Work Text:
Mama
I don’t want to die
I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all
Sometimes the voices in Ilya’s head were too loud, all screaming at him at the same time. Sometimes they were silent. And he truly felt alone.
Sometimes he wondered if this was how Mama had felt. Whether her head had been full to the brim of voices before she swallowed those pills. Or maybe it was silent. He hoped it was the latter. That she had a moment of peace before she went.
Right now, stood on the roof at the MLH awards, he wished he had Mama’s pills. Maybe they would help with all the noise in his brain.
Sometimes Ilya wondered if it was his fault. That had he not been born, maybe Mama wouldn’t have stayed with Papa until it broke her. Maybe if she hadn’t had a reason to stay, she would have only left them not the whole world.
But then again, if he was something worth staying for she wouldn’t have left.
And she did.
Left him to find her sprawled across the floor. To see her lips unusually purple and feel her cold clammy skin. Left him crying and screaming over motionless body until somebody heard him. Left them to hit him, to tell him to stop being so emotional, that it was pathetic. He was a man and men don’t cry.
Then they sent him from the room and he never saw Mama again. So maybe it was really him who left her. She was still lying there on the floor; it was Ilya who was walking out the door.
He wondered what it was like in Papa’s head, his memories disintegrating and tying themselves up in knots until it was impossible to distinguish them. Maybe if Ilya had stayed in Russia, hadn’t run away to America for the glory and the money, then his father would remember him. If Ilya hadn’t betrayed his country and left for the West, then he wouldn’t be leaving the burden of caring for his declining Father to his brother. Maybe if he had stayed he wouldn’t have earnt as much money to send home so Alexei’s drug issue would never have gotten as bad as it is. If he hadn’t needed the drugs to cope with being the sole child dealing with Grigori.
He wasn’t sure what was worse. His brothers drug habit, or his own hypocrisy. He judged his brother but did he not feel all those same urges. The heavy feeling in his chest that he inherited from his Mama and the rage from his Papa. Sometimes when he got home after a night of clubbing, and the accompanying drinking and occasional high, he looked in the mirror and saw Alexei’s face staring back at him. You think you’re so much better than the rest of us now that you’re America’s bitch but you’re just as fucked as the rest of us.
Like right now, for example, Ilya was doing his best it seemed to finish of a full litre bottle of vodka that he had swiped from the open bar.
Maybe forgetting who he was would be better than this; remembering every moment of your life and seeing in each of them all the ways you were a disgrace to your family.
Maybe it was self-destructive but when everyone always spoke about how Rozanov was the joker on the team, the fun one who never let anything bother him, Ilya wanted to stand in the middle of the room and scream and throw things so that finally somebody might know how much of a mess he was. He felt blood thirsty for attention or sympathy or even just recognition that he had made it to the next day, that he had managed to put one foot in front of the other when all he wanted was for his mind to melt away like his Mama’s had and like his Papa’s was too.
He had been weak when Mama died. He had cried and wailed and he couldn’t keep his emotions in check. What an embarrassment. He cried when he found her. He cried when they lowered her into the ground. He cried when Alexei used him as a punching bag to release his anger. But Ilya was like a callous. Each fracture his brother created in his head built back thickened and hardened, tougher than before, until soon all his soft youthfulness was gone. He vowed that he would remain rough so that he wouldn’t be able to be hurt ever again. He would wear his new tough exterior like battle armour.
Never again would he be that weak fragile boy who broke down so easily. He would be bloodied knuckles and bruises, fighting off anyone who tried to get too close. A rabid dog abandoned all alone outside the house that had once contained his family, constantly on edge, snarling at anyone who approaches.
He thinks that if he let himself relax, let himself be soft, he would fall apart.
He still has his mother’s joy in him. He remembers that on those rare good days, they would run together. He remembers her curly hair would flow behind her; she didn’t care if it knotted or got messy because she said it made her feel free to let it fly behind her. She would tickle him and make him laugh and laugh until it was time to go back to the house where there was no laughing allowed.
So maybe he drinks more than he should on nights out, chasing that moment where tipsiness blurs into weightlessness and he doesn’t have to feel emotions. He tells himself that copious amounts of alcohol is totally different than his brother and his drugs. He isn’t an alcoholic in the way that his brother is a drug addict, it just takes the edge off. Helps him breath without feeling that weight on his chest. And at least if he is the one drinking the alcohol, then he is the one in control of his own self-destruction. He has hold of the reins for once.
