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One
Ilya walked into his mother’s room, expecting to talk to her about his day.
He was ready to tell her all about the fun he had on the rink while he played hockey that afternoon - he was excited to talk to her and there was a smile on his face; despite having so much fun with those things, telling his mom about it all was always the best part of his day - but, instead, when he walked into that room, he didn’t find her in a place he’d expected to see her
She wasn’t in the corner of the bedroom painting. She wasn’t sitting at her piano, playing beautiful music. She wasn’t in her rocking chair, reading a new book.
She was on the floor. Unmoving.
His heart stilled in his chest and his eyes widened, everything felt wrong.
He was young, yes, but he wasn’t an idiot.
He wasn’t clueless.
He knew that she looked way too pale; and he knew an empty bottle of pills - one he remembered being mostly full the day before - wasn’t a good sign; and he knew that the way her arm was bent behind her wouldn’t be - couldn’t be - comfortable if she was alive.
He knew she was dead.
Or, at the very least, he knew there was something wrong. Really wrong.
He tossed his bag to the side, screaming, “Mama!” as he ran up to her, dropping to his knees at her side. He grabbed her sleeve, shaking her arm, hoping that maybe she was just unconscious, that maybe she had just passed out or fallen asleep in a really weird spot.
(He knew that wasn’t logical. He may not have been an idiot, but he was still a kid. He still had to have hope- hope that his mother wasn’t leaving him.)
“Mama, wake up,” He mumbled at her side, rolling her onto her back, trying to speak to her, to get her to answer. There was drool around her mouth and her eyes were closed and Ilya cried.
He knew in that moment that she was gone.
He knew in that moment that she couldn’t be saved.
He knew in that moment that she had to have been gone for a while.
But he also knew in that moment that she was at peace.
He hated, so badly, that she had to be gone to find that but he felt such overwhelming joy that she was able to.
But he cried.
The tears streamed down his cheeks and he clung onto his mother’s sleeve, burying his face in her neck and hugging her.
One last time.
He squeezed her tightly, holding her close, trying to ignore the way his chest felt completely empty because the one person who has truly been there for him his entire life, who has understood him the most, was gone.
“Ya tebya lybulyu.”
He had whispered it to her over and over and over and over. He wanted her to know, always, that he loves her, even if she couldn’t hear him anymore.
He didn’t know how long he had sat there, holding onto her, whispering nonstop. All he knew was that, eventually, his father walked into the room. He heard yelling - or maybe it wasn’t actually yelling, maybe his father was just speaking, but everything felt so much louder in his little mind in that moment - but he didn’t process any of the words, he didn’t really care to listen to what his father was saying.
He didn’t want to let go of his mother but eventually there were people there to take her away and he had to let go and it took absolutely everything in him. He was pretty sure he didn’t do it completely of his own free will; he had gotten pried away from her, then she was taken out of the room and he was left there, on his knees, staring at the empty floor.
He stopped crying eventually and the wetness on his cheeks dried and he had just sat there, staring. He felt broken and he felt empty.
He didn’t know what to do with that feeling, he didn’t know how to handle it.
(He’d learn, later, as an adult, that he still doesn’t know how to handle his grief surrounding his mother, but all he can do is try his best.)
He did try his best.
But he felt so alone.
He knew that she was at peace, that she was finally away from all of this, from her suffering - and he had noticed she had been suffering, she did a good job of hiding it but he noticed; and, maybe, he didn’t notice to its full extent because she did a good job of hiding it; but he noticed - and he was happy for her but what about him?
He didn’t know what to do or how to feel but his mother was gone, his mother left him, and he felt alone.
He was sure he had sat there for hours by the time his father came into the room to crouch down in front of him, telling him, “You need to get up, Ilya,” His voice was stern but maybe there was some kind of compassion behind it, some kind of understanding and gentleness - or maybe Ilya just imagined that because he wanted to - and he pulled Ilya up onto his feet.
Even with his father’s touch, it felt like Ilya was surrounded by a bubble that nobody could come into. That he was completely alone now and this bubble wouldn’t let anybody in.
