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Ilya skates out onto the ice, basking in the crowd’s roar–mostly boos, tonight, since they’re playing in Montreal, but Ilya likes that just as much. He grins at the camera, knowing Montreal’s fans will see it, and heads to the center of the rink. He passes Hollander on the way and tries to catch his eye, but Hollander’s ignoring him. Playing hard to get. Well, Ilya’s always enjoyed a challenge.
Ilya is good. (Ilya is always good.) But tonight, Hollander is better. He’s always two steps ahead, flying over the ice, perfectly predicting where Ilya will be. Ilya, meanwhile, feels drawn to Hollander like a magnet. His eyes keep finding Hollander’s face, noting the tiny details–his hair sticking to his forehead, wet with sweat; his frown of concentration; his gaze dead-set on the puck. He doesn’t look at Ilya once. It’s infuriating and a tiny bit endearing. Ilya can’t stop thinking about that same concentration, those same dark eyes, dead-set on him.
Boston loses, 4-1, and Ilya only assisted on the goal. He’s fired-up and frustrated afterwards, buzzing with the thrill of playing good hockey and the anticipation of good sex. He’s annoyed enough at losing–and at Hollander’s failure to acknowledge him–that he’s seriously considering making Hollander wait a few hours before coming over, and then taking it slow, teasing him until the tables have turned completely and Hollander’s desperate to have Ilya look at him, instead. But nobody on the team feels like going out except a couple of the rookies, and Ilya doesn’t feel like playing babysitter or drinking alone, so in the end, he just goes to Hollander’s apartment.
It’s dark and quiet outside Hollander’s building when he arrives. He lets himself inside, typing in the code Hollander gave him, and takes his time heading up the stairs, knowing Hollander will have seen him from the window, and is waiting for him at the door. Now his mind feels clear and perfectly in sync with his body, the same way he feels before any big game. He reaches the apartment, runs a hand through his hair, and knocks on the door.
Hollander pulls it open and immediately throws himself at Ilya, hard enough that they stumble back into the hall a bit, and Ilya laughs, surprised, into Hollander’s enthusiastic kiss. I knew you were happy to see me, he murmurs, in Russian, and gently guides them back inside. Hollander is apparently too intent on driving Ilya crazy to worry about anything else–at the moment, his eyes have fluttered shut, he’s kissing Ilya’s neck passionately, and his hands are tugging on Ilya’s curls–so Ilya kicks the door shut behind them, then scoops Shane up like he weighs nothing and carries him down the hall. They’re going to want a bed for this.
The sex is great. The sex is always great, with Hollander–probably too great, really, since it keeps Ilya coming back every time. Tonight, they hardly even speak, each seeming to know instinctively what the other wants. Ilya thinks to himself, not for the last time, that Shane is good at sex the same way he’s good at hockey–he just knows Ilya so well, like he can read Ilya’s mind. It’s electrifying.
When they’re done, he rolls off of Hollander and presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Fuck, Hollander,” he says lazily, “Was good. You want to destroy me twice in one night, huh?” He’s so relaxed and content he hardly cares about the loss anymore.
Hollander is flushed as red as a tomato, and apparently still doesn’t have enough breath back to respond. Ilya feels a surge of satisfaction that he’s the one who gets to make Hollander feel like this. He decides to reward himself with a cigarette–Hollander will scold him, and then Hollander might curl up next to him and rest his head on his chest. He doesn’t know why Hollander always pretends he doesn’t want to cuddle, when they do pretty much everything else together. But it’s kind of adorable.
He finds his cigarettes–three left!-- then stretches out on the bed next to Hollander and lights up. He closes his eyes for just a moment, enjoying the bitter taste of tobacco, then grins at Hollander, ready for the inevitable criticism.
Hollander looks strange, staring at the cigarette. Ilya can’t get a read on him, for once.
“Can I try?” he says. Ilya stares at him in disbelief, but Hollander just points at the cigarette.
“You? Want to smoke?” Ilya wants to laugh, to share the joke, but Hollander looks completely serious. “You, Shane Hollander?”
“Yeah, I do,” says Hollander, with that slight tilt of his chin he always has when he’s accepting a challenge. Ilya shakes his head, bemused. Is this some misguided attempt to get him to quit? Hollander just keeps looking at him.
“Okay,” says Ilya. Hollander is cute, even if he is trying to be manipulative. “Is not good for you,” he adds, and Hollander laughs, which is gratifying. On a whim, he takes his own cigarette and places it between Hollader’s lips, admiring his lovely, pouting face. They just had sex, but this still feels erotic. Of course, Hollander chooses this exact moment to erupt into a coughing fit.
