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“Hollander,” Ilya remembers saying, a plea he was desperate enough to make. Desperate enough to show his cards so obviously. His hands stretch out, longing to make contact and grasp, hold, do anything to get Shane to just stay.
“Hollander,” he says again. He knows his eyes are wide and confused, and he doesn’t know how they got there either. Everything was going so well. He had just agreed to stay the night, and then all of Ilya’s best made plans had gone up in smoke. It was just one slip but Shane - no, he had to stay as Hollander - was gone in the wind, just like a spooked animal.
“I can’t do this, I’m sorry.” Shane says.
Of course he’s polite as ever even when he’s breaking Ilya’s heart.
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Ilya stays on the couch for a while. The TV drones on in the background, a game half-finished from when they had started it. When there was still a “they” instead of just an “Ilya”. His hands have since dropped down, not reaching after Shane who was long gone.
Shane’s ginger ale is still on the table, and Ilya stares at it with reproach. Why was this Shane’s preference? Sure, it was boring like him, but there had to be some kind of deeper story. Everything Shane does has a reason, from the shoes he wears to media appearances to his meticulous diet. Everything except this nebulous thing he had with Ilya.
If Ilya took the can and brought it to his lips, finishing the drink fizzing with warmth and spice, would he understand Shane better? Why he was so strict with himself, why he reciprocated Ilya’s pursuit, why he had to run away every time they got close to -
To what, exactly? It’s not like they could ever be anything more than fuckbuddies, friends with benefits, convenient hookups when their schedules happened to overlap, it really doesn’t matter what you call it. Ilya knew this. Shane definitely knew this. So why did Ilya’s heart hurt so badly when Shane ran away?
An hour passed, and the sky was starting to darken through Ilya’s large windows. He was still stuck replaying the same scene. Shane, warm and heavy on his lap. Shane, looking into his eyes, his face twisting in shock when Ilya let his first name slip. Shane, standing up, eyes wild and body language tense, fidgeting and uncertain. Shane, walking away in Ilya’s shirt and joggers, taking away a piece of him that Ilya didn’t think he would ever be able to recover. This wasn’t like Ilya - he didn’t do this, this yearning like some lovestruck teenager.
He didn’t love Shane.
(He can’t love Shane.)
He finally stands up, grabbing the plates from the tuna melts and bringing them back to the kitchen sink. They had both finished theirs and only crumbs were left.
Shane, with his diet of stupid fucking bird food and absolutely no alcohol allowed. Shane, who had asked for Ilya’s vodka to make himself more comfortable when they were in Ilya’s penthouse together in Las Vegas, eagerly taking it as his reward when they laid side by side in the bed still slick with their sweat and combined release. Shane, who devoured Ilya’s tuna melt as if it was the first time he had eaten real food in years, not even leaving any crust. Stupid, frustrating, stubborn, boring, wonderful Shane, who Ilya would probably never see again off the ice because he had fucked up.
He washes the plates, cleaning off the residual grease, feeling like he’s washing something else away at the same time. Were they really over? Was this it?
And god, this is the first time Ilya’s had these thoughts when parting ways with other lovers. Women in his life were fleeting; nights of passion, or maybe a couple of days of debauchery before he left town and never spoke to them again, often not even taking note of their names. He liked women, but he hadn’t liked a woman in a very very long time. Not enough to feel anything substantial, even when some had cursed him out for his sometimes callous goodbyes. Only Svetlana was constant and enduring, but their love was not what either of them truly craved, and their relationship was too deep to ruin with something like this.
Shane was not like any of these beautiful sexy women and that was exactly the issue. How was Ilya expected to move on from someone like this? Ever since he stepped onto the ice he was looking for someone who could push him to be better, match his pace and stretch his limits. Both inside and outside of the rink, there was only Shane. It was always, and has always just been Shane.
Ilya always knew this tenuous thing between them would come to an end. He just didn’t expect it to be so soon. God, he wanted a cigarette, but of course he had just finished his last pack, and he had promised Shane he wouldn't get more so he didn’t even have a back up.
Something about the acrid taste in his mouth was just grounding unlike anything else. Vodka’s sharp bite was good when he wanted his thoughts a little hazy around the edges, but feeling the smoke from a good cigarette swirl around in his mouth before releasing it back out gave him something more to think about, a menial task to do. And of course the temporary calm was always welcomed in his storm of a life.
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Ilya can’t bear to go back on the couch. Just a few hours ago, he had sat there with Shane. First at opposite sides, anxious and slightly uncomfortable, then pressed up against each other in some semblance of a cuddle.
Shane had asked about his family. He had cared enough to recognize the Russian word for father and ask Ilya about it, even when he had no obligation to do so, just because he was a good fucking person. That had taken Ilya by surprise - nobody except for Svetlana had ever asked or showed any kind of concern, but she didn’t count because half the time she was more aware of his family’s situation than he was.