Not that he wanted to let his father in, but still.
“It was an accident. Your mother, she accidentally took too much of her medication and it hurt her.”
He knew it was a lie.
He wanted to believe it anyway.
He wanted to believe that his mother didn’t leave him on purpose.
He so desperately wanted to believe his father’s word that he tried to.
It was just an accident.
He told himself that, too.
It was just an accident, she accidentally swallowed all of those pills.
She didn’t mean to leave you.
She didn’t want to leave you.
(He hoped that last one was true, he knew the others weren’t.)
“It killed her,” Ilya muttered in response to his father, refusing to make eye contact with him. He continued to stare at his feet- at the floor; The spot where his mother had been laying.
Ilya had started to cry again, he hadn’t even registered it was happening until his father put a finger a underneath Ilya’s chin, forcing him to look up at him, “Enough of that,” He had said, “you are a man, Ilya, you do not cry. Get rid of those tears. Right now, yes?”
Ilya pressed his lips together tightly and he gulped thickly, immediately stopping himself from crying anymore tears. He brought his hands up to wipe away whatever was still there.
His father was right in front of him but his mother was no longer with them and Ilya had never felt more alone before in his entire life.
*
Two
Las Vegas always had a way of making Ilya feel alone, despite the thousands of people who surround him in the city, despite being to be seen, maybe even awarded.
It always had a hold on him, like no matter how many people were surrounding him, he was still in his own little bubble, completely alone because nobody could break into it.
So, after he lost rookie of the year and he saw Shane Hollander being celebrated, surrounded by his parents and people who care about him, while his own were gone - in two different ways -, he felt an ache in his chest.
The idea - the reality - of having to go back to Russia after this hit him all at once, he felt empty and he just- He couldn’t be around all of these people when he felt so completely and utterly by himself.
He needed to be by himself.
So, he slipped away from the crowd, it wasn’t all that difficult anyway, and he made his way up to the rooftop, over to the railing, so that he could just look out at the city. The view was gorgeous and he looked down to watch the cars driving in the streets, pondering each and every one of them.
He lit a cigarette as he pondered those cars, wondering if anybody down there had felt as alone as he did in that moment. He took a long drawl of his cigarette and held it in for a little longer than he probably should have, letting the breath out heavily.
He didn’t want to go back to Russia because he knew that when he went back there, despite being around his family, he’d feel even more alone than he did on this rooftop.
“I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over,” said a voice, coming from behind him.
It didn’t startle him or anything, he recognized it immediately, but he did tighten his grip on his cigarette - just barely - and he looked over to Hollander as the man appeared at the railing. He hesitated to say something, at first.
He wasn’t sure how he felt, either. Part of him wanted to thank him for coming up here, for thinking about him and finding him, it made him feel just that much less alone, he almost wanted to ask Hollander to stay.
Then, the other part of him conflicted that, it stung. The thought of going back to Russia and just wanting to be alone up here, made him want to tell Hollander to get out of here, to leave him be because the loneliness is all he deserves to feel.
He didn’t mention either of those things, though, he couldn’t. So, he kept the conversation neutral, “Party all done?”
Hollander was leaning on the railing and Ilya watched him take a deep breath, saying, “No, I just need some air.”
Ilya paused for a moment, which was when he realized, “You are drunk.”
“I’m not,” Hollander had denied but Ilya could tell.
He smiled briefly, smirked really, and told him, “Good for you.”
It wasn’t often that the guy drank from what Ilya knew but he deserved to tonight, especially after his win.
“Big night for you,” Ilya looked away from Hollander, back down to the cars.
“Yeah, well it could have gone to either one of us.”
Ilya had to fight back the urge to scoff, so he brought his cigarette up to his mouth and nodded, “It went to you.”
He didn’t hide the bitterness in his voice, he didn’t think he needed to.
“So what?” Hollander said, getting up from his lean and the tone of his voice shocked Ilya, he continued on, “so you’re just up here sulking because, what? You couldn’t take another victory lap around me? All you do is beat me, I win one stupid fucking thing and you couldn’t even show your face down there!”
