Chapter Text
True to her word, Sventlana is waiting for him at the end of the terminal. She looks gorgeous, all bundled up like a stylish penguin with a bag of Russian sweets, Ilya immediately recognises. His Mama’s favorite.
“Oh, thank fuck.” He groans and takes the bag, inhaling the dark chocolate and the sweet zefir.
“Are you here for the sweets or for me?”
“The sweets.” He tries to smirk, but it’s a smile as he hugs her. It’s been too long since he saw her in person, let alone in their home country.
When they break away, she has a bittersweet smile of her own, “Are you ready?”
“Not at all.” Ilya looks around, just taking in his homeland, “I never know when it will be the last time I come here.”
Ilya always spent his summers in Russia, but in recent years, he found excuses. He found any work he could be doing and jumped on it. He was never close to his father, but he couldn’t watch him deteriorate.
“Are you ever going to join the dark side with me and get American citizenship?”
Ilya just shrugs because he truly has no idea. His life is just hockey; what happens when he retires is not something he ever wants to dwell on. After the initial rush of seeing Svet wears off, his chest gets tight. Being his bestfriend she feels it with him.
“We can take a walk before we meet with Alexei,” Svelt suggests, gently taking his hand.
Ilya lets out a big sigh, a walk would be amazing, “No, no. Let’s just get this over with.”
***
The next twenty-four hours were a blur. A nasty cold blur.
Ilya, acting as Alexei’s personal bank, was dragged around by the funeral planner with Svet silently at his side. He did as he was told, paid for whatever they suggested, and didn’t speak. Eventually, he was able to retire to his own home, spent and drained.
Ilya poured himself a glass of vodka, looking at his phone for the first time since the plane. Boston won 3-2 against the Admirals, which got a real smile out of him. He only regrets that he couldn’t beat Scott Hunter himself.
Without realizing it, he unconsciously checks the Montreal game. They won 4-2. This also elicits a smile from him, but he would rather not investigate that.
Jane: how are you holding up?
Ilya swallows a lump in his throat. He hates how much he wants to talk to Hollander. Not necessarily about his dad, but perhaps Russia. About his sweets that Shane would never come within thirty thousand feet of, and his mother bringing them home after practicing on the ice.
Lily: Are you alone?
Jane: Yes
Lily: Call?
As soon as the call connects, Ilya breaks out into a cershire grin, “Hollander.”
His severe face turns confused, “Uh, yes?”
“You are wearing glasses.”
“Oh yeah.” He says, taking them off and setting them out of frame, “I wear them to read sometimes.”
“I didn’t tell you to take them off.” Ilya smirks, leaning back to expose his abs, “I was enjoying the view.”
Shane only rolled his eyes, “I called to make sure you were okay, not to do whatever you’re thinking about.”
“Don’t you want to make me feel better, Hollander?”
Shane deadpans. “No.”
“Fine, for later then.” Ilya lets out a dramatic sigh, but then he smiles and grabs a bag of candy from his bed.
“What is that?”
“Zenfir. Is like um, marshmallow?” Ilya struggles through the word with clunky Russian syllables. “You would not eat because it is yummy and you are opposed to things like that.”
“I’m on a microbiotic diet.” Shane defends immediately.
“Fancy name for boring diet.”
“You can not judge my diet. I saw you eating McDonald's right before a game—”
“I was hungry. I got McGrittle. Win-win.”
“You’re literally in the NHL, and you’re eating McDonald’s—”
“Exactly, I can afford all the McGrittle I want!”
And it’s nice, the banter. Maybe it was easier with eight hundred miles between them. Whatever it is, Shane finally feels lighter seeing Ilya’s eyes dance and tease. He looked good and strong; he looked like him.
***
So, Ilya was actually not doing well.
A week in, Svetlana leaves for New York, and Rozanov gives up keeping himself together. He drinks, chainsmokes, and has sex with nameless people in clubs. Just wishing he could get back to Boston, to hockey, to Shane.
God, he misses Shane. Hollander. Whatever. He doesn’t text him. Since their call last week, Hollander hasn’t reached out. Which is fine, they have gone longer, much longer, before. But Ilya might be going insane.
The night of his father’s funeral, Ilya’s too drunk to think better than to call, walking away from the bars.
Ila yells, walking into a tunnel, “Proshchayte, druz'ya!”
“Rozanov?”
“Hollander!”
“Rozanov, are you drunk?”
“Eh- no.” Ilya trips over the snow, with a wide smile, “Okay, probably. Maybe yes.”
“It’s two pm.”
“No, I am still in Moscow. It is prime of night!”
“Right, I forgot. You alright?”
Ilya’s smile fades, “Yes. I just love being in Russia and missing hockey and not being in Boston while my fucking team loses games.”
“Rozanov—”
“No, Hollander, I am great!”
“Rozanov.”
Something in Shane’s voice is so gentle. Inviting. Like a warm light, quite attractive to Ilya considering the Russian cold.
“I want to— I hate—” Ilya sighs, letting silence wash over him, “I do not know how to describe in English.”
“Do you want to tell me in Russian? I may not understand, but maybe it will feel good to say it.”
“Okay.”