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Ilya Rozanov was nothing short of an amazing hockey player. There was nothing to disprove this fact, and there never would be. So when someone similar in weight and height to him came up from the far end of the alley, mentioning that all he wanted was to introduce himself in the name of 'formalities', he was less than cautious about it.
"Ilya Rozanov?"
The spark of his cigarette prompted the blonde to greet the man with silence and a disheartening look. He noticed freckles sprinkled across a cold, riddled nose bridge.
"Shane Hollander, I wanted to introduce myself."
The conversation was nothing more than small talk, mainly coming from the dark-haired man next to the Russian. The only words the freckled man managed to get out of the other were 'ok', 'yes', and the snarky little comment about beating his team. This was the first interaction that Ilya Rozanov had with the profound Shane Hollander, and it was anything but memorable. So when Rozanov heard his name being yelled by his coach, asking if there was something more important going on than their practice because he was looking elsewhere, he became a bit irritable. At the top of the bleachers, the pale man and a woman sitting next to him caught his eye, both staring down at the rink with a focus similar to the one Ilya used whenever he had to translate a word from English to Russian to fully understand it. To be frank, the sound of his last name was the only thing that brought him back; the sight of the man from earlier that day, slowly yet surely, began to pique his curiosity.
The next time he saw the freckled man was during their game, the one Rozanov had told Hollander he would win. He was a man of his word, and so that night he and his team indeed overtook Montreal and beat them. As their teams passed by each other, slapping and shaking hands, Ilya took the opportunity to speak to the resilient Shane Hollander, a sort of jab.
"See you at the draft."
The simple words had Rozanov grinning and wondering what expression the other man was wearing as the lines continued moving. That night, Rozanov fell asleep a little faster than usual, blaming it on the high of winning.
A few days later, a sort of social ball was held, and Ilya was more than dreading having to speak to people he had no interest in speaking to, especially alongside his father. The man was rough, not just around the edges, but rough in everything he did. For better or for worse, Ilya had learned to tune himself out. This event was no exception, his father making conversation with important figures, making sure to scrutinize Ilya at every chance he got. He spotted his dark hair from the second floor, the split second of eye contact enough to leave him thinking about their very first exchange of words just days ago. The rest of the night was filled with conversations he couldn't be bothered to remember and drinks that he would rather substitute with vodka.
When Ilya had suggested the joint commercial with Shane Hollander to his manager, he was met with a look of interest, and ultimately, his request was indulged. He was intrigued by the gym session he had briefly shared with the Canadian. Sharing a water bottle had never felt so tantalizing. Within the next week and a half, Ilya was positioned face-to-face with Shane Hollander, cameras pointed at them as they simulated a face-off on the ice.
"You look pretty."
"You're wearing makeup too."
"Yeah, but I don't look pretty."
The rest of the shoot was easy, enjoyable even. Ilya laughed more than expected, and the face on Hollander when he claimed to be the one who suggested the commercial was worth even asking his manager for it in the first place. Ilya felt accomplished for whatever reason. He had come to the realization that he didn't just want to be a nuisance to the man, but that he felt something a little more frisky when it came to him. That night, he stumbled across Hollander in the team showers after their shoot, and with a grin plastered across his face, made a move on the Canadian without shame or regret. He was delighted to see that the other wasn't opposed to his advances, albeit rather raunchy.
"Not here."
This was all Ilya needed to hear.
Ilya walked past three rows of lockers before seeing Hollander sitting and putting on his socks. He walked up to him, using his locker as an excuse, careful not to get too close. Hollander speaks first, tries to shove the shower thing under the rug. Immediately, Ilya questions him, because while in the moment, he seemed more than ready to step into unmarked territory with Ilya. Hollander had to think a bit, but ultimately gave Rozanov his room number, as Ilya made a quip about 'maybe' knocking on his door.
When Rozanov made it to his hotel room, he made a note to be punctual for Hollander, as it seemed like something he would find important. He was calm, maybe a bit excited, and most definitely intrigued. He didn't know what to think of him. Sure, he found him undeniably attractive, catching his eye whenever he was in his field of view, but to think he was now going to involve himself with him in a manner such as this one was jarring. The oh so perfect Shane Hollander waiting for Ilya in his own hotel room. The thought settled in Ilya's mind, and by 8:55, he was out of his hotel room with a leather jacket on, making his way to 1410, with a little more pep in his step than he'd like to admit.
That night was filled with a sparking feeling that was mainly in the base of Ilya's stomach. From the second Hollander asked him if he'd like to sit to when he was silently folding his clothes before joining Ilya in bed made Ilya's chest swell with amusement. He found Hollander endearing, noticing a couple of quirks here and there that made him distinguishable. He doesn't wear shoes past the doorway, he doesn't leave things scattered around, and he needs a little reassurance before putting his all into something, which was revealed to Ilya when he first kissed him. The air was electric as they spent their time together, Ilya learning that he would be Hollander's first. He spoke with purpose, fiery as he asked more of Hollander once they started. He was confident, relaxed, making sure that Hollander was okay. It filled him with a sense of pride, almost, to know that he was his first experience. Like he was conquering something that wasn't his to conquer. After that night, it had started. It had truly started, and Ilya couldn't do anything to stop it.