But it wasn’t like that at all, Hollander didn’t get it. Ilya feels the way his chest bubbles up, a feeling of anger, but it wasn’t quite rage, and it definitely wasn’t meant to be directed at Hollander, but the man was here, and he was just saying things about stuff he didn’t understand.
He mumbled in Russian first, not wanting to get angry at Hollander, not right now, not here.
But Hollander had asked, “What was that?”
And Ilya broke.
He screamed, “Not everything is about you, Hollander!”
And they argued and Ilya hated it, he didn’t want to yell at him; he didn’t want to build this kind of tension between them and he wanted to fix it, he wanted to try and be vulnerable, even if just for a moment, so he muttered, “I go home in three days.”
“Okay,” Hollander had said with a slight scoff afterward, “that must be nice.”
Ilya looked over to Hollander, just staring at him, taking him in. He didn’t get it, he couldn’t see it, and it had made Ilya feel all that much more isolated.
He had to look away, he couldn’t look at his face anymore, not without wanting to scream at him again. He sighed heavily, staring out at the view, and it didn’t look as gorgeous anymore, even though nothing had changed.
It just got worse when Hollander had said, “And I guess I thought maybe we…” He had trailed off, leaving room for Ilya to say something but Ilya didn’t so Hollander sighed, “nevermind. ‘Kay, I’m gonna…” But he didn’t even finish his sentence before he started to walk away and it had just deepened that ache in Ilya’s chest.
But he was gonna let it happen, he was going to let Hollander walk away and he would just keep staring out at this stupid fucking view, but then Hollander stopped and he held his hand out to Ilya, saying he’d see him next season, and it invoked something in Ilya.
He walked toward him, with no intention to shake his hand because he needed him - he needed his lips on his own and he was going to make it happen.
He pushed Hollander against the wall and kissed him desperately, bringing his hand up underneath Hollander’s chin and when Hollander’s hand came up to the back of his neck - then both of them encompassing his face, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper - the ache in Ilya’s chest went away.
It went away and Ilya felt like he could forget about everything for a moment.
Then Hollander pulled away and he got angry and Ilya tried to fix it, he tried to assure Hollander that nobody was looking, but Hollander couldn’t accept that and he dodged Ilya when he tried to kiss him again, then he left.
Hollander started walking away and that aching sensation in Ilya’s chest - telling him he’s all alone, that he'll always be alone - came back, stronger than before, and he was desperate to get some kind of relief again, so he’d said, “See you next season.”
But there was no response.
Ilya wanted one more than anything, he called out, “Hollander.”
But there was nothing.
Hollander had left. The ache in Ilya’s chest hadn’t.
He returned to the view.
*
Three
“I should go.”
“Go?” Ilya repeated, the words ringing in his ears.
I should go.
Ilya didn’t want him to go.
I should go.
Ilya wanted him to stay.
I should go.
But, there he was, gathering his clothes.
I should go.
He was spouting off some excuse about a team meeting.
I should go.
Ilya could tell it was a lie, he would never forget about a team meeting.
I should go.
He thanked Ilya for the tuna melt and Ilya’s heart broke.
I should go.
Please don’t go. It’s what Ilya wanted to say, what he was thinking, what he needed.
I should go.
He apologized. Ilya still felt broken.
I should go.
He said he can’t.
I should go.
All of this because Ilya said his first name? All of this because he’d called him Shane?
I should go.
He could fix this. He wanted to fix this.
I should go.
Could those words please stop ringing in his ear over and over again? Fuck.
I should go.
He wanted to fix this.
I should go.
“Hollander.”
Look, see? It’s fixed. I called you Hollander, things are normal again. You don’t have to leave, you can stay. We can pretend nothing happened. It’s not a big deal.
(But he couldn’t say any of those words because all that would fall out of his mouth was Shane’s last name.)
“I just- I can’t, uh, I can’t… do this.”
I should go.
“Hollander.”
