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Ilya felt that itch again.
He was in some shitty bar with the guys. They’d lost 2-1, it was close but it was still a loss and Ilya could hear the disappointed sneer of his father ringing at the back of his head. It had been a while since his passing, since Ilya heard the words in real time, yet like an oozing wound that never fully healed, his father’s voice stuck with him. He had gotten better at ignoring it on the good days. But on the bad ones it spoke to him, made his ears ring. Today was especially bad, it had been bad even before the game.
Ilya had gotten up with a sort of ache, right in his ribs like he had been slammed into the boards the previous night. He had laid there trying to piece together his dream, to find the reason for the discomfort he felt.
His head was in his mother’s lap, her fingers running through his hair, detangling the curls gently like they were made of fine silk. And though he couldn’t see her face, he felt her smile, her warmth, her love, all in her fingertips. He couldn’t tell if it was only a dream or a memory he’d mostly forgotten and could only recall whilst asleep. It was a good dream to have while waking up. Somedays Ilya would keep his eyes closed and pretend just for a little, that she was there and that her hands were real and if he held himself really still, he could almost feel her body heat. He liked waking up dreaming of his mother, it was the only time he could think of her without feeling close to tears, and yet as he laid in bed this morning, he could fell the burning in his eyes and the tightening of his throat. He was going to cry.
Ilya quickly sat up, tossing the blanket away. Just as the cold air of the room hit him, he remembered, the dream had changed. Somewhere between one breath and the next it was no longer his mother’s lap, no longer her fingers, no longer her warmth. His mind, forever an enemy of his, had dumped Hollander into her place. Hollander whose fingers where never once gentle in his hair, whose trimmed nails more often than not bit into his scalp; were gently combing his hair like he was someone to be held close with love.
Suddenly Ilya wished he had been bodily checked into the boards, at least then he’d have a bruise to show for his pain. A physical manifestation of the ache he felt, something he could point out to the doctors and say ‘here is where it hurts, fix it.’ Because a bruise on his chest was easier to explain then whatever it was, he felt for Hollander. A bruise on a professional athlete made sense, was common even. But missing Hollander was neither sensible nor something he was supposed to. Hollander was ruining his day even before it had begun. Ilya got up, he was starting to get sick of staring at the white sheets of the hotel bed.
He had almost missed breakfast because he was busy wallowing. His phone had died on the trip back to his room but he wasn’t exactly worried about it. Who would he even text? He felt too pathetic to text Hollander, especially after that horrifying dream. It felt crass to text Svetlana only because he didn’t have anyone else. And who would text him? Hollander who was busy ignoring him and pretending that the fucking was just casual? Maybe it was just casual for him, Ilya wouldn’t know (he hadn’t felt casual about him since around 2009). And now he was making an ass of himself in his own dreams.
Ilya wanted a cigarette or maybe a drink but they had a match that evening. He already felt stupid enough with his dreams that he hadn’t felt like adding to by going to practice smelling of smoke or alcohol. Which was for nothing because they’d lost.
Just before the start of the third period, they got news of Montreal winning 4-1, and it hadn’t stung that Hollander had won while he was yet to score. Ilya really did try to feel irritated but all he could find within himself, stupidly was pride. For Hollander. Which plummeted his mood even further. He had scored a goal then, which felt more like he was trying to get Hollander’s attention than to win the game.
When the final buzz had gone off Ilya was glad to get off the ice, which wasn’t a feeling he was used to having. He was tired, his body felt all wrong like it belonged to someone else. He wanted to go home, not to his house in Boston but somewhere else that would feel like home. Ilya wasn’t sure that place existed anymore.
The mood in the locker room was only slightly better than his head. Ilya had wanted to walk out and finally have his smoke. But stupid Carmichael or maybe it was Marlow had suggested they go out. He hadn’t felt like it, had opened his mouth to reject the idea, when he had spotted the expectant look on one of the rookie’s face and the no had come out more as an exhale and less as a word. Someone had suggested they pregame at the hotel which felt like an over kill but he had already agreed by then and Ilya had never not fully committed to something. By the time he met up with the guys again, he had successfully raided the minibar in his room and was starting to feel fuzzy on the edges.
He doesn’t remember most of the trip to the bar, just that they were here now.
