Work Text:
“Hollander-”
Ilya's hand reaches for him, palm up and open. His jaw is locked, tendons standing out, as if he’s biting down on a scream and hoping his teeth can hold it in.
“Hollander-”
The second time it lands softer. Almost tender. The last syllable wobbles, betraying him.
That's not what you called me earlier.
Mr. Hollander- Ilya likes to tease sometimes. Mr. Real Estate, he called him today, smirking like it was a harmless joke.
Mr. Hollander is Shane’s father. His grandfather. His great-grandfather. A whole procession of men with stiff backs and inherited land deeds, stretching all the way back to some Dutch ancestor stepping onto Canadian soil and deciding this would be home.
Hollander-
It's not personal, it never was.
There's a storm brewing through Shane's insides. It starts low, in his gut, then climbs his ribs and floods his chest, salty ocean water, powerful, choking him, until it reaches his eyes. If he doesn’t leave now, he’s going to leak. He can feel it – the sting behind his eyeballs, the pressure, the dark clouds piling up overhead. Thunder growls somewhere behind his ears. Static crawls across his scalp, lifting the fine hairs on his nape like soldiers bracing for impact.
He can feel his lungs filling up, his heart stuttering, banging out of rhythm as the suffocating rush of asphyxiation clouds his mind, vision blurring at the edges as panic tightens its grip.
The ocean is vast, infinite. The boat he and Rozanov have been trying to steer through sharp rocks and fog since Shane arrived yesterday is barely a dinghy now, thin boards and bad balance, hardly enough to carry two people.
It used to be a tall ship back when it all started, then a yacht, and now this-
Shane never feared storms before. Not when the ship was solid, not when there were lifeboats secured to the sides, waiting just in case. No matter the turbulence, there was always something to cling to.
But yesterday... ever since Rozanov asked him to stay the night-
Shane stepped onto the dinghy and felt the boards shift under his feet, heard the uneasy creak of wood that didn’t trust him. There was no lifeboat here. Not even a lifebuoy. He knew immediately it was (such) a bad idea.
Still, he climbed aboard.
Because Rozanov asked.
And Shane trusted him with his life.
Trusted him enough not to push him overboard, which is exactly what Rozanov did anyway.
“Shane-”
No.
“Shane-”
You don't get to call me that.
It was an accident.
Of course it was.
Shane never even pretended to hope that Rozanov would extend such a level of grace towards him willingly.
Ilya had spent enough time spelling it out – how bland Shane was, how he never interested him beyond what they already did, how conversation with him was only tolerable when it involved rival teams or mutual complaints about teammates.
Rozanov stood on that deck, watching the goddamn sunset, then placed his hand on Shane’s back and pushed him-
“Shane-”
overboard.
Shane hit the water headfirst. The cold sliced through him, sharp and merciless, carving a path from his ears to his toes. He sank fast, too fast, because his body locked up and refused to cooperate. His legs stiffened, useless, and he went under like an anchor.
“Ilya-”
And the worst thing-
The worst thing was that when Ilya chased his lips, Shane folded. He kissed him back, sweet and desperate and full of want. He couldn’t help it. He was pathetic and clingy and stupid, and that's why-
God, even he's disgusted with himself. What was Rozanov supposed to do with someone like that?
Not fucking call him-
“Shane-”
that.
A slip-up. Just an inconvenient slip-up, but because Shane was so fucking wretched, so fucking pitiful, he lost it.
He couldn't-
Rozanov was still chasing his lips hauntingly, trying to engage him in more kissing, then more (fucking), then more-
What?
Humiliation, was Shane's best guess.
So, he had to-
He couldn't-
He was drowning, he couldn't breathe, and his heart was pounding so hard in his chest, his ears hurt. So, Shane made an effort. He forced his legs to move, dragged himself upright, broke the surface, and sucked in air like it might disappear.
He mumbled some nonsensical excuses, words falling apart before they landed. He couldn’t meet Rozanov’s eyes.
Probably ever again.
“Hollander-”
Rozanov reached for him. He was throwing him a lifeline.
Come on, let me pull you back. It'll be just like before, I (promise).
Shane's gaze skittered around the (ocean) room, searching for (land) anything solid. Then, just for a second, for a fleeting moment, he stared into the Russian directly, trying to make his point clear,
“I-I... I'm sorry. I can't- I can't do this...”
“Hollander-”
No.
Shane couldn't take that hand, couldn't catch that lifeline. He couldn't climb back onto the boat just to be told it was nothing, just a slip of the tongue, that it meant nothing.
No.
He couldn't bear to know that anymore.
He couldn't pretend. He couldn't suck it up and continue with his life and not think about the fact that (it could happen again) and carry the quiet terror of waiting for the next time.
Ilya's eyes were begging him to reach out and take his hand. The slight tilt forward, the unsteady shake of his head, refusing to believe it, refusing to accept that Shane was not taking the lifeline.
Shane ran away.