Are you serious? Are you really going to leave? Why- Wait, no. Please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want you to leave. Please stay.
(But he couldn’t say any of those words either because they’d spook Shane even more.)
“I’m sorry,” is all he said before walking away, leaving Ilya alone in his living room, on his couch.
I should go.
Ilya was confused and he was hurt, how had things gone so incredibly wrong? They were going so well, he made them food, he bought him ginger ale, he had had plans.
Then he’d left all because he called him by his stupid first name. Ilya shook his head softly, hurt. He stared down at the floor, confused and unsure what to do now. What was he supposed to do now?
I should go.
His stomach was twisted into knots and he felt hollow.
Empty.
Broken.
Lonely.
He sat there for a while, trying to see if he could use his mind to will time travel into existence or something so that he could go back and never say Shane.
I should go.
Obviously that didn’t work and eventually - he wasn’t sure how long it took - he got up and he silently cleaned off the coffee table. He took their plates and threw away the leftovers, putting the plates in the sink afterward. He grabbed the soda cans and emptied out his own into the sink but he held onto Shane’s.
I should go.
It was still more than halfway full and he sat down on one of his barstools in the kitchen. He stared at the can and he could feel his heart breaking in real time. He gripped the can tighter and laughter filled the silence in his house, it echoed, but that only made him feel more alone.
The house was too empty, the only sound was his own laughter; laughter that only existed because he was laughing at how pathetic he was being right now.
I should go.
He took a drink of the ginger ale.
He doesn’t even really like ginger ale.
But he thought that, maybe, it would help him feel less alone. So he drank it anyway and he felt the carbonation go down his throat and he hated it.
It didn’t work.
I should go.
Obviously it didn’t work.
I should go.
He still felt alone. Shane was still gone.
I should go.
“Fuck!” He screamed into his house, standing up and throwing the can somewhere. He didn’t care where it landed, he didn’t care about the fact that the soda would probably get everywhere, that he’d be finding sticky spots for months afterward. He was upset and he was sad and he-
Fuck, he didn’t want to be alone tonight. He had wanted Shane- Hollander - Fuck, he doesn’t even know what to call him anymore - to stay.
I should go.
But he was gone and he wasn’t coming back and Ilya had this big ass house all to himself but all he wanted to do was hold Shane.
I should go.
“Fuck,” He fell back into the bar stool and rested his elbows on the counter, pressing his palms to his eyes, hitting the top of his head over and over again with his fingertips.
He needed to get a grip on himself but the loneliness started to add up as the days went on and then Ilya saw paparazzi pictures of Shane with Rose Landry and he felt like this was the universe’s way of laughing at him. It was the universe’s way of telling him he’d be alone forever.
Weeks of this turned into Ilya going a little bit insane. How could he have just moved on? With Rose Landry?
Ilya needed to fucking get over it. He knew he did, so he went to a club but, of fucking course, Shane was there.
He’d tried to distract himself with a woman, dancing with her, feeling her body, letting her press against him. But he still felt alone. He thought about going home with her, to try to get Shane out of his head, maybe it would ease the ache in his chest for a couple of hours. But Shane was there and they saw each other and Ilya could see him and this woman wasn’t enough to get his mind off of Shane.
The last words Shane said to him were burned into his memory, still ringing through his mind as clearly as they he’d heard them.
I should go.
Shane.
I should go.
Shane.
I should go.
Shane. Right there.
He left with Rose.
Ilya went home by himself.
He felt numb, even as he thought about Shane in his shower.
He felt alone.
I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go. I should go.
(All he wanted him to do was stay.
All he wanted him to do was come back.)
*
Four
Everything felt like a blur when he was in Russia, after his father’s death.
There was his brother and the funeral and Svetlana was there, and she was great, but then there was the dinner and his brother again and he’d lashed out, rightfully so, he knew it was rightful, but it was overwhelming and all he saw was red.
He realized there was nothing left in Russia for him, there wasn’t anything for him here, anymore.
His brother had left the room but Svetlana had stayed and he felt so guilty for being able to have her and still feeling like he has nobody.
