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Ilya felt so stupid. How could he have been that stupid? He’d been so fucking close to getting Hollander to stay the night, one night where he could pretend, they were something they weren’t. One night to wake up with Shane curled around him, all warmth and weight, where they could’ve had slow, lazy morning sex and nowhere to be.
He’d just gotten Shane to relax into his touch, too. Shane had been stiff and awkward against Ilya’s shoulder at first, this was new territory for them, something they didn’t do, but he’d stayed. He’d been there, nuzzling into Ilya’s arm, wearing Ilya’s clothes, smelling so damn good it made Ilya crazy.
And now those clothes were gone with him, taken in a rush because Shane had panicked and bolted. He can still see that look on Shane’s face. He wishes he was not the cause of it.
Now Ilya was still sitting on the couch, the evidence of their domesticity still around him. The tuna melt plates, the soda cans and the sticky mess in his pants. It made his stomach twist. His heart hurt within his chest. He was not going to cry. This kind of embarrassment clung to him the same way a bad loss did, like blowing a home game in front of a full arena.
Almost worse, actually.
The apartment felt wrong without Shane, too quiet, too empty for a place that had held Shane’s breath only minutes ago. Ilya could still feel the phantom weight of him on his shoulder, the way Shane’s body had slowly, reluctantly softened as if he’d forgotten to guard himself for once.
Ilya pressed his fingers into the cushion where Shane had been curled against him, as if muscle memory might bring him back. As if he could rewind time to the moment before the name slipped out, before everything got so fucked.
He had planned this whole day out too. He planned to ask Shane to stay after they fucked. He planned to have that nap with him. He planned to make him food and put hockey on the tv so maybe Shane would feel at ease with this sudden change. He bought fucking ginger ales. He spent way too long in the store debating if there was any real difference between the brands. He’d wanted to make Shane feel welcome.
Ilya knew he was in too deep. He let this thing between them get out of control and now he was the one left feeling stupid. He wanted Shane to come back, he wanted to comfort him, he wanted to kiss him, he wanted to hold him.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Was Shane ever going to contact him again? Fuck.
He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. If he stood up, he would start cleaning. If he started cleaning, it would mean admitting it was over.
What was he supposed to do now?
He clutched the gold cross around his neck for comfort. It stabilized him. Brought him back down to Earth. It reminded him of his mother. He let the cool medal dig into his skin and tried to breathe.
Eventually he had to get up. He made himself get up. He was Ilya Rozanov. And this was pathetic.
He grabbed the discarded plates and their empty cans, the clatter too loud for the quiet that surrounded his apartment. The routine helped. Something simple and automatic. It didn’t fix anything. But it gave his hands something to do besides shake.
He couldn't even be bothered to change right now. He was too lazy. He didn't give a fuck about anything right now.
He opened his fridge and was assaulted by the ginger ales. Why the fuck did he buy a twelve pack? It’s not like he would ever drink this shit. How much more stupid could he get? He hates himself right now.
The cans stared at him. Mocking him.
Without thinking, he grabbed one and hurled it at the ground. The aluminum burst on impact, ginger ale spraying across the tile in a sharp, fizzy hiss. The sound echoed too loud in the kitchen, sudden and violent in a way that made his chest tighten.
Ilya stood there breathing hard, watching the liquid pool at his feet. He did not feel any better.
But he did it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again until there was a giant fucking mess in his kitchen, ginger ale soaking into the grout, aluminum crushed and scattered like shrapnel.
He still didn’t feel better. And now he had another mess to clean.
Sometime in Boston later
Ilya was fuming. Rose fucking Landry. Shane Hollander was dating Rose fucking Landry. Ilya was unsure if the man even liked girls in the first place. He knew he was a private person, but with his level of fame there was surely something he would’ve heard about Shane’s previous relationships.
But there he was, on the cover of a magazine. Holding hands, smiling and pretending everything was normal with a girl. Not long ago Hollander was sitting on his lap and eating tuna melts in his house.
And here Ilya was, laying in his bed alone, looking at his phone. Scrolling endlessly, picture after picture. Staring at Shane and Rose like an obsessed ex. He was not even that. They were nothing. Shane had no obligation to Ilya. Ilya glanced at his phone's clock.
1:24am.
Fuck. He couldn’t sleep like this. His chest ached. Hollow and heavy. Heartbroken.
In this moment, he let himself shed a few tears. Silent and bitter. It was uncharacteristic of him but he couldn’t help it. The only person he had ever felt anything real for was being ripped away from him.
His chest tightened and white hot jealousy ran through him. He had no right to be jealous. Hollander wasn’t his. But fuck he wanted him to be. He would give anything to be able to be in public with Hollander like that. He would give anything to be able to leave marks on his perfect skin. But they were not anything. It was impossible for them to be anything. Ilya knew that. Shane knew that.
The tears started to flow harder. Eventually, he was bawling, helpless against the flood. He was a fool. Pathetic. Lazy. Weak. He pressed his face into his pillow, trying to muffle the sounds, but it didn’t help. His grief was too loud, too sharp, carving into him from the inside out. Every memory of Shane, every brush of skin, every laugh, every quiet moment, felt like a brand searing him alive.
He hated himself for feeling this way. He hated that he let himself fall for Shane Hollander. He could never hate Shane, but he could hate himself.
Maybe this was for the best. Maybe this was the moment to finally end whatever twisted, uncontrolled thing had been growing between them for years. It was chaotic, dangerous, and stupid. But what they had was beautiful. Maybe Shane would settle down, live his perfect, apple-pie life with Rose fucking Landry. Forget about Ilya entirely. Move on.
Ilya could never move on. Even if Shane never spoke to him again, he would not move on. Maybe he could marry a woman, he’s not sure he would get with any other man after Shane. Shane was irreplaceable. He could try to fit in with the rest of the NHL players, maybe have kids. Retire his jersey in Boston. Live his life the way the world expected him to. But he would never forget how Shane made him feel. He would never forget how Shane’s body had felt pressed against his, the nights where nothing existed but them, the quiet intimacy no one else would ever see. Those memories would claw at him, relentless and raw, every single day for the rest of his life. He would mourn his relationship, it wasn't even a relationship, in silence. Forever.