Time went on. They began texting. A little rough patch during the Rook of the Year awards, but it was smoothed over with the off-season. Hollander and Rozanov would try to see each other every single time they played each other, sneaking into hotel rooms and enjoying each other's presence in bed and otherwise. The tinge of disappointment in his gut whenever a game got canceled was small, but there. The texting became constant. Ilya would make sly comments, and Hollander would simply not understand them, but even that was charming to the blonde man. Ilya grew to look forward to each meeting more and more; he enjoyed Hollander and what he had to offer. Sure, he would make comments about wanting to fuck him, teasing and brooding and borderline pushy with the way he brought it up, but Hollander was more than accepting of the offer. So finally, when the spring of 2013 hit, and Boston won their game against Montreal, Ilya was particularly excited to see Hollander. That night, Ilya had found a feeling within himself he didn't know how to describe, only knowing that he liked it a lot. The night was filled with passion and desire and a want that was palpable to both of them. New experiences and emotions filled the air and their heads, as they explored each other, in tune with the other, as if they were running drills together on the ice.
They were content by the end of it, feeling like they had both finally quenched a thirst that had built up over the last couple of years. Only when Hollander landed that peck on Ilya's forehead did he feel something he didn't quite like. It was a bloom of sorts, starting in his pelvis and slowly creeping up towards his chest. He felt safe in the arms of Hollander, and the kiss he gave him was affectionate and sweet, contrasting with what they had just done. His body was supposed to be cold from the fresh shower, and yet he felt heat rise and fall through his body, making him warm in a good way. He needed out. He didn't want this.
"I should go."
And with that, he left. For the next six months, he was more concentrated on hockey than he had ever been in his career up to date. This was particularly because things were getting serious, and because he needed a distraction for whenever "Jane" would text him. He was fully ignoring the man. He kept remembering that night and the way it made him feel, and he was reminded constantly that he couldn't allow himself to feel like that. He knew he didn't like Hollander, but he had grown a sort of fondness for him, and that created liability. It created an opening, one he wasn't supposed to have. Every time his father yelled, he thought of Hollander to soothe himself, later staring at himself in the mirror, thinking about how stupid it was to find comfort in another man he barely knew. This continued for months; he avoided every text like it was diseased, something necrotic that would spread through him if he wasn't careful. Eventually, he would be right, but that wasn't something he needed to worry about for the time being. It was month six of ignoring Hollander when he was told he had to present some sort of award for some sort of ceremony, and it was then that he realized he couldn't avoid him forever, because he was going to be his co-star during said award presentation.
When Ilya walked into the building, he was nervous. Not for the awards, or about being on national television, but to see Hollander. For some reason, he had this fear of seeing the other man, scared to see how he would react to him after the time that had passed. The moment of truth came not when they were actually on stage, but after the fact, when Hollander ran to a bathroom down a long hallway, away from everyone and everything, and the nervousness that was seemingly overtaking Ilya had vanished in the pursuit of the other hockey player. He made it to the bathroom maybe thirty seconds after Hollander, and hesitated for maybe five seconds after that at the door, wondering if he should even go in. He decides to go in and is met by silence and a gaze that held the emotion of a thousand souls.
"Well-"
"Well, what? What the fuck do you want Rozanov-"
Anger. Ilya was met with anger, and maybe a hint of disappointment if he looked close enough at his eyes. They were glassy and slightly red, almost pleading with Ilya to get out. The exchange was simple. Hollander was rightfully mad about the ghosting, but the anxiety Ilya had felt in the days coming up to this moment was gone. He felt almost relieved to see that Hollander was fine, good even. So he could handle a bit of yelling, nothing he hadn't done before. He realized, while he watched Hollander yell, that he had missed him. Not overbearingly, nothing like those cheesy romance movies that had the boy on his knees, hoping the girl would take him back, but he missed him like he missed the cake his mother would bake for his birthday. It was a bittersweet feeling, nothing too crazy as he had accepted things long ago, but still present, still there.
"Well?"
"I want you to suck my dick."
It was the only thing he could think of. There was no valid excuse for his absence, and he knew that. Any explanation for it would ultimately make Hollander feel worse, so he opted for the next best thing, go for something they were familiar with. He chose to hide behind the mask of the non-caring, arrogant, confident player whose demeanor was unshakeable. Hollander responded negatively, for obvious reasons, but the tension is his voice had eased, if only a little bit.
"Maybe if you ask nicely."
"Please"
Hollander's voice was lower now, the anger already gone with the ventilation of the bathroom.