He loves her and he’s thankful she’s here, with him, for him, but when she said:
“But it’s not the same as it is with Jane, is it?”
She was right.
“I love you too.”
She had said, not allowing Ilya to speak, and it put a little piece of his heart back together but there was still way too much missing, even with her here, he felt like he was by himself. He couldn’t tell her everything he wanted to and the one person who knew about it all was in Canada and there was- Well, there was a fragile line to tow between them.
“And whatever you need, I’ll be here.”
He didn’t deserve her. She should leave, move on with her life, do better things, ignore him. Walk away. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Of course she’s not.
So why did it still feel like he was alone in this bubble that’s surrounded him since he was 12 years old?
“I just hope Jane knows how lucky he is.”
She knew.
Fuck, of course she knew, she was Sventlana Vetrova. She’s known him since they were children. He’d be an idiot to assume that she couldn’t figure out “Jane” was a man.
She kissed him - he didn’t kiss back - and then she left and he was alone with his thoughts.
He thought of Shane.
He needed to talk to him. He needed to hear his voice. The loneliness was too much for him and he-
Fuck, he missed him.
Shane answered his text immediately and when Ilya called, he answered that even quicker. He asked Ilya how he was and Ilya had given him multiple answers.
They spoke about everything going on, Shane was clearly concerned, and Ilya struggled to say everything he wanted to in English, it was hard.
But hearing Shane’s voice helped so much, knowing he was there, on the other side of the phone, listening to him, it helped.
“That’s French, Ilya.”
Shane had said after a joke about him learning Russian in a week, no accent, and Ilya had said bonjour, which, obviously, he knew was French.
Still, the clarification made Ilya smile and it felt good, he felt good, but that just made everything so much worse. He wished Shane was right next to him, in front of him, not in an entirely different continent.
Then Shane had an idea, he had suggested that Ilya say everything he wanted to say but in Russian, even if he wouldn’t understand it. Just to get it off of Ilya’s chest.
Just to let it out.
His heart swelled with appreciation because he felt seen.
It was a good idea and he agreed easily but starting was a much more difficult task. He took a deep breath in, unsure of where he should even start at but he figured he should just begin with the truth.
“I never want to come back here. I fucking hate it here. And they all fucking hate me.”
He started off slowly but he got into it quickly, realizing how angry he was. The feeling he felt swirled throughout his body and his mind and he could rant to someone he cared about, someone he- Someone who cares, even if he didn’t understand anything Ilya was saying, it still helped.
“I pay for everything. I make sure everyone has clothes they like. I make sure the food is perfect, that Father is buried next to his parents; that the tomb is perfect. And the only fucking word I ever hear is: I want more, Ilya. I need more, Ilya. More, more, more, more, more.”
And he couldn’t do it anymore, they were taking too much from him. He didn’t have anything else to give.
So he said that.
“And I have nothing for these people! I give them everything. But I feel fucking empty.”
And alone. He was by himself. He-
“They don’t care. They look at me and they see a bank. Or an enemy. Or- I don’t even know what.”
He could feel one part of his heart breaking into more pieces as a different part started to heal while he said all of this. It was a weird feeling.
“My brother, he always hated me. And I know why, but…”
He didn’t know how to describe what he felt so he paused. He thought about it. He hated it. Then he continues.
“It kills me. And it kills me that he took care of my father and I didn’t. But I couldn’t! I wasn’t here.”
He felt stinging in the back of his nose, his eyes filling with tears.
(Words from his father echoed in his mind:
Enough of that. You are a man, Ilya, you do not cry. Get rid of those tears.
But he wasn’t here anymore, he didn’t have to listen to him.)
“I still paid for it all and now... he will never forgive me. For any of it. For existing and it means… I have no one now.”
His loneliness has always been something that was at the back of his mind, something that stuck with him all of the time. He felt it in some places more than others. It hurt him in some moments a lot and he barely thought of it in others.
“Well, not no one.”
He knew he had to correct that quickly, it wasn’t true. He felt completely alone, but he did have someone.