Ilya looked around, amazed by how dogshit the place was. The lighting, if it could be called that because it was so dark, was a handful of lights that shifted between red, blue and green, creating a nauseating hue on everyone’s face. The bar tops were of course sticky but so was the floor, Ilya had to lift his boots with a little more effort, almost like he was still wearing his stakes.
He was staring to itch again and with the amount he had drunk added to the gross bar, he could no longer tell if he was having an allergic reaction to the shitty bar or if it was that feeling he’d always got.
Itch was an ugly word; it was closer to desire but he liked thinking of it as an itch. Made it seem smaller than it was, manageable, something to rid himself of quickly, easily. And over the years he had found all of the things that helpedwith it; cigarettes, alcohol, sex, fast cars, hockey, Shane Hollander.
Cigarettes were nice, the ashy taste that coated his mouth, the burn in his lungs when he swallowed the smoke, the sting in his nose, almost like he was about to cry when he exhaled. Alcohol was good, the distinct smell, the sharp burn when it went down, the fuzzy feeling he got when he drank a good amount of it. Sex was great, the push and pull of it, the feel of another person above, under, all around him, the sweat and the swearing, the silly song and dance of foreplay, the casual intimacy afterwards, that distinct sense of accomplishment when the person finishes because he did that to them.
Cars were awesome, the purr of the engine, the soft plush of the leather, the smell of petrol, the almost floating feeling he got when he pressed on the gas and the car damn near flew and everything blurred past. Hockey was satisfying, the training to push his body to its limits, the bite of the cold air in the rink, the spray of snow during a quick turn, the clench of his teeth onto his mouth guard, the slap of his stick to another player’s, the shocked look he’d get when something particularly egregious came out of his mouth, the roar of the crowd when he plays well, the silence of the crowd when he plays really well against their team, the weight of the cup.
Shane Hollander-
Well, it was for the best if he didn’t think of Hollander. And Ilya really did try to not think about him. Often times he didn’t think of him so much that he’d spend his entire day telling himself to not think about him. Yet something about Hollander made everything else seem rather dull or worse he made it all feel better. And that truly was a horrid thought to have.
He drowned whatever liquid was left in his glass, everything starting to lose their distinct taste and just simply tasting like the burn of alcohol. Ilya knew what that ache was, the one he woke up with, he had felt it ever since he was 12. Sometimes dull, just in the back of his mind living with his father’s voice; sometimes loud, making his entire body, soul ache, the force of it making him feel almost breathless. He felt it when he thought of his mother, of the searing hot pirozhki or the buttered blini she made. When he’d see a mother-son pair out in public, their smiles bursting from the seams, eyes full of love, holding hands.
It was normal for him to feel that way, he missed her. He missed his mother long before she had swallowed all her sorrows along with her pills. Ilya remembered sometimes gazing at her face trying to find the laughter that had to have been there, he’d seen it, he was sure of it even at 9. And that dream his mind liked to show him with increasing frequency that climbed with the amount of stress he was feeling, made him not just miss her. Ilya wanted her with him. In his house, staying with him, existing in his life, softly holding his face and telling him how much she loved him, wishing him luck before a game, coddling him after a loss, grinning in the stands when he waves at her.
He stretched his neck, hearing the pop of his bones on both sides. He needed to stop this train of thought, his mom was not coming back, that was for sure but also because if he had felt the same way after dreaming of Hollander then he was truly, in every sense of the word fucked.
Ilya suddenly felt like the biggest coward and loser to ever walk the earth. How fucking pathetic that even in the privacy of his stupid, fucked up head he couldn’t accept his feelings. No matter that this particular thought would destroy the carefully created balance between want and need he felt for Hollander, it would break all of their silent rules they never spoke of.
Ha! Ilya sneered to himself; they never spoke of anything. That was another one of their rules that had always existed between them, Ilya could never tell if he was glad for it or not. Just having Shane Hollander under him, riding him, sticking his tongue into his mouth, was enough for him to dream of freckles and fingers running through his hair and resting his head on strong thighs. Talking about their lives, sharing their dreams would create bigger problems, ones Ilya did not know how to deal with.