Ilya's hand was holding Hollander's face up, and if the heat shared between them didn't make Ilya feel something, the way Hollander was looking at him did. Teary eyes that were solely focused on him, while the word please came out as a murmur. Ilya missed this, the closeness, the acute attention, the kind of hormones that made him feel like he was worth something. Hollander had gotten over his fit, the conversation ending with Ilya telling Hollander to keep himself together and act accordingly for the public eye, while also letting him know that he was going to make those six months of silence worth nothing later that night.
The sex was one of a kind. Never in Ilya's life had he felt such a primal form of desire, such an innate distinction between himself and the man he was lying next to. Even though that, he made a point to draw a line. A barrier. Out of all the times they had met with each other, never had they failed to kiss. Tonight was different. Ilya and Hollander had not shared even one kiss that night, and when Hollander tried to make small talk after the fact, Ilya was dismissive in a way that would hurt anyone's feelings. He shoved a cigarette in his mouth and even looked off to the window, disregarding Hollander completely. Hollander took that as a sign, or Ilya was assuming so, because he left shortly after. Ilya was filled with a sense of dread. He wanted the man to come back, to bury his head into his side and stroke his hair with the calloused hands that had the privilege of touching him not even half an hour earlier. They hadn't even kissed. Did Hollander care?
Why did he? The realization made Ilya freeze, cigarette falling onto his sheets, most definitely a fire hazard. The feeling in his chest from the night six months ago returned, but the potency of this was much worse. The 'blooming' sensation he felt seemed to want to push through his stomach and lungs. His chest felt tight, and his breathing became labored. He felt as if he were going to puke. For someone with such a strong stomach, Ilya was running to the bathroom with the feeling of dizziness and nausea overcoming him. He began to hack over the toilet, retching nothing while confused and scared. Ilya wasn't one to get sick, usually killing any kind of infection with the amount of vodka he consumes, but this was deeper than any of that. He was coughing like never before, something struggling at the base of his ribs, it seems. He was going to die, he thought. For all his efforts in calming the cough, it came back stronger, with something like a feather tickling his lungs, almost teasing him to cough more. His esophagus suddenly felt full, and yet he hadn't eaten for several hours. He looked around through teary eyes for his phone, but who would he call? No one here was close enough with him to drop everything and come, and the one person who might have already left for the night. He abandoned the idea of looking for his phone.
Suddenly, the feeling in his throat began to rise, causing more tears to form in his eyes as he struggled to get whatever was wedged in there out. The object was smooth; it didn't hurt per se, but made it hard to breathe, so hard. He tried to calm down, to push the thing up by gagging forcefully. Eventually, while leaning over the toilet, pale and sweating, he could feel something at the back of his throat. He reached for it fervently, trying to claw the item out and failing several times, until he gagged one more time and the thing came out. He sucked in a gasp of air so big he almost choked again. He managed to stabilize his breathing after a few minutes, turning on the bathroom sink and rinsing his mouth out to be met with pink water. He hadn't even noticed he was bleeding. He was so scared. He had no idea what was happening, and then he remembered that he had let something out in the water of the toilet. He peered over, leaning on the counter for support while looking down at the rippling water. It was small, and it took him a minute to register what it was. He was looking at a flower. He rubbed at his eyes a little, completely sure he was just lightheaded and seeing things. He got closer to the water, and floating was, in fact, a small white flower, with four petals and a bunch of little buds stemming from the middle of it.
Shocked was not the word. Ilya ran for his phone and immediately opened Google. If he wasn't going insane, then there had to be a logical explanation for what had just happened.
'Why is a flower coming out of my mouth"
The simple search yielded results that made Ilya turn his phone off and sit down. He was on the edge of the bed, sitting and staring at his own two feet. He didn't know what to do. The top result was as follows,
'The Hanahaki disease is something that is very rare these days, only being seen in about 2% of the population. It is also referred to as 'unrequited love sickness'. This is caused by someone experiencing unrequited love, causing the body to grow flowers in the lungs and throat. The disease is usually marked by a full flower coming out of the patient the first time it happens. This then begins the progression of the illness, with smaller parts of flowers being coughed up at first, and as the roots get bigger, the patient will begin to vomit up full flowers just as the first time.'
Ilya stops reading after that. He might've been sick if he continued. He was at a loss for words. He understood that he cared for Hollander, but never did he think it grew this much. He only wanted to see him more, treat him well, and understand him better. He didn't think these constituted love. He even made a point to create boundaries, carefully placed boundaries so that the feelings he was so unsure about wouldn't grow. It seems they grew without him, into this. He was lost
That night, Ilya spent hours researching and reading about this so-called 'hanahaki' bullshit, as he put it. He read multiple things, about how the severity depended on the person's feelings, how the disease was cured with a confession of love, and the most dreadful thing he found was the treatment option.