“I have Svetlana. She loves me. And I love her.”
He knows those two things to be completely true, but the thought entered his mind at the same time the next words came out of his mouth.
“But not like…”
Fuck.
Fuck.
He couldn’t even say it, not even in Russian. How pathetic is he? How much of a coward is he?
“Fuck me.”
He muttered and pulled the phone away from his ear. He would say it.
He would. Shane wouldn’t be able to understand him and he needed to get it off of his chest. He needed to say the words.
He just needed a little bit of time to build the confidence and he stared at the snow, watching it fall, alone in this alleyway.
He was thankful to be alien for once, that nobody was here to witness the way he was falling apart right now.
He brought the phone back up to his ear, speaking into it once more.
“But not like I love you. That’s the worst fucking part of all this. It’s- That all I want is you. It’s always you.”
Shane’s ruined him for anybody else. There was nothing Ilya wanted more than Shane fucking Hollander.
“I’m so in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.”
The confession brought a weight off of his shoulders and it helped, of course it helped.
But he still hadn’t said those words to him in a language Shane could understand. He still had to keep those feelings to himself and it fucking killed him, it was complete and absolute agony, int he worst way.
Yes, it had taken a weight off of his shoulders but it gave him a new one, a different kind of isolation, one that he brought upon himself.
What was he supposed to do with that?
*
Five
When Ilya saw Scott Hunter kissing a man on live television after winning the cup, there were two things he knew for sure.
One: He wanted that with Shane and he was going to have it, no matter how long it took him.
Two: He was going to that fucking cottage and he needed to call Shane and tell immediately.
He stopped watching the TV, he ignored everybody he was with, and he walked away, to a private area in the house, the phone already ringing against his ear. Shane only took two rings to answer, likely walking away from where he had been sitting with people around him, too.
“What the…”
But Ilya didn’t have time to second guess himself, he needed to say it right then, he needed to tell Shane, “I’m coming to the cottage.”
“Uh-” Ilya could practically hear the smile on Shane’s face and then he whispered, “Really? You are?”
“Yes,” Ilya confirmed because, fuck.
Scott Hunter just kissed a man on live television.
The least Ilya could do was go see the love of his fucking life at a private cottage.
Shane’s laughter bubbled through the phone, he was happy and it was a sound Ilya loved to hear, “Okay- Yeah, okay, good. I’ll- Oh my god, yeah. I’ll send you details and I’ll pick you up from the airport and- I can’t wait to see you, Ilya.”
Shane said his name so quietly, which had to have meant that his parents were close by, but it meant enough to Ilya that he said it all.
“I cannot wait to see you either, Shane,” He did the same thing, saying his name quieter than the rest of the sentence, but he had to.
They didn’t say anything else for a while, Ilya listened to Shane’s breathing on the other line, and it was enough to make him feel like they were together.
He didn’t feel alone.
For once in his life, he didn’t feel alone and, maybe, with everything that had just happened, maybe he didn’t ever have to.
Ever again.
Maybe that was all he needed to get him moving; For him to realize that the loneliness can go away; The isolation doesn’t have to linger forever, it can stop feeling so terrible; He doesn’t have to feel the way he’s felt forever and ever, he can have good things.
He can have Shane.
It’s hope.
It’s the kind of hope that he hasn’t had in a long time - if he’s ever even had it at all.
And it was fucking Scott Hunter who had given it to him.
It was a weird acknowledgement but it was the truth, a truth that Ilya hadn’t really expected.
“I should get back to my parents but I’ll call you later, okay? You’ll come to the cottage.”
“I will come to the cottage,” Ilya confirmed one last time and they hung up the call but Ilya didn’t feel that ache in his chest afterward.
He didn’t feel the twist in his stomach.
He didn’t feel the breaking of his heart.
He felt excited - and a little nervous - for the future, for what’s to come.
The bubble had popped.
Or maybe it hadn’t, maybe it was still surrounding him, but Shane had made his way inside and that was all the company that Ilya needed.