=
"Shane-”
Fuck off.
Stay the night! Whispered into his ear, gentle, almost intimate, Rozanov’s breath stirring the tiny hairs along Shane’s sideburn. Stay the night because I want to fuck you again.
Right.
That’s all he’s ever been good for anyway.
“Shane-”
No.
Stay the night, so I could hold you while you sleep, make you tuna melts in the morning, keep telling you about this girl who’s basically your substitute – or maybe you’re hers, oh God, please don’t let it be that – but now she’s busy with work so I’m thinking of–
“I think I will find someone else.”
Shane stares at the TV without seeing it. The screen flickers, noise without shape or meaning, while his heart drops straight into his heels.
To be my convenient other ‘arrangement’, beside you, that is. (but Rozanov doesn't say that)
Cause that's what you'll ever be. That's all you're good for.
And the moment Shane starts spiraling, the floor tilting beneath him,
“But you know me, I'm lazy- so...”
What does this even mean?!
Rozanov is looking at him now, really looking, eyes slow and assessing, an oddly gentle expression softening his face. Shane feels himself slipping, consciousness drifting, a terrible schism between what he wants to believe and what he knows better than to trust.
What does it even mean...
Are you saying you’re too lazy to replace me?
Are you saying I’m enough?
Are you saying you finally–
Rozanov's watching him, his hand deep under the waistband of his sweats, casually smiling like a cat eyeing a bitter little canary trapped in a cage by the window.
The oven beeps.
=
“Shane-”
No.
“I like girls.”
What-
What is Shane even supposed to say to that? How does someone respond to a sentence that lands like a trapdoor opening beneath their feet?
Is this another one of Rozanov’s tests, some quiet little experiment to measure just how dull and presumptuous Hollander really is, to justify pushing him overboard later?
“But I also like you-”
Shane can practically see himself from a distance, wagging his tail, straining his neck to the side to look at Rozanov better, perking up like a damn mutt scratched behind the ears.
“You have a good mouth...”
Right.
Of course.
How insolent of Shane to ever think–
to assume–
to want–
He swallows thickly, Adam's apple bouncing up and down in his throat.
=
He’s tired of the constant push and pull, of the unspoken innuendo, of guessing wrong, of guessing at all, of hoping, when he knows better.
He’s tired of mixed signals.
Of gentleness that turns into indifference without warning.
Ilya looks tense after the phone call. His hand drags over the back of his neck, fingers catching in the long curls there, twisting them tight like he’s trying to anchor himself. Shane can hear his breathing – deep, harsh pulls of air, the kind you take when you’re trying not to lose control.
What is he supposed to say now?
“How's your father?”
Rozanov is smiling, but there's a desperate edge to it.
Instead of answering, he pulls Shane’s head against his chest, fingers sliding into his hair, slow and familiar, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.
As if Shane's a kid, unqualified to participate in adult conversations.
You wouldn't understand.
Try me.
It can't be explained.
You always change the subject when I ask anything real.
So, take the hint!
Right.
There’s a small fight breaking out in Shane’s head, voices overlapping, stepping on each other.
So, why did you-
If I'm not important enough-
If you don't owe me explanations-
Why did you-
Shane-
Fuck you, Rozanov, why did you call me that?
=
“Shane-”
No.
He's over it now. Done deal. He took a deep breath, swallowed, wiped his eyes clean, and continued with his life.
It's okay. It was just a mistake. An honest slip. Rozanov doesn't need anything from him.
Maybe his good mouth.
Occasionally.
But that's all there is.
“Shane-”
So, stop.
Don't call me that.
Ever again.
“Shane-”
“What?”
“Shane, honey, have you decided about Wimbledon?”
What?
He blinks, looks around the restaurant, dragged back into the real world by his mother’s persistence. Plates. Cutlery. Soft chatter. Normal people having normal conversations.
“I'm sure you could have a glass of wine if that's what you wanted...”
“No, I can't.”
He can't have what he wants. Because what he wants could potentially destroy him with a single word-
Shane-
What he wants nearly finished him off just by saying his name once. That's all it took.
So, no mom. He can't have a glass of wine because he can't have nice things. Because if he lets himself have comfort, real comfort, it opens the door to wanting more.
And that’s dangerous.
He can’t do it. It would ruin his career. It would make all those years at the rink meaningless, erase his parents’ sacrifices, all of it – just because he allowed himself the luxury of–
A glass of wine.
Control is the only thing he has left. Control means denial. And if he loses that, if he lets himself want freely, then he’s done.
“You can go to Wimbledon without me. You can say I’m sick or something. They won’t kick you out.”
He says it calmly, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most reasonable solution in the world.
His mother’s worried look cuts straight through him.
“Honey, I don’t want you to lie,” she says, disbelief written across her face. “That’s not who you are.”
Shane stares down at the table, turning her words over and over in his head, testing their weight.
No, Mom.
That’s exactly who I am now.
=
~END~