He had let himself craft his ‘fun Ilya’ persona over the few years he has been with Boston. He feels like whenever he is around people, he is acting in a play. Becoming a caricature of himself.
Who cares if people laugh at him or think he is obnoxious and big-headed if they’re only thinking that about some fake Ilya that he created. Let everyone think he was a cold, heartless Russian fuckboy who didn’t have feelings or give a fuck about anyone else. If they thought they had him figured out then they wouldn’t try and pry any deeper and so they would never know him. See how truly broken he was. And they would never get the chance to break him further.
He only had a few days left in North America before he had to go back to Russia. Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop these negative thoughts from snowballing in his mind. Russia was…it was his home. But what is a home if not the first place you learn to run away from?
It is still the place where his mother raised him, where she loved him, where she left him.
Russia made him. Who knows if he would have ever amounted to anyone if he had grown up in an environment like America or Canada. But in Russia, it was survival.
The clinical, emotional detachment of his country had left him with only one channel to funnel all his feelings into: hockey. There was pressure, insurmountable pressure – there still was – from family, the sports officials, his fans.
He resents his country for the fear it demands of him. He is wary of it. And still, he misses it. The familiarity of streets, the sound of the language, the weight of a shared history. It all presses in on him, even when he is far away.
He’s tethered by his love and memories of his Mama to a place that cannot hold him safely like she used to.
Because it isn’t safe for him there.
He understands this not as an abstraction, but as a constant calculation: where to look, how to stand, when to speak, when to disappear… The fear is procedural, built into his daily life and carried with him when he leaves to go back to America, like muscle memory. His home exists in the in-between. He returns when he must and leaves when he can.
Russia was a cage for Ilya that was wide open. He could walk out anytime he wanted but instead he cowered back in the corner. Better the enemy you know and all that.
As he stood on that roof whilst the awards carried on downstairs, he reckoned with this in his head. Guilt over his not wanting to return to see his father, but guilt about not having gone there sooner as soon as he knew his season was over.
Looking over the skyline of the city, he let the numbness that only vodka seemed to bring wash over him. There was a strong breeze in the air and at that height, Ilya felt weightless. He wondered if he went over the edge would he float down like a feather, drifting back and forth all the way down. Or would the universe somehow know that that didn’t make sense. Maybe all the crushing pressure Ilya felt at all times would force him down to the pavement in 2 seconds flat.
He took another slug from the bottle as he let the railings take his weight, leaning forwards so that his torso angled slightly over the top and he could feel the wind on his face.
A distant siren brought him out of his reverie slightly and he righted himself so that he was no longer leaning over the edge. He wondered if it was the siren of an ambulance. Whether somewhere in the city before him there was a family huddled together crying as their loved one reached the end.
The question of 'Would anyone cry like that over me' flit through his mind before he banished it, laughing at his own stupidity. Who was going to cry like that over him? Maybe Svetlana but that was it. And she would move on soon enough, right?
He was still staring at the view when Hollander appeared and confronted him about being resentful over his loss. Truthfully, Ilya had almost forgotten he was even nominated for anything. He was so deep into his vodka bottle that he was struggling to remember much of anything about these awards. Then they had argued and Shane had startled and left. And once again, Ilya was alone. Once again, he had been left behind.
He tried to think about what Shane would do in his position. Maybe the difference between him and Shane is that Ilya would give up his dreams in order to escape his nightmares. He would rather an empty existence than the one he lives currently, with all the ups and truly awful downs. Shane would rather force himself to suffer through all his nightmares in order to keep his dreams, because at least that is the life he is familiar with. He would rather be miserable than to try and deal all the changes that would bring to his life.
Sometimes he let himself think, when he was very drunk, that maybe if Shane got to know Ilya outside of the sex, that maybe he could love him. But then he thought that if Shane really really knew him, saw how weak and fragile Ilya truly was under all that scar tissue, that maybe he wouldn’t be able to bear looking at Ilya anymore.
He didn’t know how long he stood there staring out at the city once Shane left before he heard the footsteps approach. He didn’t realise that as he had drank more and more vodka he had been standing less and less upright, leaning even more over the edge of the railing.
He flicked his eyes over to where Scott Hunter now stood watching him.
Neither spoke for a while. They just studied each other. Ilya wasn’t sure what Scott Hunter saw in his face. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what he saw in Hunter’s. The emotions flickered by so fast and Ilya was having trouble focusing, if truth be told. He may be Russian but the amount of alcohol he had consumed so far this evening would have anyone feel disoriented.