He looked around, no one in this filthy bar would know if he missed Hollander or not. Ilya felt such a strong wave of disgust with himself for even worrying about some dumb American reading his mind. The rancid liquor and that fucking dream have successfully melted his brain and it was leaking out of his ears right this moment, seeping into the sticky floor. He was bringing shame not just to himself but all of Russia. He was a lot of things but he wasn’t a coward and he wouldn’t let Shane Hollander turn him into one.
Ilya missed Shane Hollander.
Ilya missed hockey’s polite, golden boy, highest hockey IQ, pretty freckle faced, perfect smile with strong hands who’s the second fastest skater in the league, Shane Hollander.
Ilya hated him a little for it. He mostly hated himself for letting Hollander have such an effect on him. Hated how he looked all sweet with his hands pulling the bed sheets, sweat glistening on his collar bones. Hated how he looked on the ice (Ilya couldn’t look away, the urge to grin like an idiot almost unsuppressible). Hated the way Hollander looked just before the puck dropped, the way he’d loosen his shoulders with purpose, all his focus directed to the space right in front of him (and later if Ilya closed his eyes and pretended that Shane’s focus was directed towards him and not to the ice, then that was between him and God and no one else).
Enough.
Ilya had enough of this mopping. He was in a bar and had enough alcohol in him to accept some of his feelings. Hollander was probably celebrating in whatever boring way he did after a win. He probably was sitting with Pike and reviewing the match, or maybe they were seeing Boston’s and giggling at how terribly Ilya played, how the entire team looked like it was their first time on the ice.
Ilya decided, miss or not, he hated Hollander. He wanted to be a bother to him the same way Hollander had bothered him the entire day, by taking over his dream, being ever present at the forefront of his mind. He wanted to say something smart, see Hollander’s face flushed with anger, his brows pinched in irritation. He wanted to be mean almost cruel to that perfect, perfect person. And Ilya knew it wasn’t fair to think of him in that way but he didn’t really care.
Ilya hated this club; he huffed with frustration. There were truly no redeeming qualities, even the heavy bass was srarting to grating on his nerves. His fingers drummed against his thigh, he wanted to do something, something he’d regret tomorrow morning maybe. He didn’t have any cigarettes with him and didn’t really feel like talking to someone, just to get one and if he drank anymore, he’d throw up, especially given how not pleasant this place was smelling. He was going to punch Marlow tomorrow for picking this place. And if he hadn’t then he’d still punch him for agreeing, or for something else, he’d find a reason by morning. Ilya wanted to blame someone for this nonsense and Marlow was the first person in his line of sight.
Ilya got an idea.
A beautiful, brilliant idea.
There was one person that no matter how garbage his mood, how shitty a loss, how loud his father’s voice in his head; made him feel good, gave him joy. And what better way to get his revenge, for a ruined dream than to call the one responsible?
Yes. An unexpected call from him would ruin Hollander’s night (and/ or maybe dull his victory); or at least disrupt it.
The more Ilya thought about calling him, the better the entire idea sounded. The prospect of hearing Hollander’s voice, the way his breath would leave him in annoyance made Ilya feel flush with excitement. Hollander was both the cause of Ilya’s distress along with the cure for it.
Ilya started walking towards the exit; to hell with informing his teammates, they’d come up with their reasons as to why he left and to hell with this nasty club. He knew better ways to entertain himself.
He pushed the door open with more force than required, nodding to the security guard, pitying them for having to work for this rancid establishment. Whatever Ilya thought, he felt the most pity for Hollander’s unsuspecting ass, closely followed by himself; the only time he was okay loosing to him.
He fiddled with his phone, feeling irritated with himself for hesitating. He clicked on Jane and pressed his phone to his ear with a deep breath. It wouldn’t matter if Hollander didn’t pick up, Ilya told himself, it would make sense because he was the bigger coward between the two of them.
~
Shane felt the deep vibration of his phone coming from underneath the pillow next to the one he was currently laying his ear on. He knew it wasn’t his alarm, the vibration sounded different, knew it was a phone call. He wished in that moment he was the type of person to ignore a ringing phone, but he knew he’d stress about it and wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. He pressed his face into the pillow while he reached for his phone. With a squint he answered the call, his head hazy with sleep.
“Hello?” Shane grunted, pulling the phone to his ear, his voice slightly garbled because of his pillow.