Ilya had felt like a live wire then, raw and dangerous to touch but still sparking around looking for attention. He didn’t know whether to shrug it off or acknowledge it seriously, whether either choice would break this temporary truce and wonderful peace they had just found on his couch. He had brought Shane’s head to his chest, hoping he wouldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.
It had felt so nice to card his fingers through Shane’s soft hair, the scent of expensive sports shampoo wafting up whenever it shifted too much. And then Shane had brought his hand down to Ilya’s shorts, and the rest was history.
He could still see him and Shane tangled together, ghosts of a relationship that had just died still clinging to familiar spots and haunting every inch of his house.
Ilya was still standing in the kitchen, where he had cooked tuna melts for them both. He had planned everything out perfectly; tuna melts would be comforting as Shane was probably anxious to be in a new environment with Ilya, and ginger ale to soothe his nerves with a familiar taste. But of course temporary familiarity couldn’t assuage Shane’s skittishness, especially with the revelation that Ilya had thought of him by first name for a long time now. Temporary familiarity was all that their relationship was built on, ephemeral and always falling apart as fast as it came together.
He felt his breath quicken as he started to spiral, slapping his cheeks to force himself back into focus. “Fuck,” he said, cursing himself and his bottled up emotions finally spilling over.
He wanted to call Svetlana so badly. A comfortable body to hold, woman to fuck, and honestly just someone to hold him while he fell apart. He wavered over her contact, stuck between spilling his deepest secrets and just keeping everything to himself as always. She already knew he liked men, what with his arrangement with Sasha from all those years ago. What difference would it make if she knew he had been involved with Hollander?
Fuck it, he pressed call and watched his phone ring once, twice, and a third time until she finally picked up.
“Sveta,” he said and hated how much it wavered on just her name.
“Ilya, what is wrong?” She knew him better than he knew himself, he thought.
“Come, please?” He was weak, he knew he was, but that hasn’t stopped him before.
“Okay, 15 minutes,” She said and hung up the phone. He set it down on the counter, exhaling sharply. He ran his hands through his hair. Walked to the couch, where the TV had already turned itself off. And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
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He heard a knock on the door and walked to open the door, as casually as he could while trying to school his expression into something at least semi-normal. He hadn’t cried (a couple of tears had escaped but that didn't count), so he hoped against everything that he looked normal. He knows he called her, but he really didn’t want to talk about Shane. He doesn’t think he could do it so soon.
“Ilya, baby,” She said in Russian, and he cracked immediately and grabbed her in a tight embrace. His face was nestled in the crook of her neck and he breathed in her scent, warm and easily familiar. He knew it like the scent of the borscht his mother used to make, like the intense spice of his father’s favorite cologne, like the feel of Shane’s hips in his hands.
“Hi,” She said, rubbing his back.
“Hello,” He responded, muffled into her skin.
“You want to go inside, or just stand in the doorway?” She said with a smile he could hear in her voice.
“Inside,” He said and didn’t move. She started to push him in and he walked them backwards, and she kicked the door closed behind her.
They ended up in Ilya’s room and he dragged them both down into the bed. He was suddenly glad Shane and him had torn the covers off before engaging in anything, as it was nice to just hold Svetlana on the clean bedding piled back on.
“So-”
“No.” He said, shaking his head. He didn’t want to talk about why he had pleaded for her to come over. That would involve thinking about Shane, and that was the one thing he did not want to do.
“Is this about Jane?” She said, shifting up so his head was on her chest as she played with his hair. It was grounding, being taken care of like this. He thought this was something his mother might have done when he came home upset from school, often as a result of stupid playground fights. His father would never think to offer comfort; coddling led to weak children, and weak children could never succeed. He remembered flashes of scenes; sitting between a woman’s legs, the comfort of a warm hug, and his curls gliding between thin fingers. Memories of his mother faded fast, and he didn’t know if he had repressed them in an effort to simply feel less, or if this was just the normal passage of time.
“Mm,” He grunted, noncommittal which she took as a yes.
“Something happened?”
“Mm.”
She could probably tell this was the most she could pry out of him, at least at this moment. Maybe in an hour she could find more. Perhaps even the morning when he was vulnerable and soft from the sleep clouding his judgement, if she stayed over like always. She didn’t say anything, but squeezed him a little tighter. I love you, she said with her embrace. I am here for you, as he felt her heart beat steadily. You are safe, the hands in his hair spoke for her.
Ilya shut his eyes and just let himself feel for a minute. Soon he would go back to his team, pretend he was okay, and hopefully lead them to a Stanley cup very soon. He would be brash, and upbeat, and someone that everyone could rely on (even if he didn’t keep the best attitude throughout it). He would deny he ever cried this evening, Ilya Rozanov does not cry, Russians do not do that. But if there was a wet patch left on Svetlana’s shirt when he raised his head to kiss her cheek, he wouldn’t be able to deny that. And if she heard his breath grow unsteady and shaky as they laid there together, she didn’t acknowledge it past pressing a chaste kiss into his hair and holding him closer in her arms.