Ilya laughs, and while Hollander is hacking up a lung, he safely extinguishes the cigarette, and starts to trace slow, lazy circles on Hollander's back. He knows he won’t get away with it for long–soon Hollander will want to shower, and Ilya will head back to the empty hotel room. But it’s nice while it lasts.
The coughing subsides gradually, and Ilya is about to crack a joke when Hollander leans up against him, tucking his head into the crook of Ilya’s neck. Ilya stills for a moment in surprise. The gesture feels…intimate, maybe. Even tender. It’s not something they do often. Certainly not something Shane would initiate.
It’s weird, but it’s nice. Ilya doesn’t want to ruin the moment, so he doesn’t say anything, just goes back to rubbing Hollander’s back, and lets his own head rest on Hollander’s. After a while, he realizes that Hollander’s breathing is still shaky, and that his muscles are tense.
So Hollander is upset about something. They don’t talk much, really, not about serious things. It would be too much like they were a couple, which they can’t be. But Ilya knows Hollander very well by now, and he’s good at reading between the lines. He knows the season has been stressing him out. But the Metros won the game tonight. And Hollander had seemed fine earlier.
With a sudden pang of guilt, Ilya realizes he doesn’t know that that’s true. They hadn’t talked, at all; not at the game, and not when they were having sex. But he thought Hollander had been enjoying it. And anyway, they’re not a couple. Ilya couldn’t be Hollander’s boyfriend, even if he wanted to. It’s not like it’s his job to manage Hollander’s emotions or whatever. He’s got his own problems to deal with.
A thought occurs to him. Maybe Hollander is nervous because he wants more. Maybe he’s cuddling Ilya just because he wants to, and he’s uncomfortable because he’s Shane Hollander and he’s uncomfortable all the time.
That would be good, for Ilya. He likes sharing these things with Hollander–cuddling, talking about hockey, maybe even sharing breakfast or coffee. He knows Hollander is weird about it–like they can’t do couple-y things or it would somehow make them a couple–but Ilya doesn’t see why it needs to change anything. They could just hang out.
Ilya’s arm is falling asleep under Hollander, so he shifts positions slightly. When he does, Hollander lets out a soft huff of breath curls into him even tighter, like he needs to be as close to him as possible. It’s pretty weird, for Hollander. He’d usually be hinting at Ilya to leave by now. Maybe it is the playoffs, after all. Nothing but hockey gets Hollander this tense.
“You are in funny mood tonight, Hollander,” says Ilya.
“Sorry,” says Hollander immediately, which is kind of funny, just because it’s so predictable.
“Is no problem,” says Ilya. Hollander doesn’t say anything else. Maybe Ilya should just shut up, but when they’re cuddling like this, he kind of wants them both to be enjoying it. So he pushes a little more. “Things are good for you, yeah? You won game. You will go to playoffs. Is good.”
Hollander kind of freezes for a minute, and then he jerks away roughly. When he does, Ilya’s head smacks back against the headboard, and the pain distracts him. What the fuck? Why is Hollander mad at him? He turns back to Hollander, ready for a fight, but Hollander isn’t saying anything. He’s hiding his face like a little kid, crying, and then he’s resting his head on his bare knees. Ilya can tell his breathing is fast and panicked.
Instinct takes over. Ilya kicks off the sheet that’s tangled between his legs, and kneels by Hollander’s side, hovering but not touching. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says, soothing. “You’re okay. What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?” Hollander looks fine, but he’s kicking himself for not noticing, not doing something earlier. And he was just thinking to himself how well they knew each other.
“No, I’m okay,” says Hollander in a choked voice.
“You do not seem okay,” says Ilya. Trust Hollander to deny even a panic attack.
“I’m sick, Rozanov.”
Well, that is something Ilya can help with. “You are going to vomit? Eh. Okay. I get bowl–”
“No, not that type of sick,” says Hollander. His face emerges from under his arms. He looks scared. He closes his eyes. “I went to the doctor today,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes Ilya wish desperately for him to stop, not to say whatever’s coming next. “They found a mass.”
The room is very still and quiet, and suddenly Ilya’s heart is pounding. They found a mass. What does that mean?
“This word, in Russian, it means–”
“A tumor, yeah.” Shane’s eyes are still closed. He’s pale, and Ilya has the sudden, horribly vivid image of him on a hospital bed.
“Where?” asks Ilya. This is a nightmare, he thinks, not real, not real–
“In my brain,” whispers Shane.
Jesus. No. Please. “It is cancer?”
“Yes. Probably. They’re doing another MRI tomorrow to check.”