“Hollander.” That voice made every muscle in his body lock up. He turned his face slightly to check his screen to confirm he hadn’t just imagined who had said his name. With blurry eyes he stared at his screen, reading and the re-reading the contact information just to be sure.
Lily
“Hollander? Did I scare you off?” Shane heard faintly coming from his phone. He should hang up, not take bait, definitely not talk to him and engage in whatever bullshit this was. But Shane was feeling soft with sleep, the comfort of his house, the warmth of his bed and the satisfaction of their win; made the line between what he should do and what he wanted to do felt nonexistent. He brought his phone back to his ear.
“Stop saying my name, someone could hear.” Shane muttered into the pillow. He heard the scoff he knew Rozanov would make. “No one is here around me” He sounded a little exasperated and a lot drunk now that Shane was feeling more awake.
“Still.” Shane said, he knew it would annoy him but it was always good to be cautious and he knew Rozanov needed all the reminding about that.
“Jane” Rozanov crooned into his ear, slurring a little that it almost sounded like his name. It also definitely sounded closer to a moan but he expected nothing less from a drunk Rozanov. He shifted head to look at the clock, 2:21 am. He wanted to hate Rozanov for calling him so late and waking him up but he just couldn’t. They’d never called before and Shane had thought it was one of their unspoken rules; one that he didn’t understand and didn’t know how to change. Shane was good at many things but not following rules, breaking them, was not one of them; he never had, didn’t know how to even if he wanted to. A part of him (all of him) was glad that Rozanov had called, now rewriting their set of rules, reshaping their dynamic; he always did.
“What is it?” Shane asked, trying and failing to make his voice sound clipped.
“I miss you.” Rozanov said slowly as if giving Shane time to absorb each word before the next. He felt all his muscles lock up again, hadn’t even realized he had fully relaxed. He was fully awake now. Shane felt almost scared to take another breath. He couldn’t tell if Rozanov was joking just to get a rise out of him, to shock him. Or maybe he meant it and was feeling more forthcoming because of the alcohol, which was ludicrous to even think. They didn’t even do phone calls, rarely texted each other, all of which was either straight up sexting or on the cusp of it. He had to have said it as joke there was no other explanation to it. He didn’t even know how to react, what to even say. Should he say it back? It wouldn’t be a lie but unlike Rozanov he didn’t have alcohol to blame later.
Shane could pretend away whatever was going on between them once the sun rose and knew Rozanov did the same. But confessions spoken slowly, clearly, in the dead of the night weren’t something they did. He knew he was being very quiet and probable should say something along the lines of fuck off Rozanov, stick to the script. But he didn’t want to. If Rozanov could call him and tell him that he was missing Shane like they were something more than they were allowed to be, then he wouldn’t say anything that he didn’t want to.
“Did you go back to sleep? I know is past your bedtime.” Rozanov said quietly, as though he didn’t want to wake him up if Shane did fall asleep. As if he could after hearing that in a slight accent, spoken with so much conviction, it almost sounded real.
“No, I’m awake.” Shane responded.
Rozanov hummed his acknowledgement but said nothing else. Shane didn’t know what to say, he tried to remember words, something responsible to say, something correct. He forced himself to un-clench his jaw. “Rozanov? Where are you? What are you doing?”
“Aww are you worried about me Jane?’’ Shane hated how he said Jane, eating up some of the syllables. It made it sound like he was saying his name. Shane pressed his face further into the pillow for a moment.
“We were at shitty club. You would have hated it more than normal, very disgusting. I left.” Rozanov paused, it sounded like he had almost tripped. “Music was so bad. Alcohol was bad too. Ah! You would hate this, floor was sticky.” He giggled and Shane felt his heart start to hammer in his chest; it was rare for Rozanov to rant to him and giggle while doing it. And by rare Shane meant it never happened, he could never have even imagined it. “I am going to punch Marlow tomorrow for it.” Rozanov said with glee.
Shane could faintly hear the traffic. He wished he could think of something to say, something to move past all the endearment he felt; he worried that if he didn’t then Rozanov would hang up. But if he did then he would burst this precious bubble, in which Rozanov called him and essentially told him about his night. Like they were—
Shane cleared his throat, “How much did you drink, hmm?”, He hummed softly, felt like being soft with Rozanov for once, hoping he’d forget the finer details of this conversation in sleep.