Apparently, there was a surgery that would remove all the growing plants in your lungs, but this would eliminate the feelings you have for the person who caused them. Forever. You would never feel anything towards them again. At first, Ilya thought, 'perfect, I'm scheduling this immediately', and then the memories of himself and Hollander over the years began to replay in his head. Their first encounter played especially vividly, with him reminiscing on the way Hollander's freckles were the first thing he saw. The way his eyes were kind, even as he greeted someone who was to be his competitor. Ilya was filled with a warmth that almost made him forget about the pressure in his chest. He was then torn, not knowing what to do. He didn't sleep that night, still too intimidated to go back to his toilet. In the early morning, though, through sleep-fueled haze, he went to the toilet to pee and was met with the flower. He stared for a moment before grabbing his phone and taking a picture of it. He then flushed it down the toilet and took his morning pee.
He slept the whole day away, too stressed to do much else. He didn't eat. Didn't drink. Didn't get a text from Hollander at all, and that might've been the worst part. Now that he couldn't deny his feelings, being physically forced to acknowledge them, he doesn't know what to think of himself. How stupid could he be to let something like this happen? All he had to do was keep his feelings out of it; that was it, and he could've enjoyed Shane Hollander without a care in the world. Now he would have to deal with loving the man with no hope for them in the future. He didn't want to get rid of his feelings. He loved feeling loved. It was intoxicating in the best way, and he saw it as a privilege to be able to feel this way, especially towards a man as great as Shane Hollander. He should've known, honestly, from the first time they met to the first hotel room they shared. He was smiling at the man folding clothes as if it were some great revelation to the city of Boston. It was the way his eyes looked in the light, the way he looked at him. All empty promises of shared affection, Ilya knew. He was in this predicament simply because Hollander didn't return the feelings he was now struggling with. He wouldn't have gotten the disease if he hadn't. He was willing to bide his time, though. He wouldn't give up Shane Hollander. Not now, and not ever. He had already chosen him.
The next few days were fine. The pressure in Ilya's chest stayed consistent, with some coughing fits that didn't expel any plant matter from his mouth at all. The team thought that he was just getting sick, something that had never happened, so they were more fascinated than anything. In the midst of the locker room after a rougher practice, Ilya's coughing fit begins, and the player around begin to hoot and holler a bit, making comments about how he was going to get a fever next. Everyone but Marlow was openly poking fun at the captain. Marlow looked at Ilya with concern, something telling on his face that Ilya couldn't figure out.
"Are you alright? Like, actually, Roz, are you okay?"
"Is fine. Simple freeze- sorry, cold. Is simple cold."
Just when Ilya thought he had made a passable excuse, his coughing started again, and he had to go to another room to hide how bad it really was. Marlow follows behind him, worried for the man as he never gets sick, let alone this violently.
"Hey man, you really gotta get checked out, this isn't normal. It sounds like you have something stuck in your thr-"
Ilya cuts him off with a hand. He wheezes as he tries to stop the coughing long enough to speak.
"Is fine. I told you it is a cold, drop it."
Marlow retreats back to the locker room to finish changing out of his gear, looking defeated and worried at the same time. Ilya was now beginning to sputter up blood. For right now, it was manageable; he could say he got a cut in his mouth with this minuscule amount, it was so little that his saliva mixed with it looked like he had just had a red gatorade. He knew he was good for now, but what about later? He had to tell someone. Probably should be the team doctor, but that's a liability. He knew that it was supposed to be confidential, but he didn't know how far that stretched if it was something of this rarity. He was going to consult a private doctor with an NDA in place. That would work a lot better. He had still heard nothing from Hollander. The heavy feeling in his heart that he woke up with every morning didn't ease up, and he was growing more tired throughout the days. A week into this endeavor, and he was noticeably slower on the ice, he played it off as the 'cold' he admitted he had to Marlow, and that was enough to get everyone off his back.
He and Hollander resumed texting again, maybe a month later, and everything was back to normal. Well, as normal as it could be with Ilya now coughing up tiny stems and sepals from his throat. Every time Hollander texted, he felt something shimmy up his throat a bit more, and it was at its worst when they would have genuine conversations. Talking about whatever came up, their practices, the weather, Hollander's macrobiotic diet, and how he eats 'bird food', according to Hayden Pike. He would violently cough up these tiny bits and pieces of flowers, littered in blood that would dry brown within the next half hour over the greenery. Sometimes Hollander would question Ilya on his response time, wondering what he was doing so late at night to randomly stop texting mid conversation. Ilya would say he dropped his phone or went to get a glass of water while cleaning the blood off the bathroom floor with toilet paper.
Svetlana kept asking who 'Jane' was, insinuating that she was more important than her, and Ilya would wave her off. They were more consistent with each other, texting each other at all times of the day and interrupting their daily routines. Ilya reveled in the way he got to know Hollander more, further. He was ecstatic to know that the man he loved actually wanted to talk to him, took time out of his day to respond, even if he ended up retching what felt like his intestines out every time. The pain was bearable if he got to spend his days filled with Shane Hollander. One of these times, Hollander texted at a rather odd time, right in the middle of lunch, which was usually reserved for the people they were with. It was sporadic and instant, causing Ilya to inhale sharply with food still in his mouth.
Jane:
Hayden found out about us. I don't know what to do.