He was only vaguely aware of Hunter moving to stand next to him until the were both stood side by side looking out at the view of the city. They both looked out for a while in silence.
Then Ilya broke.
He wasn’t sure what had done it. His earlier spiralling thoughts. His conversation (argument) with Shane. The strange awe that came with looking across the whole city, giving him prospect and refuge, as well as a freeing sense of detachment from his life.
He also wasn’t sure when the last time he had cried was. It must have been all those years ago on the receiving end of his Brother’s blows. He hadn’t realised that time had been the last until today. And now like some emotional dam had broken, Ilya felt an unstoppable flow of hot, salty tears down his cheeks.
He resolutely stared straight ahead, not daring to glance to his right to see if Hunter had noticed. He kept his eyes focus on one of the windows that was lit up in a nearby building. He stared at it so hard that his eyes lost focus. But he refused to look away in case he met Scott Hunter’s eye and the gig was up. Then the truth that Ilya was not as strong as he made out to be would be revealed and everyone would know that he was pathetic.
So he stared at the window. He stared and stared and stared until the window wasn’t even in focus anymore, all his vision blurred by the tears, and he felt a hand press firmly on his shoulder. Ilya tensed, waiting for the judgemental words. The laughter and humiliation. It didn’t come. No words did. Hunter didn’t move his hand and gradually Ilya felt himself begin to uncoil.
Maybe his body leant slightly closer. Maybe his breathing slowed slightly. But neither of them spoke and neither of them really moved.
It was an age before Hunter eventually spoke, “Everyone in hockey is always talking about how they cant wait for the summer. How they’re so excited to have a break and spend time with their families and relax. Sure they love the sport but the summer is when they get to be at home and be with loved ones. Whereas me, I dreaded summer.” He paused briefly, “ Still do. 2 months of no practices and seeing my friends. No parents to visit or spouse to enjoy some domestic peace with. It feels like everyone’s real lives exist in those summer breaks. And for me, once the hockey stopped, I would see what was left of myself, who I was outside of the game, and he was nothing. An empty shell.”
Ilya thought about this for a moment, “And now?” He turned to look at Scott. “You said was. Are you not empty shell anymore? There is now an old-man tortoise in there?”
“No tortoise,” Scott chuckled. “And no it isn’t completely empty. Maybe not full like some other players but I try and make it work for me.”
“I am not little orphan Annie like you. I still have Papa.” He paused before adding, more quietly, “He just doesn’t always remember that he has me.”
“Oh yeah? And what is he like? Loving and caring? I don’t want to be rude Rozanov but it seems to me that you’re as shit out of luck as I am when it comes to getting affection from family members.”
Ilya was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke his voice came out smaller than he would have liked. “Mama always gave affection.” He paused, feeling a lump in his throat as he tried to talk. “She was loving and caring.” He took in shaky breath and tried to ignore how much his eyes had started to burn again.
Scott’s hand tightened on his shoulder again. It wasn’t the sort of attempt at comfort where you could tell the other person felt awkward and didn’t really understand. It was understanding. Maybe it was naivety or his emotions running wild after so many years of being suppressed but Ilya felt like this is what talking with an older brother is supposed to feel like.
God, Ilya could never let Hunter know he had had that thought. The thought of being related to that dinosaur… Ilya thought he could taste bile in his throat.
They continued standing that way for another few minutes. Ilya didn’t know Scott Hunter all that well other than that he was A) old and B) a mediocre hockey player, but he guessed that he was also thinking back to a time when he had parents who loved him. The news never shut up about how Hunter's parents had died in a car crash, how his early hockey days were funded by scholarships and second hand gear. Hockey's very own Cinderella. The thought of how they would spin Irina's death of they ever found out... Ilya did not envy Scott. Having everyone know your entire life story when you barely even understood your self sounded exhausting.
Maybe Scott was more uncomfortable in the silence than Ilya because, once again, he was the first one to move. Not away, but rather shifting so that his body was angled more towards Ilya, blocking out the world from view. It was like the door had closed on a draft.
Without the city to distract him, Ilya realised how cold he was. Maybe he did need to get back to Russia if he was getting chilly from a mild evening breeze.
He inhaled shakily through his nose. The crying had slowed, thank goodness. God he had just cried his eyes out in front of Scott Hunter of all people. Ilya huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t broken halfway through. He scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, annoyed at the wetness there, at himself for letting it happen. Annoyed at himself for even coming to this roof.
“I shouldn’t be up here,” he said finally. The words felt strange in his mouth. Not apologetic. Just factual.
Scott hummed in agreement. “No,” he said. “You shouldn’t.” Something about the way Scott responded told Ilya that they both knew they weren’t talking about the fact that being on the roof was trespassing.
They stood there another moment longer anyway, trespassing be damned.
“Come inside,” Scott said. Not a request. Not an order. Something in between. “You’re drunk, you’re freezing, and you’re standing on a roof thinking thoughts that don’t get to win tonight.”
Ilya barked out a short, humourless laugh. “You always talk like this? Very bossy. Very captain.”
“Only when I’m right.”
"You should try with your team. Maybe then New York won't suck at hockey."
Scott just rolled his eyes at this and went to move back towards the door. Ilya hesitated. His eyes flicked back toward the railing without meaning to, as if checking whether it would be offended by being ignored. It looked the same as it had all night. Impassive. Patient.
Waiting.
Scott noticed. Of course he did.
Without comment, he stepped half a pace closer again, positioning himself so that Ilya would have to deliberately move around him to reach the edge again. It was subtle. Protective without being condescending.
It made something in Ilya’s chest twisted painfully.
“Okay,” he said, the word coming out hoarse. “Okay.”
They started toward the door in silence. Each step felt oddly significant, like crossing an invisible line. Ilya felt hyperaware of the sound of his dress shoes on the concrete, the slight sway of his body as the alcohol shifted in his bloodstream.
At the door, Scott paused, hand on the handle. “You going to be able to walk down the stairs?”
“Yes,” Ilya replied automatically.
Scott raised an eyebrow.
“…Probably,” Ilya amended.
“Good enough.”
The warmth hit him as soon as they stepped inside . It was thick, almost overwhelming after being out in the open air for so long. The various noises crashed over him too: music, laughter, voices layered on top of one another. Maybe it was stupid but Ilya almost felt surprised to see that the party was still in full swing, that it had continued oblivious to his absence. That all these people could feel so happy and carefree whilst Ilya felt like ending everything.
Scott led them over to an empty table in the corner of the room. Most people were clustered around the bar or on the dance floor so it was quieter over here. Their own real company was discarded jackets and purses.
Scott pulled out a chair for him like it was automatic, muscle memory from a life spent needing to be liked by strangers in order to be worthy of their donations, the time and effort they put into his hockey. Ilya sat, heavier than he meant to, forearms braced on the table like if he let go he might tip sideways. The room still felt too bright but at least now he was on a chair, the floor beneath him didn’t feel like it was threatening to disappear.
Scott disappeared for a moment. When he came back, he set a glass of water down in front of Ilya and placed a second darker coloured drink firmly on his own side of the table, well out of Ilya’s reach.
Ilya eyed the water. “Wow,” he said dryly. “Romantic. You always spoil your opposition like this?”
“Drink it,” Scott said.
Ilya sighed, the sound exaggerated, but he did it.
They sat in silence for a few seconds. Ilya could feel his pulse in his temples, but the edge had dulled. He rubbed his hands together, then stopped, aware he was fidgeting.
“You going to tell someone?” he asked.
“No.”
“Really? No one?” Ilya clarified. “Because I’d really prefer not to be known as ‘Russian idiot who cried on roof.’ Very bad for brand.”
Scott snorted. “Your secret that you have a heart is safe with me.”
“Good", Ilya nodded once, relieved despite himself. "Public think I am asshole,” he said, shrugging. “Is helpful for team publicity. Good ..what is word..narrative”
“Well the narrative works. I’m disappointed in myself to admit that until tonight I believed it.”
“Do not feel bad, Scott Hunter. Brain slows down with age. Is hard to think when you are one thousand, I am sure.” Ilya smirked at Scott and who couldn’t help but laugh. He could understand why the tabloids were always reporting on Ilya being out with another woman each night, he could definitely turn on the charm even after the emotionally draining evening they had had.
Silence stretched again, but it was different now. Less precarious. Ilya opened his mouth a few times to speak but could never quite figure out where to start. He went to try again when suddenly Scott spoke.
“You don’t have to justify it to me. You don’t owe me an explanation for having a bad night.”
“It’s not just a bad night,” Ilya said before he could stop himself. The words were out, hanging between them. He stiffened, waiting for regret to crash in.
