is Shane’s friend. He’s stable but asleep right now. Nothing we can do but wait for him to wake up. He wanted us to tell you

Stable.

For the first time since Shane fell, Ilya felt himself exhale.

He wanted us to tell you.

You, who, though? He, Ilya? Or Lily?

Which friend? Did they know? Did they suspect?

Did they see his and Shane’s text thread?

Suddenly, Ilya wasn’t confident he could breathe again.

Lily:
You shouldn’t have invaded his privacy

He closed his eyes. Surely, if this person had read their messages, they would have more to say than his one, single text. Hopefully, if this person truly was Shane’s friend, they would have enough respect and decency not to snoop.

Lily:
Thank you

Ilya forced himself to breathe again. He forced himself to release the tension in his shoulders. He stood up from where he’d sat on the bathroom’s floor, turned off the shower, and stared at himself in the mirror.

And God, he looked like shit. 

The shower he’d taken at the rink already would have left his hair curlier than normal, but the added humidity of the shower’s steam as he drowned himself out made every little baby hair fly away. He made a point to turn the showerhead back on and dunk his head underneath the now cold water, and when he returned to his reflection, he made a futile attempt to calm it back down.

He couldn’t do much to hide the puffiness of his face, or the redness of his eyes, except wait.

Shane:
Do you want me to call you when he wakes up?

Shane’s words on the ice rang every alarm bell Ilya had ever heard. Ilya, they can see us.

Lily:
No.

Lily:
Please just

Lily:
Text?

Lily:
Tell him I’m sorry

Lily:
He will understand

A sudden, soft knock on his door startled him. Cliff Marleau, in a voice softer than Ilya thought he’d ever heard it, asked, “Cap, can I come in?”

Ilya wanted to curse. He wanted to tell Marleau to leave him alone. He didn’t want Marleau to see him so… off balance.

(But he knew, also, that he had to tell the team something, and he knew that if he didn’t, they would find their own explanations for his behavior.)

So he cleared his throat. He forced himself to take a deep breath. He strode over to the door and opened it, allowing Marleau to step inside.

Concern was the only expression he could see on Marleau’s (bruised, broken) face, and when Marleau actually looked at Ilya, worry only deepened his expression.

“Are you okay, Cap?” he asked, and his voice wasn’t gentle. Not really. It couldn’t be, with how much he smoked and yelled. His voice always had an edge to it, a gravelly baseline that would never soften, but now it was quiet. A hoarse almost-whisper.

Ilya couldn’t see the point in lying. He would have, if he’d been able to figure out some kind of excuse. If he’d been able to think, he would’ve had one already.

“No.”

“I didn’t mean to take him out like that,” he said.

Ilya hadn’t even considered it. It didn't occur to him that Marleau had been the one to hit Shane, or that he'd done it with cruel intent.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told Marleau, because it was true. He knew it as soon as he said it. “It’s the game. Shit happens.”

But Marleau was still staring at Ilya, taking in his tear-reddened eyes and blotchy, red face.

“You two are close, then?” he asks slowly, and the question didn’t feel accusatory to Ilya. It didn’t feel like he was fishing for any information, only trying to understand why Ilya had the reaction that he did.

But what could Ilya even say that wouldn’t incriminate them? Yes, we have been fucking for seven years and I am in love with him wouldn’t do. Sure, he could admit to feeling for Shane without giving up Shane’s secret, but where would that leave Ilya? He could barely admit his feelings to himself, and he’d taken the coward’s way out before, admitting it in Russian.

But Marleau wasn’t rushing Ilya for an answer. He sat down on the bed, ignoring all of Ilya’s gear, which he’d simply thrown onto the comforter as soon as he’d entered. He sat, and he waited, watching Ilya work through his answer.

Marleau wasn’t stupid. He and Ilya had been teammates now for six years. He probably knew Ilya better than any other person on their team. He knew Ilya was slow to respond sometimes because he couldn’t translate what people said as quickly as they said it, and this -- Ilya used this to his advantage right now. He knew Marleau was being patient with him, understanding the language barrier, understanding the cultural barrier, and he waited.

Ilya brought a hand back up to his mother’s crucifix. He had to make a decision: one truth, or the other. One secret he’d held to his chest since he was twelve, and the other he’d held since he was eighteen. One secret was his own, and the other wasn’t.

“My mother,” he said slowly, watching Marleau carefully for his reaction. “She died.”

He could remember it, as he said it. Opening the door to his mother’s bedroom. Calling out for her, because he could see her hair draped over her pillow. He could see her arm hanging off of the duvet. He could see the empty pill bottle and an empty bottle of liquor on the nightstand.

Marleau’s eyebrows drew close together in confusion, but he waited.

“I found her,” Ilya continued. He forced himself to inhale. Hold. Exhale. “And when Hollander went down, I….”

“Fuck,” Marleau cursed under his breath. Ilya watched the confusion on his face turn to pity, and it took everything inside of him to let it go. Let him have pity for Ilya if it meant he wouldn’t question Shane. Let him know this if it keeps their secret safe.

“I cannot stop seeing her,” he told Marleau, and he hated that he had to tell Marleau these things. “I see Hollander fall, and I see my mother. I cannot let the team see me like this.”

And none of it was a lie, Ilya thought, except it wasn’t the whole truth, either. He hoped Marleau would take him at his word and leave him be. (He knew he would, though. Marleau had only ever been a friend to Ilya since his first day as a Raider.)

Marleau drew his hand down his face. “Shit, no, I get it. And since your dad just passed, too….” He didn’t finish that train of thought out loud. Instead, he shook his head. “Do you… what do you want to tell the team? Do you want to tell the team?”

Ilya tried not to shudder at the thought. “Tell them I am still grieving. It’s my first game back, and I miss my family, yes?” Not a total lie. Not the total truth.

Marleau nodded. He reached an arm out and clapped his hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m here, you know. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’ve got your back, okay?”

Ilya looked at Marleau. At the dark stubble across his jaw, at the bruise that was beginning to form on his cheek, at the cut on his brow. At the sorrow in his dark eyes that Ilya had never seen there before.

“I think, right now, I would just like to be alone.”

“Of course,” Marleau said. He stood up, towering over Ilya, but walked back towards the door. Before leaving, though, he looked back and said, “We might not be blood, but we’re a family, too, Ilya. We’ve got you.”

Ilya felt his composure begin to crack, so he turned away. “Thank you, Cliff,” he said, his voice thick. The door clicked shut behind him.

His phone rang.

He picked it up with shaking hands. Jane, it said.

“Are you there?”