Ilya didn't know what to say. He panicked and put his phone down, going back to the conversation with Marlow and the rest of his team. Had Hollander let it slip? No, doesn't sound like him. Ilya was curious to know how Hayden found out, but what worried him was Hollander's anxiety, the constant worry that someone would find out that had been there since the first time they kissed. At least it was Pike, someone who seemed to be friendly with Hollander. Had it been anyone else, Hollander wouldn't blocked Ilya and erased him from his entire life. Ilya was sort of relieved. He excused himself from the table and made his way to a bathroom. He opens the message, and he decides to respond before Hollander manages to freak out and shut down.
Lily:
How did this happen? What did he say?
A pause.
Lily:
Are you okay?
Ilya stared at the phone, wondering if the reassurance he usually only extended during sex was too much for a moment like this. His chest began to hurt, and he could sense a coughing fit coming up. Slowly but surely, he began to hack and retch in a stall of the small bathroom, blood beginning to sprinkle out more and more with cough as his throat began to feel like it was being torn up; this was a new feeling he realized. So far, the leaves and stems had been smooth, causing discomfort and difficulty breathing and slight pain, but that was it. This was worse. Whatever was coming up was fighting its way through soft tissue and trachea lining to come up and out of Ilya's mouth. He was hunched over the toilet, eyes red and leaving tear stains down his freshly shaved face. It was a torrential feeling of dread and hurt and confusion. He didn't know what was coming up this time, and it scared him. He didn't call for anyone, tried to keep his noise level at bay even with the way his throat burned and his chest felt full of water from the pressure.
The thing made its way up and up and up, finally reaching the back of his mouth and landing on his tongue. The blood pooled in his mouth, and he spat out the biggest glob of it yet, staining the toilet water bright red. He put his hand up to his mouth, catching the thing before it fell in the toilet, tears still streaming down his face, slower than before. He wiped his eyes and looked at it. He saw blood and a few pieces of what he assumed was his throat, similar to the pieces of his cheek flesh he would chew off during PR meetings that asked him uncomfortable questions, hanging off what he assumed were- thorns? Had thorns come up? What did that even mean? The morning after he had coughed up that whole flower, he took the picture and put it into good, learning that it was a 'bunchberry' flower. It was small, pale, and had leaves bigger than its petals. It was the first time he had ever seen it. He had looked at the flower from every possible angle, trying to memorize every part of it so that he could keep track of what part of it came up as time progressed, but the plant didn't have thorns.
He got up, lightheaded, and walked out of the stall, beelining for the sinks. He rinsed the thorn-filled stem off under the water, and he recognized it immediately. It was a rose stem, untrimmed and adorned with the thorns he recalled his mother cutting off when he was younger. A wave of sadness washed over him, remembering his mother and then realizing what the situation he was in truly meant. He was in love with a man who did not reciprocate the same sentiments, and there was nothing he could do about it. He decided to finally consult a doctor about it. His throat burned with each inhale, and his team was more than definitely wondering where he was. He checked his phone, finally having his eyes clear enough to read anything on the screen, and the team group chat had announced they were leaving, and that Rozanov was to be back for warm-ups before 6. He also noticed that Hollander hadn't responded. Ten whole minutes and Ilya was still on delivery. He was worried sick, literally, for Hollander. He wondered what Pike was saying, what excuse Hollander was trying to make up in the moment, and if there was anyone else who knew.
Ilya situated himself, smoothing out his clothes, throwing water on his face, and throwing the thorny stem in the trash as he walked out. Right before the door, he took a deep breath in and managed to walk back to the table they were at, collecting his jacket and walking out. He looked up private doctors in the area and found one within a minute, making an appointment and hoping they would accept the NDA he would bring with him.
"Your condition is getting worse by the day, it seems, the change in plant being specifically alarming. You said it was a thorny rose stem?"
Ilya nodded, trying not to speak. He thought his esophagus would collapse if he did.
"And to my understanding, this started five months ago?"
Another nod.
The doctor sighed, looking briefly at the NDA he had signed thirty minutes prior, and then at the chart that was on his computer screen. Other than the roots growing in Ilya's lungs, which were damaged due to the smoking, he was perfectly healthy. His heart, his blood pressure, his joints, and even his cognitive function were all damn near perfect. The doctor gave him a solemn look.
"And you're completely against the surgery? Like, you're sure?"
He hesitated, eyes darting to the wall behind the doctor. Another nod. The doctor gave a kind of breathless laugh, probably thinking of how stupid Ilya was for refusing the one thing that would save his life.
"All I can do for you is prescribe pain medication and weekly check-ups. If you don't wish to proceed with medical intervention, I give you about five to six years left, and even that's pushing it. Your career will likely be over at about the five-year mark, and to be frank, I'd be surprised if you made it that far."