Ilya sways and falls back onto his feet. Cancer. Brain tumor. That’s not real, can’t be real, can’t be hurting Shane Hollander, living and breathing and right in front of him–
Shane starts talking again, and Ilya glues his eyes to Shane’s face, willing himself not to miss a word. Why isn’t his English better? Why hasn’t he practiced more? What an idiot he is.
“They’re going to operate next week. No choice, they said. So I’m not going to play-offs. This was my last game of the season. Which is good, actually, because it can affect motor control and vision so it’s not like I could play well, anyway, but if the surgery doesn’t go well or the tumor comes back I might never–might never–” Shane his panicking, his voice high and fast and shaking, and he’s wiping away his tears. “Might never play again, and people don’t even always survive this thing, and I just–I can’t–” he starts to sob, and tries to hide his face, but Ilya is there, catching him. Ilya can’t let himself panic, not now, not when Shane needs him.
“Shane, Shane, look at me, Shane, please, my love,” he says, slipping into Russian, which must work because Shane finally opens his beautiful eyes. “It’s okay. You will be okay. You will be okay, I promise, okay? Doctors will do surgery, and next season you come back, and you beat me, and I am annoyed like always, okay? It is doctors’ job, they are good at it, you come back good like new. Will be fine, I promise, sweetheart.” He’s brushing Shane’s tears away, and Shane suddenly surges forward, burying his face in Ilya’s bare chest. Ilya rocks him back and forth, shushing him. He’s cradling Shane’s head, and he can’t help thinking that somewhere beneath his palm is the cancer.
He can’t think about that, can’t think about any of that. Can’t think about Shane being sick, or Shane dying, or Shane dead. He needs to comfort Shane and worry about the rest later. So he holds Shane while he cries, and prays inside his head. He can’t put much into words, just asks please, God, please, Mama, over and over.
Shane cries himself out, and then leans against the wall again, looking numb. Ilya kisses his forehead and tells him he’ll be right back. He pulls the blanket up around Shane and goes to the kitchen, pours them both glasses of ginger ale, and returns. He hands one glass to Shane, and tells him to drink it, to re-hydrate. Shane takes it obediently and sips it like a kid.
Sometimes Ilya finds it hot, when Shane does whatever he asks. Now he feels sick. How could he not have noticed? Just slept with him, like nothing was wrong? But Ilya can’t spiral, not yet. He drinks his ginger ale, and tries to think clearly. What can he do, now, to help? What does Shane need?
Shane finishes his drink and reaches over Ilya to set it down. Ilya pulls him close, and closes his eyes, thinking.
“What if I’m always sick?” whispers Shane, and Ilya’s eyes snap open. “Disabled? Life without hockey, I can’t–”
The answer is as easy as breathing. “Then I take care of you,” Ilya says. It’s a terrible thought, a world where Shane Hollander plays no hockey; but it’s a million times better than a world with no Shane Hollander.
“No, Ilya, I mean for the rest of my life. What would–” Shane is protesting, but Ilya will have none of it. He sits up, pulling away from Shane, and takes his hands so they are face to face. He needs Shane to believe him, needs him to know how true it is, how much Ilya means it: “I would take care of you. I take care of you, and I play, and you tell me what I should do every second and then you play like that, through me. It counts. Plus you look very sexy in wheelchair.”
He says that last part because he is desperate for Shane’s smile, and he’s rewarded with a laugh. It’s like sunlight in a prison cell. Ilya feels the smile on his own face.
“Really?”
“Da, is very sexy, I show you how we have good time with–”
Shane puts his finger to Ilya’s mouth, shushing him. Ilya kisses it. Shane is so beautiful, even now, even terrified. Ilya suddenly knows, deep in his heart, that he can’t lie to himself anymore. He loves Shane Hollander, and will until the day he dies.
“No, I mean–you taking care of me. Would you do that for me?”
“Yeah, I mean it.” I would do anything for you.
“Why?”
Ilya looks away. Because I love you. If only he could say it. “I don’t have English words for it.”
“Okay,” says Shane.
“I tell you after big surgery,” lies Ilya. He’ll have thought of something by then. Or maybe he just won’t care anymore, what Russia says, what the world says, what Shane thinks of him, if Shane wants to end what they have–just so long as Shane is alive. “For now–I take care of you. Come here.”
Shane willingly comes to him, and within a few minutes falls asleep. He must be exhausted. Ilya just keeps running his fingers through Shane’s hair, and stares at the ceiling. He knows he won’t sleep tonight. He refuses to miss a second. Why had he never appreciated this before, never seen what a treasure each moment was when he held Shane in his arms? What a fool he is, to realize he loves Shane just when he might lose him. And what a miracle it is now, to hold him, and to hear his heartbeat, slow and steady. Why did he ever think anything else mattered?
