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Ilya should sleep. He should sleep for heaven’s sake. There’s this bone deep feeling of exhaustion that always arrives after having played a tough game. They won that night, like they usually do. So why isn’t he already overtaken by sleep?
Спи, Илюша.
Exhausted beyond belief, he closes his eyes. For a brief moment he sees nothing but darkness. Darkness hiding all of his thoughts, darkness blanketing all of the memories that are so ubiquitous in his mind. He doesn’t want them to emerge from the shadows of his head.
But they do. They always come to the surface.
Мама, мы сегодня победили.
He wants to scream these words. For a split second he wonders if he screamed loud enough his voice might travel all the way to heaven and his mother would hear him.
He clutches the crucifix around his neck. The darkness is no longer a comforting blanket of nescience wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Now it rather feels like he’s being smothered by the heaviness of it. All the things and thoughts the darkness of his mind is hiding now feel heavier. He feels so utterly lost in his own head. And fears that with every other step he takes he might trip over a painful memory.
He hasn’t realised the hot tears falling down his cheeks. He promptly wipes them away and desperately wishes that the fingers wiping his tears would be his mother’s. There has not been a single day in his life he wouldn’t have thought of her. Her smile, her gentle voice, her comforting smell… She would have been proud of him. She wouldn’t have dismissed his wins like his father does. She will never see him win, though.
More tears find their way out of Ilya’s eyes. Burning hot, leaving a lingering feeling of sadness in their wake.
He doesn’t want to sleep anymore. Sleeping feels too excruciating.
And so he cries. Weeps like a fucking baby that has lost its pacifier and whose mother isn’t around to give them a new one. He’s too drained to fight the tears that seem to come from a bottomless pit. He allows himself to drown in them and perhaps even wants to drown the bitter liquid. Would he get to be with his mother if he died?
Thoughts of her come and go. Memories from his childhood come to him like vivid dreams. His father yelling at his mother for spoiling him. His father hitting her on her so hard she fell on the ground. Her shielding Ilya with her own body when his father was white with fury and was trying to hit him.
His whole body and skin aches for the woman. She was so strong and his father was so hard on her.
Time contorts around the edges, passing on its own accord, minutes turn into hours, Ilya lies sleepless in his bed, paralysed and dolorous.
The overwhelming quiet of Ilya’s room is broken by a beep of his phone.
Jane: Congrats on the win tonight :)
Lily: thanks
Lily: would you visit? please
They don’t fucking do this. They enjoy the few stolen moments they are allowed to have and then go their separate ways. And yet, Ilya couldn’t stop his fingers from typing that message. Would you visit?
Jane: I’m in Montreal.
It hits Ilya like a truck at full speed. Shane is hundreds of miles away from him, he couldn’t possibly get to Ilya. He has no idea what shitshow is currently going on in Boston. Shane is likely preparing for tomorrow’s practice, mind soothingly blank, unlike Ilya’s.
The harsh reality is gradually starting to crawl under Ilya’s skin. It settles there like a giant vulture and digs its claws into raw flesh. With each scratch it deafeningly screams: "You have no one. No one could possibly take care of you, let alone like you.”
The only person who ever did love him unconditionally died years and years ago.
Мама
He would burn down the world for the people he cares about. Give them the last crumb of himself because he genuinely cares and still end up being the loneliest person on earth.
Ilya doesn’t answer Shane’s last message. Instead he reaches for his prescription sleeping pills, he pops one, two and then three in his mouth. His phone slips out of his palm, left and forgotten somewhere on the floor.
Jane: missed calls 5
———
The buzz of Ilya’s doorbell rattles through the room. The sharp sound wakes him up, a blistering headache pulsing through his skull. He has half a mind to ignore the doorbell. He might have to ignore it if his body doesn’t get to cooperate, utterly overtaken by agony and medication. The sleeping pills he had taken might have worked more efficiently than anticipated.
Jane: missed calls 14
Yet, on the spur of the moment, his body stands up, led by reflexes. As if there was an invisible string pulling him towards the front door, forcing him to take small steps.
No sooner had Ilya wondered who the fuck is ringing than he saw Shane. The Shane Hollander standing at Ilya’s front porch.
Ilya pinches his forearm. Is he sleeping? If so, kudos to the sleeping pills for inducing beautiful dreams.
A wince of pain leaves Ilya’s mouth. So not asleep then. What is Shane even doing here?
Still in a daze, he unlocks the door, Shane instantly stepping inside. Never has Ilya seen him so on edge. Not even during the Olympic Games in Sochi.
“Fuck, Ilya.” Shane whispers, taking Ilya’s hands in his.
Ilya doesn’t even know how he must look. Part of him doesn’t care because nothing of this feels real. He’s so lost in his own head tumbling over memories and internal scars. Every tumble hurts more than any hockey injury ever could and has he suffered quite an amount of physical injuries.
“Rozanov!” Shane carefully raises his voice.
Somehow, hearing Shane call him by his last name makes Ilya shift his focus back to reality. He likes when Shane calls him “Ilya” better.
Shane leads Ilya to sit on a sofa. Steadily sits him down and climbs to sit in Ilya’s lap. Shane places both of his hands on Ilya’s cheeks. It’s such a gentle gesture, a gentle touch, that tears well in Ilya’s eyes instantly, threatening to fall.
He would have thought he can’t possibly cry more. And still, there he is.
His tears are like pearls—shiny, beautifully sad and finally free after having been trapped inside a shell for too long.
Shane wipes Ilya’s wet cheeks. Every swipe of his thumb a promise of comfort—a luxury Ilya doesn’t get to indulge in often.