“Why are you not drinking?” Rozanov threw back at him, “Too boring to celebrate win with your team?”
Shane clenched his jaw on purpose this time, felt a spark of irritation that was familiar, like a shadow that followed him around whenever he spoke to Rozanov. “Same reason you’re drinking after a loss.” He bit back.
It didn’t even make sense, not really. He wanted to clarify, not drinking is who I am, the same way drinking was who you are. Opened his mouth to say so when,
“Ah, so you are sad as well?” Rozanov said, sounding confident that he had guessed the reason accurately.
Shane’s heart squeezed. He felt a ridiculous urge to hug Rozanov, hold him painfully close and tell him everything will be alright. Which wasn’t what they did, they weren’t allowed to and Shane wasn’t in a drunk stupor to confess this to him either.
“I dream of you last night.” Rozanov said after a pause. Shane took a deep breath, this was easier to answer, closer to their usual conversation.
“Was it good? Did you have fun?” Shane asked. He forced himself to relax, waiting for Rozanov to describe his wet dream. He’ll listen and then hang up after telling Rozanov to go to his hotel room. They’ll pretend this conversation never happened and everything will go back to the way it was.
“No, I hated it.”
“Oh.” Shane said, voice dripping in disappointment. It had never once struck him that maybe Rozanov wasn’t enjoying himself as much as he was. He knew that Rozanov was more experienced than he was, had slept around more than he did, was probably into more kinks than Shane could think of. Not that he would know, he felt it to be too much work to find someone to explore with and he and Rozanov didn’t really have time for anything other than a quick fuck. But he did know Rozanov has explored more about himself in that aspect than Shane could ever hope to. His heart sank. He wanted to throw up or maybe cry a little.
“You were combing my hair.” Rozanov said
“What?” Shane said a little louder than he was previously speaking, he was so confused. Maybe he wasn’t as awake as he thought he was. He had assumed the dream would be of a more sexual nature. Maybe it was, Shane wasn’t really sure how combing hair translated into sex. A kink he hadn't heard of wasn't out of the ordinary.
“With your fingers.” Rozanov clarified. “I dream of my mama, with her hands in my hair. It’s my favourite dream.”
Okay so Rozanov missed his mom but of course he did. He was living in Boston, while she was somewhere in Russia and given that they were still in the middle of the season, he wouldn’t be able to go visit her for a while. This made sense to Shane. Maybe he had misheard Rozanov in the haze of his sleep. Maybe Rozanov misspoke, alcohol confusing him, making it harder to translate to English.
“That sounds nice Rozanov. Are you walking towards your hotel?” He said gently.
When he didn’t hear anything for a bit, save for a faint hum; he tried again, “Maybe you should call a cab so that you can sleep in a bed and not on the road.” Shane hoped the joke would land.
“I’m in hotel lobby.” Rozanov said flatly.
“Good, that’s good. You should sleep so that you won’t get a hangover tomorrow.”
Shane no longer felt glad that Rozanov called him. His chest hurt, from hearing him say ‘I miss you’ and it not being real, not in the way that mattered. They weren’t allowed to miss each other. He wanted to hang up and sleep and forget this phone call. He felt jealous of Rozanov for having alcohol to wipe his memories. Shane will remember the sound of Rozanov’s voice around those three words, even when he’s being buried.
Shane was tired.
The lull in the conversation hopefully meant Rozanov was tired of talking to him and will hang up. Because despite everything, Shane didn’t want to cut the call first, greedily wanted to listen to his voice, selfishly wanted to know more about the dreams Rozanov had and the sweet things he had to say when alcohol and exhaustion loosened his tongue.
“I will get hangover anyway. Alcohol was shit Hollander; did you not listen?” Rozanov said, words slurring a little more than before. “And before you whine; I’m in room, can say your name. Is fine” he voice a little higher than usual cause of the whining.
Shane heard him flop onto his bed, followed by the sound of his shoes hitting the floor. Rozanov’s voice sounded a little muffled, probably because of the pillow or maybe the duvet, when he spoke again. They bother were probably lying the same way, he thought stupidly pleased.
“You misunderstood Hollander. Mama’s fingers were in my hair and then they were yours.” Rozanov huffed a little, “You took her place. How dare you.” He accused.
“What?” Shane asked, he better understood the dream Rozanov was talking about and he flushed with something alarmingly close to delight. He had no right to be happy that Rozanov was having nauseatingly romantic dreams about him and that they made him miss Shane in the same way he missed his mother.
“Oh my god Hollander! I know you are boring but this is first time I realize you are stupid as well." Rozanov sounded properly irritated.
“Sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Shane said. He felt like he owed him the truth, especially after Rozanov was sharing such personal details.
“Tell me you miss me too.”
Shane snorted in surprise. Rozanov always said the wildest things, mostly to get a reaction from Shane. And he fell for it every time. He didn’t know how not to, not when it came to Rozanov.
“Come on Hollander, tell me and I will let you go to sleep.” Rozanov cajoled. After a pause he added, “You scared?” his smirk audible through the phone.
“What if I don’t?” Shane asked, just to be difficult, just to know how Rozanov would respond to that. To the prospect of Shane not missing him, because he sounded so confident, so assured in himself, that Shane had.
Rozanov had a way of speaking, every word out of his mouth dripping in confidence with no hesitation at all, something Shane had never quite managed. He childishly wanted to push him off kilter just as Rozanov had him.
“You don’t?” Rozanov sounded quiet, meek and wrong and Shane immediately felt like an asshole. Here Rozanov was drunk calling him, confessing things to him like Shane meant something to him, like they weren’t just two people pitted against each other to have some sort of clownish rivalry to increase the viewer ship of the sport they played. Like Shane had value in his life outside of hockey and fucking. And Shane, stone cold sober was doing the verbal equivalent of pulling Rozanov’s pigtails.
“We both know you miss my dick. You are just too much coward to say it.” Rozanov rushed, a poor attempt to cover up and absolve him of his silent question.
“Rozanov…”
“Is joke Hollander, forget about it.” Rozanov’s voice sounded gruff, weird. “You can’t see but my eyes rolled.”
“You’re rolling your eyes at me?” Shane asked. He felt wrong, uncomfortable in his own skin. He didn’t know what to say, how to remove this weird tension that was defiantly there between them now. He got this distinct feeling of having messed up, the same feeling he got when he said the wrong thing or couldn’t quite move face into the correct expression. He felt his shoulders tighten, as though waiting for a scolding that was never going to come.
“Hmm, da” Rozanov was starting to sound more drowsy than drunk. He should hang up, let him sleep, go back to sleep himself or at least attempt to. But that feeling of loss was sitting heavy in Shane’s stomach. He wanted to rid himself of it, knew how to and still felt anxious about it. If he did say it back, because he wanted to say it back, really wanted to say it back; then a line would be crossed, one he knew he definitely shouldn’t.
What difference would it even make? Rozanov would probably not even remember any of this; the only indication that it even happened would be a Jane rotting away in his call log. Shane took a fortifying breath; he’d say it for himself, say it to prove that he could be brave if he wanted to. And tomorrow morning they’d both pretend this didn’t happen, it wouldn’t be difficult. He and Rozanov had years of practice at this point.
“I miss you too.” Shane confessed, he tried to make sure his voice didn’t sound too quiet or worse waiver. “And not just your dick.” He clarified; felt it wouldn’t be right if he didn’t. He needed Rozanov to not misunderstand him.
“O-kay.” Rozanov mumbled.
Shane was going to hang up now. He said what he needed to and he was pretty sure Rozanov was falling asleep. He had no desire to stay on line while that happened. Saying I miss you was one thing but listening to him fall asleep was far too intimate for Shane, it would probably kill him.
“I’m going to hang up now Rozanov. Also, you should sleep on your side.” Shane whispered.
He hated this. Rozanov should have never called. All of it felt wrong, out of place.
Rozanov grumbled something inaudible. He heard the rustle of sheets, fabric moving against fabric.
Shane pulled the phone away, finger hovering above the red circle, with reluctance he wasn’t allowed to feel. Maybe in another world he’d have the courage to do whatever he wanted to, hang up without feeling like they would never call again. Call Rozanov during sunrise, tell him that he missed him like a limb when Rozanov would actually remember. A world where they weren’t two men who played hockey.
Shane hung up.