Ilya thought for a moment. He was really going to throw his life away for a man who didn't love him. He felt stupid. At the same time, he didn't care. He loved loving Shane Hollander, and if it was the last thing he would ever do, he thought it would be worth it. The nights when he would fall asleep thinking of him, and then dream of him gliding through the rink, puck following his every move. He would dream of their nights together, the warmth, the ease of it all. He loved Shane Hollander, and there was nothing that could convince him to jeopardize that feeling ever.
The rest of the visit consisted of the doctor explaining the disease further, consulting a book that Ilya doesn't think he could ever finish or understand. The doctor wasn't sure exactly what he was explaining, seeing as it was his first time treating a patient with something as rare as Hanahaki disease. He summarized by saying that Ilya would get worse as time continued, and that his quality of life would decline in tune with the disease's progression. On his way out of the office, he felt a little more grounded, and the ding of his phone almost went unnoticed. He pulled it out of his pocket and opened the message immediately. It was Hollander.
Jane:
Hi, sorry. I freaked out a bit yesterday and had to take the rest of the day off.
Lily:
What did Pike say?
He fought the urge to ask if he was feeling better. That wasn't his place.
Jane:
He promised not to tell anyone. He saw you mention our next game and put the pieces together because of all the times I would sneak away during Boston games. Sorry.
Lily:
Is okay, I do not mind as long as you are okay with it.
In reality, this made Ilya's heart swell. They were no longer a secret, at least to Hayden Pike, they weren't. His breathing felt normal for the first time in a while, not labored or struggling. He didn't feel like he had to chase the air. Another ding.
Jane:
I don't really care, it's just Hayden. I trust him. I was more scared of what he would say because of the nature of what we do. Of who you are, you know?
Lily:
Yes I understand.
The swell immediately deflated as Ilya realized Hollander didn't care that Pike knew he was seeing someone; his main concern was that it was a man he was seeing. That it was someone he wasn't supposed to be seeing. Small. Ilya Rozanov felt small. Unimportant and disregarded. This was what Hollander had just told him. Ilya made his way back home in an Uber, getting into his home and bed was the simple part of it. The thoughts that consumed him shortly after weren't. He didn't understand why it had to be Hollander. Why did it have to be a man? A hockey player. The best in the league at that. He was incredible, beautiful, on and off the ice. Ilya just couldn't get enough of him. He never would. This is what tormented Ilya day and night, the thought of the fact that he would live the rest of his life not getting enough of Shane Hollander, being offered bits and pieces that would never satisfy him entirely.
This is how he proceeded to think of things for the next two years.
Ilya Rozanov bided his time with Shane Hollander. He carefully planned and executed all of their hookups in Boston, making sure he would get the most out of the time Hollander would give him. Every time they met, he fell deeper and deeper, hiding his disease with cough drops and medicine and the praying notion that he wouldn't begin to retch up flower petals and stems and sepals or even thorny rose stems that hurt him worse than anything. After that one time, they never came back up again, luckily enough for Ilya. He still remembers the pain and blood and the worry that filled him that day, and sometimes his throat burns at the memory of it. It didn't matter now, as he and Hollander were in a good place. After years of hotels and sneaky alleys that left Ilya asking Hollander if he'd 'murder him', they had upgraded to
They would meet, they would fuck, and they would keep each other company after. Hollander was now coming over to Ilya's apartment for the first time. Ilya was more than nervous. He was brimming with excitement, because today he would finally summon the courage to ask Hollander to stay. Ilya had rehearsed it over and over, making sure he didn't sound desperate, but still wanting. It was the perfect scenario. They would fuck, Ilya would feel good, and as they were lying down, he would ask Hollander to just stay over as normally as could be. The only thing that scared him was the chance that Hollander said no, that he found him out. It took everything in him not to tell Hollander he couldn't have him over. The sound of knocking was crystal clear, and Ilya made his way over while fixing his hair. He opened the door and was met with the man he had coughed up flowers for over the past three years. A small smile and a few words were all it took for them to end up kissing, landing in the bed, and getting on with what they always got on with. They were lying in bed together, silently basking in the afterglow, when Hollander said he had to go.
"Stay."
Refusal, with the excuse that Hayden Pike was expecting Hollander back.
"He knows where you are anyway, is he your mother?"
Hollander thought for a moment.
"Stay."
"Okay."
A faint whisper left Ilya's mouth.
"Okay."
They spent the next couple of hours just talking, Ilya making them tuna melts and poking fun at Hollander. he even admitted to Hollander that he liked him. They were content. Ilya got to smell Hollander's hair, and they cuddled. Like genuine cuddling on the couch, Hollander draped over Ilya's pec and Ilya's hand in his hair. It wasn't until after they had jerked each other off, and Ilya had let Hollander's first name slip, that Hollander left. His words were,
"I can't do this."
And he left, saying he had forgotten about a meeting. Ilya beckoned him to stay, trying to cover up the fact that it was his fault. He had messed up, let himself get too comfortable. For a moment, they were so comfortable that Ilya forgot this was not what he hoped and dreamed of, that this was reality. It only took the sound of his last name twice for Hollander to leave. Ilya was left on the couch to think. How stupid. He had messed up, and it was entirely his fault. He was remorseful, the rest of his day being spent overthinking and worrying. Had Hollander realized how he felt? Would he never see him again?