By the time Shane wakes up, Ilya has a list in his head of what he can do to help. When Shane is showering, he strips the bed, washes the sheets, and makes Shane’ disgusting breakfast smoothie. The recipe is literally pinned to Shane’s fridge, even though Shane’s been drinking the same one for years, which for some reason brings tears to Ilya’s eyes. He brushes them away–no time for that now. When Shane emerges, they eat–Ilya even has a smoothie, in solidarity–and then they talk through everything Shane heard from the doctors.
It’s not quite as bad, yet, as Ilya had been imagining. The MRI today is to confirm what they told Shane yesterday; imaging mistakes are apparently common. If the mass is confirmed to be there, odds are good that the tumor is benign. That’s bad–any growth in the brain can disrupt function, and Shane’s dizzy spells lately are a sign that something is wrong–but they don’t know that it’s cancer, yet.
Ilya knows that Shane likes facts, and he also likes scripts, so Ilya gives him a plan on how to tell his parents.
“You say you have bad news. No, you don’t say, oh don’t worry, because of course they will worry. But you practice on me–I am good listener–and you are prepared for worry. You explain situation, you are clear and you are calm. And if you cry, is okay. Is normal.”
He can see that Shane is getting itchy, wanting to get out the door, even if he has to wait for an hour at the office. So he tells Shane that he’ll do the dishes, and let himself out.
“And afterwards, as soon as you get news, you call me,” he insists. Shane looks a tiny bit surprised. “Texting is stupid. Easier to understand on phone, yes?”
“Okay,” says Shane. He looks a lot better now, almost calm. He always does well with a plan.
He meets Ilya’s eyes and he looks strange again, but a good kind of strange–affectionate, maybe, almost happy. He reaches up a hand and brushes his thumb across Ilya’s cheek, and Ilya’s breath catches in his throat.
“Try not to worry, okay?” says Shane. He kisses Ilya for just a moment, and then he’s gone.
~
Shane doesn’t call him for three hours and twenty minutes. In that time, Ilya does the dishes; changes the laundry; makes a very healthy and boring lunch and sticks it in the fridge and breaks down when he sees Shane’s stupidly organized, labeled meal prep; and spends over an hour looking up Canadian oncology specialists. Then he realizes belatedly that Shane probably isn’t expecting him to be here when he gets back. Ilya may be in love with him, but as far as Shane is concerned, they’re still just hooking up. Well. Now that Ilya had told him he’d take care of him for life, maybe Shane has a clue how Ilya feels. But Ilya can worry about that later.
He’s just made it back to the hotel room–thank God, his roommate’s out–when Shane calls.
“Shane?” he answers, terrified.
“Ilya,” says Shane, and he’s laughing. “Ilya, I’m fine. I’m fine, Ilya, it was a stupid mistake–the stupid fucking machine was wrong–I mean, they have to do bloodwork, they think I might have a deficiency–but there’s no cancer, there’s no growth, I can play the rest of the season after all, so I’ll play you again in two weeks, you better be ready–” he’s laughing again, so hard he can’t talk, and Ilya has literally sunk down to the floor in relief. Thank God, thank God, thank God.
“Okay,” he says, laughing himself. “Okay, Hollander! You scare me for nothing! Is all big mind game, yeah, you scare me before play-offs start, you get my sympathy and you think I go easy on you–”
“As if!” Shane interrupts. “Even when I think I’m dying, you give me fifteen-step-plan to fix everything, like you’d ever go easy on me–”
He hears Shane’s car start and he realizes his eyes are wet. It’s a good thing they didn’t Facetime. Shane’s still taking, and for the first time, he sounds hesitant.
“Listen, Ilya–I want to…”
He’s still using Ilya’s first name. That must be a good sign, that they’ve taken that step.
“I want you to come to my cottage, this summer.” There’s a silence and then Shane fills it, and Ilya can imagine his face so perfectly as he rambles nervously. “It’s very private, just the two of us, we wouldn’t have to worry–just a couple of weeks, before training. I, I just–I want to spend time with you, together. And I thought maybe–maybe you would like that if–”
“Da, Hollander,” says Ilya, then corrects himself. “Yes. Shane. I would like that.”
He hears Shane’s sigh of relief. “Wow, really? Okay. Great. I thought you’d take more convincing than that,” he says, and laughs again.
“Oh, you know me, Shane,” says Ilya. “I never say no to a good time.”
He can almost hear Shane’s smile over the phone. “Yeah, I know you,” he says softly. Ilya closes his eyes, and listens to Shane, alive and breathing. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky.