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What the hell, Rozanov?

Shane grinds his teeth, desperate to keep his tears at bay. This is ridiculous. This isn’t even mean. Not really. Shane should consider himself lucky, really; Ilya is never usually this bad at trash-talking other players. So why is Shane even hurt?

Perhaps it’s the fact that Ilya wrote something about him at all, and Shane only found out because Hayden sent him a screenshot of it. Maybe it’s the fact that he used the word “boring”, which is an adjective that has been used to describe Shane so many times throughout his life that he’s come to loathe the very letters composing it. Or maybe it’s the fact that Shane has lost to Ilya’s team tonight, having played his worst game in years.

Shane shoves his phone into the disproportionate pile of pillows covering his sofa. He doesn’t want to look at Ilya’s tweet anymore. He wants to forget everything about tonight, but his thoughts keep spiralling, fogging up his mind like smothering smoke filtering through the cracks of his soul. He turns on the TV and pretends to look at the programme playing on the screen.

Rozanov has got some nerve. The only reason Shane was so distracted in the first place was because of him. If Ilya hadn’t badly hurt his wrist when JJ slammed him into the boards, Shane’s stomach wouldn’t have been twisted with concern for the rest of the game. He would have been able to focus on the puck instead of on the bench, where Ilya spent the rest of the hour. He would have played better. He wouldn’t have been so depressing to look at.

Shane’s phone pings with a new message from where it’s buried. He ignores it.

Shane isn’t an idiot. He knows he isn’t the most exciting person in the world. Hell, he’s without a doubt the least exciting person in his team. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t eat anything outside of his meal plan, and barely ever gets out, because he easily gets stressed in crowded environments. And yet, he didn’t think Ilya cared about that. He thought all the “boring” jokes were just that — jokes.

This doesn’t feel like one. Especially after Shane spent the entire evening worrying to death about Ilya.

Shane groans in frustration. He was supposed to meet up with Ilya tonight, but he doesn’t think he can face him. Not when he desperately wants to fuss over this man, who’d call him pathetic for doing so.

Shane gets up, turns off the television and darts towards his bedroom, before turning on his heels as soon as he’s crossed the threshold to grab his phone from the sofa. He always brings his phone with him when he goes to sleep, and despite it being the reason for his heartache, he can’t bring himself to leave it behind. Keeping his habits has always brought him comfort, and he’s in desperate need of some right now.

Surprisingly, Ilya has been another great source of comfort lately. It hasn’t always been the case, but since Shane admitted his feelings to Ilya, and Ilya let himself fall apart in his arms, Shane has allowed himself to hope. Rose’s support helped him get brave, and he thought that, maybe, they were getting closer than ever.

It doesn’t matter now. They aren’t a couple, not really, and if Ilya gets his kicks fucking him behind closed doors and insulting him on the same night, maybe they never will be. Especially if Ilya is sick of him already. The notion makes Shane nauseous. Maybe it was Rozanov’s plan all along. Get a confession out of Shane before humiliating him publicly and watching him get flustered over it. Except it can’t have been a distraction tactic, because the game was already over when he posted his tweet. Despite knowing deep inside him it isn’t true, Shane feels used. This is Vegas all over again, and Shane hates it.

Shane kind of wants to scream. He sits on his bed, raises his legs against his chest and wraps his arms around his knees. He starts rocking back and forth in hopes of soothing himself, but the thoughts continue to circle in his head. He should be at Ilya’s side right now, making sure he isn’t hurting too much, not agonising about a stupid social media post, but when his mind fixates on something, it has a very hard time letting go.

The ringing of his phone draws his attention back to the device in his hand. Shane unlocks it reluctantly, already knowing who’s writing to him.

Lily, 08:07

You are late.

Lily, 08:09

Jane.

Where are you?

Lily, 08:14

Have you been murdered on the way here? Let me know. I’ve got other people I can call.

Under normal circumstances, the joke would have drawn a smile out of Shane, but tonight, it only makes things worse.

Shane knows he should talk to him. Logically, he knows that Ilya likes him. Shane thinks back to the emotion he heard in Ilya’s voice when he called him from Moscow, and to his tear-stricken face when he confided in Shane about his father for the first time. Ilya keeps his feelings very close to his chest, so he must like Shane very much if he was ready to show his most vulnerable side to him. But has he actually said the words…? When Shane told him he had romantic feelings for him, did he actually say the words back? Shane can’t say that he did. After years of denying it, even to himself, Shane gathered the courage to tell him he liked him, and Ilya changed the subject.

Maybe whatever Ilya did give him would be enough for someone else. Maybe someone else could read between the lines. But Shane needs words. He’s never been great at reading people, and in every aspect of his life, he needs clarity. This is why Shane likes Ilya so much in the first place: Ilya is the bluntest person he knows. His frankness doesn’t leave any room for misunderstandings. Shane can’t help but feel frustrated about the fact that this is the one topic Ilya is squirmy about. Shane understands; it’s pretty fucking obvious why Ilya can’t be honest about this, and yet, in the midst of his panic, he can’t help but wonder if he’s got other reasons.

Maybe Shane is asking for too much.

Maybe Ilya doesn’t feel as strongly about Shane as Shane feels about him.

Jane, 08:15

I’m not coming.

Sorry, not feeling well.

After hitting ‘send’, Shane sighs, plugs his phone far from his bed, and buries himself in the covers.

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If Shane had managed to fall asleep, he would have been woken up an hour later by some pounding on his door and Ilya’s booming voice hollering his last name.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane swears, jumping to his feet and rushing across his apartment to get to the door. He’s not particularly keen to confront Ilya, but at this rate, he’ll be lucky if no one calls the police in the next thirty seconds.

Shane’s breath catches in his throat as soon as he opens the door. He kind of hates the fact that the sight of Ilya never fails to render him speechless, except for when he really loves it. Ilya’s usual golden curls are wet and dark because of the water still clinging to them. His eyes pierce through Shane, pinning him in place, and though Ilya tries to hide it, Shane immediately notices the concern shining in them.

He’s also wearing a cast on his wrist, yet he’s the one who says: “You look like shit.”

Shane huffs in disbelief. “Jeez, thank you.”

“What is wrong?” Ilya takes a step forward, forcing Shane to let him inside the apartment.

“Other than you bursting in here uninvited and insulting me?”

“I was invited. You opened the door, no?”

Shane grits his teeth. “Rozanov...”

“Shane.” Ilya takes another step forward and takes Shane’s hand in his, drawing a low sigh from him. Shane feels ridiculous. Ilya is injured; he shouldn’t be the one trying to comfort Shane. It should be the other way around. Ilya moves his free hand to cup Shane’s face, swiping his thumb on his cheek and silently mapping the constellation of freckles on his skin. His touch is so delicate that Shane almost doesn’t feel it. Their relationship sometimes feels the same way: life-changing, overwhelmingly right, but barely there. Unnoticeable to the untrained eye.

Shane closes his eyes despite himself. “You shouldn’t be here. Your wrist…”

“Is fine.” Ilya frowns, his eyes moving back and forth between both of Shane’s eyes. His mouth is twisted in a worried grimace that doesn’t suit him. “You are upset. I don’t like seeing you upset.”

Shane looks away. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“So you are upset.”

Shane’s reply is out of his mouth before he even realises he’s thinking it. “I don’t know why you’re surprised; I thought I was the most depressing man you knew?”

Ilya drops Shane’s face like he’s been burned. Understanding dawns on his face, shame slowly marring his face like red wine impregnates a white cloth when spilt. “Oh,” he breathes, and Shane immediately wants to cry again.

“Forget it.” Shane shakes his head and takes a step back, clenching his fists firmly at his sides. “Forget I said anything. You’ve seen me now. You can go back to your hotel.”

Ilya doesn’t move. He stands frozen in front of Shane, looking more stunned than Shane has ever seen him before. “I didn’t know you looked at Twitter,” is what he ends up saying, a little stupidly. His accent is thicker than usual, in a way that only happens when he’s truly affected. “I thought you didn’t like it.”

“Fuck you,” Shane spits, annoyed at the fact that Ilya knows this in the first place, “you know I don’t, but Hayden sent me a screenshot. He can’t believe what an asshole you are!”

Ilya visibly winces. “I am sorry.” He lifts his hand, as if he’s going to cup Shane’s face again, but he seems to think better of it at the last second, because he aborts his movement just before coming in contact with Shane’s skin. Shane hates himself for leaning in. Ilya shakes his head, his face full of a remorse so genuine, it is staggering. “I am sorry, Shane. I wouldn’t have posted it if I had known you would see it. I wouldn’t have posted it if I had known it would hurt you.”

Shane swallows, crossing his arms to keep himself from throwing himself at Ilya. He craves the comfort of his arms, but this apology isn’t enough. He can’t forgive him already. He needs an explanation. “Why the hell did you post it, then?” Shane’s tone is more curious than angry now, but he can’t help himself. More than anything, he wants to understand.

Ilya hangs his head in shame, his eyes closing under the weight of his regrets. For a moment, Shane fears that Ilya won’t answer him. He’s just about to repeat his question when Ilya lifts his head back up and reaches into his jeans’ pocket. He retrieves his smartphone, unlocks it, navigates for a few seconds, and when he’s found what he was looking for, finally hands it to Shane.

“What is this?” Ilya’s phone is open on a Twitter page.

“The reason for my tweet. The reason for my mean, stupid tweet.”

Shane looks at Ilya for a second before drawing his attention back to the phone in his hand. 

Shane frowns a little more with every word he reads. “If you came here to show me nasty tweets about me, Ilya, I swear to god…”

Ilya rolls his eyes, like Shane’s being the unreasonable one here. “I’m not showing you the tweets, I am showing you the replies.”

Shane sighs. “So what, what if one person thinks I’m not totally shit at my job? I don’t see how that justifies anything you said.”

“It is not just anyone.”

“What, just because they’re a fan of yours, too?” Shane bites back.

“Because it is me. It is my account.”

Shane’s head snaps back up. “What?”