The worst of it was when Ilya had to watch Hollander be in love. In love with someone that wasn't him. Within the next couple of weeks, Hollander had managed to snag himself a girlfriend. A certain Rose Landry, a profound actor and a beautiful woman. Ilya was jealous; he couldn't even try to deny it. Every time he saw an article about them, he would retch and hack, and his lungs would damn near fail him. He got worse the more he heard about them. One particular night was bad when he saw Rose Landry at the top of the bleachers, wearing Hollander's jersey and showing off that she was there for him. He sputtered up a rose stem that night, rough and thorny and disgusting. He was disgusted with himself. His whole life was dictated by someone else, and he didn't even mind it. His hockey had gone to shit, him missing more and more games, leaving practices earlier and earlier. His coach was disappointed; his teammates had long ago stopped teasing him for being sick. Marlow was suspicious of him having something terminal, to which Ilya stated he didn't, through a sore throat and chest pains. His career had only gone downhill, with him playing less and less, becoming less and less. Don't even start with his family back in Russia. His father was getting worse, and his brother less and less tolerable every day. He was growing tired. He wondered if it was worth it sometimes, and the memories of himself and Shane Hollander seemed to shut him up. He wouldn't trade the things he felt for Hollander for anything. Money, power, recognition, even peace. He would rather have Shane Hollander in his heart.
More and more came up from Ilya's lungs and throat. No more rose stems, but petals and sepals, and normal stems just kept coming; the more he missed Hollander. Ilya barely left his house. Hadn't been to practice in weeks. He told his coach that he had something contagious, and he was left alone. He would puke up flora covered in blood, and lie in bed thinking of things he shouldn't. Every time he looked online, he ended up staring at Hollander's Instagram, filled with pictures of himself and newly added stories including Rose. He opted for turning off his phone completely after the third time he coughed up something, the plants roots coming out with a stem. He was miserable. All he could do was mope and wait. Wait until he was stable enough to go back to hockey, to the gym, anything. With time it became better, manageable. His meds started working again, but only once he stopped going online and stalking Shane Hollander. He was left to his own thoughts, and that made it better. No new material to sit and be envious of. No Rose Landry. No Shane Hollander. He hadn't heard from him in months. Nothing. He was out enjoying life with someone else, a woman. Ilya was so sure the man was gay, that he never even thought he would consider a woman, let alone a full-blown girlfriend. He had to stop himself from finding out every nook and cranny of her life, as even seeing a picture of her made his throat close up with petals. Sometimes they even came out in pairs now, the little yellow hair-like parts of the plant coming attached to them. He was getting worse, the roots probably now down to the bottom of his lungs. Ilya knew he didn't have much life left, maybe two years? It was fine. He was fine. He loved him.
Finally, 2017 hit. The All-Star game. After the weeks of Ilya staying to himself, he had finally gotten okay enough to go back to practice. He was sharp, still slower than he once was, but better. He worked himself to the bone, trying to get back to what he once was. His disconnect from the internet helped immensely, less flower filled nights ensued. He was then told that he and Shane Hollander were to play on the same team. Ilya was almost sick, with actual puke. He really almost hurled. To meet Hollander, while he had worked so hard to avoid him, and his girlfriend was to undo all the progress he had made. Even then, he accepted and went on. He'd be lying if he said he didn't miss his face. He had begin to forget how his hair felt, and the only time he saw him was in his dreams. His chest hurt when he was first told, but he was surprised that nothing came up. No cough, or even pain in his throat. It was odd, but he was just grateful for it.
When he saw Hollander walk into the restaurant, his heart skipped, and he slightly gasped into his beer. Throughout their whole conversation, Ilya felt his chest tighten and loosen in tandem with the number of times Hollander's tone changed. There was only one question Ilya wanted an answer to. He decided that after months of nothing from Hollander, a simple question was the least he could ask for.
"Did you uh- Did you bring anyone with you?"
"My parents thought about coming, but they're going to Mexico in like two weeks, and they've been to these before, so.."
"Ah."
Ilya didn't register it immediately, but a few beats later, he realized Hollander didn't bring anyone. Not even his girlfriend, Rose Landry. He was so tempted to ask about her, but he got distracted by the clear air that filled him after the realization. He was breathing normally, for the first time in about three years. He felt brand new, as if he could do anything. This was short-lived. He got to his hotel room maybe an hour after their interaction and almost regurgitated his own stomach. Petals, stems, sepals, and full flowers were coming out of him, bloody and tattered. He thought he had felt better, that he was better. The calm before the storm, as they say, could be used in this situation. He felt as though he was going to die from lack of oxygen. He was sweating, pale, and utterly motionless on the bathroom floor, reaching for his phone to check the time. The game was three hours. Three hours to get his shit together. Three hours to become Ilya Rozanov, the infamous hockey player.