Shane says nothing. His beautiful, full lips solely form a sad smile that, despite all, manages to transfer millions of words only Ilya can understand. I am here now. Let me see. Let me help.
Ilya internally curses himself for being so selfish and needy. Shane is here because of his reckless actions. And on top of it, he’s a bundle of raw emotions that have boiled over and can no longer be held within the confines of Ilya’s chest. Shane deserves better.
“I miss her.” is the only thing he says in a strained voice full of lifelong hurt. He just can’t help himself but to miss his mother. He knows he should fight this childish behaviour like his father told him to. But he might just be too lazy to do so—like his father told him countless times.
The flicker of understanding that sparks in Shane’s eyes only indicates that everything is dawning upon him. Fuck. Missing puzzle pieces falling into place, forming the full picture.
And instantaneously, he’s hugging Ilya’s head to his chest, so tightly it borders on smothering, except it’s not. It is precisely what Ilya needs.
Shane’s hands in his curls are like a soothing balm to his pulsing headache. The pressure of Shane’s chest pressing to Ilya’s cheek the sole thing tethering him to the present moment.
He winds his arms around Shane’s waist holding onto him as if Shane could disappear any second. He listens to his steady heartbeat, which sounds just like Tchaikovsky’s symphonies to him. Swan lake. The songs his mom used to play when he was little. She also used to do ballet. He remembers watching her perform graceful pirouettes and moves to Tchaikovsky. A wide, bright smile adorning her face. She was so happy in that moment.
Dance was her way of escaping the cruel reality. Sometimes, Ilya thinks, that skating does the same thing for him. Crisp air in his lungs giving him the same kind of relief classical music gave to Irina.
It floods Ilya’s heart with warmth. Happy memories of his childhood only seem to find their way to him when Shane is around. Sometimes, when Shane is laughing so genuine and carefree, Ilya recalls the sound of happiness he used to hear from his mother.
There are also kisses pressed to the crown of Ilya’s head. His headache having melted away entirely only after one kiss. What is this magic that Shane Hollander possesses?
Shane peppers hundreds of tiny kisses all over Ilya’s forehead, cheeks, nose, corners of his mouth… Every kiss feels like a breath of fresh air. A fresh summer breeze blowing away heavy storm clouds.
There are even quiet whispers now. “Let it all out.” A kiss. “You’re not alone.” A kiss. “Breathe.” A kiss. “Let yourself feel.” A kiss. Shane whispers the words like an oath to Ilya’s skin. Like he unequivocally means everything the words carry.
“I’m sorry.” Ilya forces out loud. Speaking doesn’t feel so impossible anymore, but there’s still a noticeable quiver in his voice.
“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t even be here, Hollander.” He adds. He feels overwhelmingly guilty for making Shane take pains to travel all the way to Boston.
“Nah-uh,” Shane shakes his head. “Do not—“ A stray tear falls down his freckled cheek. “Do not apologise for needing a bit of warmth. Ever.” He whispers. Sealing his words with a sure kiss to Ilya’s lips.
Ilya clings to him tightly. Kissing back like his life depends on it. It kind of does.
It is Shane who breaks the kiss. “How was she? Your mom.”
Ilya smiles up at him. It is the first time Shane has seen the corners of Ilya’s mouth lift since entering the house. The smile doesn’t exactly reach his eyes but it sure does take away a fair amount of pain from them. Ilya’s hands lay flat against Shane’s lower back.
“She was so beautiful and kind.” His voice trembles softly. “She loved the sunrise and ballet and she used to cook the best Syrniki.”
Shane’s thumb delicately rubs along Ilya’s jaw. It’s like tracing the lines of Michelangelo’s statue meticulously chiseled out of the marble.
“She used to laugh a lot before my father started being not so nice.”
Shane places a lingering kiss on Ilya’s cheek. “You don’t have to continue.”
“She used to smell like clean laundry and cinnamon. And she always comforted me when I hurt my knee. She loved me.” Ilya goes silent. Overtaken by a profound wave of nostalgia.
“I love you too.” Shane wants to add but he doesn’t. Instead he gives Ilya a deep, all-consuming kiss in hopes he might understand what he’s trying to get across.
They sit in comfortable silence then. A warm ambience creeping into the room and wrapping around their shoulders like a fluffy blanket.
Shane stands up and offers his hand for Ilya to take. He leads him to Ilya’s own kitchen. There he dampens his hands with cold water and wipes the remnants of dried tears from Ilya’s eyes.
“There you go.” Shane gives Ilya an encouraging smile. “You know… You scared me a little.”
“Shane, I’m so sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
Shane resolutely shakes his head. “Ilya, you’re not getting what I’m saying. The thought of you being alone in this scared me. Promise to always call when you feel like the world has given up on you.“
“Promise.” Ilya agrees, still reluctant to believe that Shane Hollander, hockey’s golden boy and the most beautiful person inside out, has just offered himself to someone like Ilya. Shane brought him the closest to home he never even dared to hope he would get.
Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck, studying Ilya’s face. The wrinkles around his eyes entirely gone, tiny effulgent light back in Ilya’s deep, sincere eyes.
The air between them is charged with a feeling Ilya longs to scream out loud. How could he ever feel anything less than love for someone who has just accepted Ilya for who he is?
———
There was just something about Shane. A sort of gentleness he carried with himself everywhere he went that reminded Ilya of his mother. Being with Shane came to him as easy as breathing. Two pieces fitting so easily together.
Yes, a part of Ilya’s soul left with his mother’s passing. And for the better part of his life it had felt like an irrevocable state. A fantastic hockey player, insanely attractive yet with a missing piece of himself. A missing piece of his soul. And then came Shane. A boy with breathtaking freckles and a beautiful heart. And gradually, Ilya’s soul began to flourish.