Ilya avoids his eyes, “I hate the whole rival thing, you know?” He starts by saying, seemingly a propos of nothing. “I like playing against you, but I don’t like pretending I hate you. Is bullshit. I never hated you. Not even at the beginning. Not even a little.” Despite his best efforts, Shane feels himself softening. Ilya is still evading his gaze, but his eyebrows are furrowed, betraying how serious he is. Noticing that his hands are flexing anxiously, Shane carefully uncurls the fingers of his injured hand and takes the other one in his. “I hate what they’re saying about you, but I can’t defend you publicly,” Ilya continues, a little calmer now that Shane’s touching him. “So I do it this way. Like, a secret.”

Shane gapes at him, forcing himself to remember why he was mad in the first place. “I still don’t see why you had to go and insult me on your official account, though.”

“Didn’t you see the replies? Those girls. They recognised the way I speak. I guess I have been tweeting a lot lately. Fucking fangirls. People should give them more credit. Nothing gets past them.”

Shane is no stranger to fans being overly invested in his life, but he still feels like he’s missing something. “How did they even know you’re Russian, though?”

Ilya purses his lips, looking — perhaps for the first time in his life — something akin to embarrassed. “I might have replied to some Russian tweets during the Olympics.”

“In Sochi?! Ilya, that was years ago!”

“Yeah, well.”

Shane clicks on this person’s — Ilya’s — profile and scrolls down. There are hundreds of posts, all of them defending him or complimenting something he did during a game. The oldest go back to 2008, a little before their first meeting at the World Junior Hockey Championships in Regina. Shane can’t wrap his head around it. All this time, has Ilya really been worried about him, about his honour? Did he really care this much? Has he really cared for this long?

Shane gives himself a little shake, forcing himself to go back to the conversation they’re having. “Do you really think they know it’s you?”

“Of course, not.” Ilya clicks his tongue. “They’re not psychic.”

“Then why…”

“I panicked! Jesus, Hollander. Of course, they don’t know. But I had to… I had to… How do you say..?” Ilya is pacing now, his eyes wide and alarmed.

“Throw them off?”

“Yes. What if I - what if I make mistake, one day? Tweet something from my real account instead of this one, and everyone learns the truth? Would you ever forgive me? Would you still want… Would you still want this?”

Would you still want me?

Ilya doesn’t say the words, but Shane hears them anyway.

“Oh, Ilya…” Shane pounces on him, grabbing his face to keep him still him and kissing him with everything he’s got. Ilya deflates under his touch, as if the warmth of Shane’s embrace is enough to calm the trembling of his shivering heart. When their kiss ends, Shane whispers against Ilya’s mouth, like the words will penetrate his mind better if they’re conveyed to the very depths of his chest. “This is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. Of course, I’d still want you. I’ll always want you.” To drive his point home, Shane gives Ilya another kiss — chaste, but unmistakably sweet.

“Yeah, well,” Ilya repeats. His cheeks are burning, but he seems determined to act like they’re not. “I can be pretty idiotic. You make me stupid. Is your fault, really.”

“Oh, really?” An enamoured smile stretches Shane’s mouth, but he can’t help it. The warmth in his stomach could sustain him for a whole winter in the Canadian cold.

“Yes. I wouldn’t have to defend you if you didn’t have so many… how do you say?”

“Haters?”

Ilya shakes his head, a devilish smile forming on his lips. “Flaws.”

A snort comes out of Shane, so unlike him that it startles a laugh out of Ilya too. Shane closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest on Ilya’s. They remain like this for a moment, taking breaths deeper than the ocean that separated them at their birth. Now, just like they did years ago, they manage to breach the distance. To reunite their two souls against all odds, despite Ilya’s antics and Shane’s neuroses.

“I like that you’re friends with your mom,” Ilya murmurs after a while, wrapping his arms around Shane to bring him closer to him. “I’d like to be friends with her, too.”

“Ilya!” Shane exclaims, scandalised.

“Nooo, not like that. She seems nice.”

“She is.”

“I don’t really think you are boring,” Ilya breathes then, barely louder than the hum of the cars rushing by in the street below.

Shane hums. “Really?” His entire body is warm. He’s rarely felt this peaceful. It’s a stark contrast from the state he was in just an hour ago.

“No. You are the most boring person ever. I wasn’t lying about that. But is not depressing. You are the least depressing thing in my life.”

Shane tightens his hold on Ilya and squeezes his eyes shut, wishing more than anything that he could take all of Ilya’s pain away. “You are the least depressing thing in my life, too.” Shane moves to kiss Ilya’s cheek, just above his mole and, sensing the warmth against his lips, decides to tease him one last time. “And my mom isn’t my best friend. Hayden is.”

Ilya scrunches up his nose, looking more adorable than he probably wishes to be. “Is even worse, Shane. How can you not see that it is way, way worse?”

Shane’s laughter echoes through the whole apartment before it’s swallowed by Ilya’s hungry mouth.

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Four years later

“What the hell, Rozanov?!”

This time, Shane’s cry of outrage is granted a reply, in the form of Ilya’s laughter, erupting from Shane’s ensuite bathroom. Shane’s grinning, too.