Scott only nodded. “Yeah. I got that impression.”
Ilya sat back, letting his hands rest on the table. He kept his gaze trained on the condensation ring his glass had left on the tablecloth.
Scott didn't want to pry to closely into Ilya's life in Russia but maybe it was all these years of having to look out for the rookies on his team, many who were in America for the first time and all alone, but he didn't feel he could leave the younger man to leave this evening feeling just as alone as he clearly did at the moment. "Back in Russia, who is there for you? Other than your father, I mean."
Ilya's jaw clenched slightly. "I have brother. Alexei. That is it. No other family."
"Do you trust him? Alexei? Do you get on?"
"Alexei gets on with 2 things: my money and the drugs he can buy with it." His words sounded slightly slurred and Scott wasn't sure that if the alcohol wasn't taking effect that Rozanov would be talking about any of this with him.
"Ah, no. His fist gets on with my face." Jesus, Ilya was definitely drunker than Scott had thought because he knew that that thought definitely wouldn't have exited Rozanov's lips sober. But now that he had gotten Rozanov talking, it seemed like the Russian was on a roll. "He is police, like Papa, so he thinks he is better than stupid hockey player. Maybe blames me for Mama leaving. That I am distraction and that is why accident happened. Ha! Accident. I do not normally accidentally swallow bottle of pills. Oh whoopsie. Is stupid story that everyone believes because truth is bad for Papa. Makes him look like bad husband, bad leader. Not in control of his wife. Cannot happen again so it is important to keep children in line, da? We cannot be disappointment like Mama. So Alexei tries to be just like Papa. Same job. Same anger. Same using fists to deal with emotions. I am too much like Mama. They don't like it. Maybe makes them sad? Maybe angry? Probably both."
Ilya slumped in his chair sideways towards Scott slightly, giving the older man a grin that was so clearly fake that it was almost creepy. "Good thing I have lots of practise fighting on ice, da? Not easy punching bag anymore." He started laughing to himself whilst Scott watched with concern.
"It is shame you do not have siblings, I think. You would be good older brother. Better than Alexei." Ilya said it with an airiness that suggested it was a throwaway comment, but - and maybe Scott was just reading into things - he got the impression that Ilya craved that old brotherly affection that he clearly had never received before. In that moment Scott thought that maybe it would be nice to have a younger Brother.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well. Guess we’ll never know.”
The sad slightly pouty face that Ilya pulled then made Scott snort despite himself. He reached out and nudged the water glass a little closer to Ilya again, a silent suggestion more than an order. “Drink,” he said, softer than before.
Ilya eyed it, then obeyed, taking a few slow sips. When he set it down, his hand lingered on the table, closer to Scott’s than before. Not touching. Just… there.
“You know,” Scott said after a moment, carefully neutral, “being good at taking punches doesn’t mean you deserved them.” It was a bit of a pointless comment. He knew it wasn't going to change things or how Ilya felt, but Scott felt that he needed to at least say something. Even if all it achieved was letting Ilya know that Scott was on his side.
Ilya’s grin flickered - not gone, but thinner now. “Ah,” he said dryly. “You sound like… therapist. Or concerned older brother. Which is worse?”
“Definitely the older brother,” Scott said without missing a beat. “Therapists charge by the hour.”
That got a real laugh out of him. Short, rough, but genuine.
“See?” Ilya said, tilting his head. “Already better than Alexei. He charges when I'm not even there.”
Eventually the conversation transitioned away from the heavy stuff to mindless puck talk. Scott was pleasantly surprised at how easy Rozanov was to talk to when the pretense of being an arsehole was somewhat gone. He was strangely insightful, Scott would have almost thought it was Hollander he was talking to. It was widely agreed that Hollander had the best Hockey IQ in the league, but Scott thought that Rozanov was much more intelligent than people believed. He supposed that he would sound less intelligent too if he was always forced to speak in a language that he didn't speak fluently.
Eventually people started to make their way back to their end of the room, retrieving their belongings and calling it a night. They were both sobered up at this point and the awareness of how vulnerable the conversation earlier had been hung in the air.
As they started toward the exit, Ilya glanced sideways at Scott. “You know we play each other next season, yes?”
Scott smirked. “I’m aware.”
“So if you tell anyone about this,” Ilya said, “I will absolutely slam you into barriers. New York will lose every single game with Boston.”
Scott laughed quietly. “I’d expect nothing less.”