When he stepped onto the ice, he thought he was fine. Probably in the worst shape of his life, but the painkillers and cough drops were doing enough. He felt as though there was a boulder on his chest, not letting him inhale completely. The game started off fine. He made a goal in the first period, the crowd roared, and Hollander gave him a smile that sent a gag up his torso. He paused on the ice for a minute. Looked around and saw the game was continuing. He swallowed, thick and hard, and continued on. Hollander scored two goals in the second period, one assisted by Ilya, and they came in for a hug, rough and calloused. Ilya planted a kiss on Hollander's helmet, and he hoped he didn't notice. Another pang in his chest. This time, Ilya actually gagged; the sound was muted over the crowd that cheered. Hollander turned to him and gave him a look, and Ilya just moved on, skating away to the starting position on the ice.
The third period starts, and it all comes crashing down. One of their teammates mentions Rose Landry.
"Bet Rose is loving this game on TV right now, huh, Hollander?"
That's all it took. One mention of Rose Landry and Shane Hollander, and Ilya was left useless. His body didn't even give him time to run; the coughing started. The blood took a minute, but against the stark white ice, there was no hiding it. Ilya fell to his knees, coughing and coughing and coughing as the whole stadium began to question what was happening. It was someone from the other team who came up to him first, asking if he was alright. Ilya couldn't see who it was, eyes brimmed with tears that threatened to spill within seconds. He felt woozy, his vision doubling every few seconds. His hands were beginning to fill with blood, and he knew that soon the green and white would show up. He tried his hardest to keep it down, away from the public's eye. Soon, his team was swarming him, creating a huddle, with Hollander right in front of Ilya. He felt worse. The pain got worse. He clutched his abdomen with one of his arms, and he felt the velvety petals begin to emerge from his throat. The ice was now red, his blood staining it. With one final, dangerous, hard cough, something dislodged, and he was left gasping for air. The flower dropped from his hand, faster than he could hide it. It was a full bunchberry flower, petals all intact and bloodied, with one sepal hanging from its side. The team had created the huddle facing away from Ilya, except for Hollander, who had bent down to Ilya's level minutes ago.
"What the fu-"
Ilya fell.
The sound of beeping is what woke him up. A sharp breath in, and he sat up in his bed. No, not his bed, his hospital bed, where he had a tube going into his nose and an IV drip in his arm. He looked around frantically, and the first thing he saw was dark hair. Freckles.
Shane.
He stared for a moment, thinking that the disease had somehow made its way to his brain and caused him to see things that weren't there, but after rubbing his eyes and blinking more than ten times, he decided it was real. Dark hair lay over strong arms at the foot of the bed. Freckles that were barely seen, unless not from the light in the hallway. Shane was sleeping at Ilya's feet. It was dark out, and Ilya had no idea what time it was. Shane stirred and opened one eye to see Ilya staring back at him. He jolted up.
"Are you okay?"
Ilya didn't know what to say. He felt Shane's hand move on the bed, but he stopped. Looking up, he was met with concern. His head dropped again.
"I looked up what happened."
More silence from the Russian. He felt like he couldn't speak. He felt like he was 12 years old again.
"Do you have it?"
Ilya's eyes watered, and a single tear fell down the left side of his face. Shane got up, slowly, and got closer to Ilya. He was right next to him, looking down at him.
"Who is it?"
The second time he had been asked that in the last three years. He didn't want to speak, fearing that if he opened his mouth, the truth would spill out before any petals or blood could.
"Rozanov."
Ilya took a deep breath in, then out.
"Shane."
Shane was confused. Ilya saw it in his eyes; they were glassy just like they were after they presented the sportsmanship award back in 2014, in that secluded bathroom. He lowered his voice to a whisper, hoping he wouldn't have to say anything out loud himself, but at least Shane wasn't running at the mention of his first name.
"Shane."
To this, Shane visibly reacted, his shoulders tightening up, his eyes remaining wide and glossed over. Ilya looked back down.
"Are you serious? Like, actually, are you being dead fucking serious right now?"
All Ilya gives him is a small nod.
"Oh my god."
Shane grabs Ilya's face just as more tears are going to fall, smashing lips against a closed mouth. Ilya's tears fall, and he's silent, yet he kisses Shane back because what else is he left to do? He's been left bare on this hospital bed, and if this was what Shane wanted to give him as a final goodbye, he'd just have to let him.
"Me too."
Ilya short circuited, his brain turned off, and then on again, and he looked up at Shane Hollander's face and grabbed him, embracing him in a hug that was impossibly close. He cried into Shane's shoulder, keeping him close while whispering 'I love you' in Russian under his breath.
"I love you."
Shane went stiff against Ilya, and he got scared, maybe he over stepped, maybe Shane didn't mean it like that.
"I love you too."
And Ilya's mind went quiet. He let go of Shane and looked him in the eyes.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
And then it was real. Ilya's chest seemed to decompress, the weight of three years, lifting. He physically felt better, air rushing into his lungs as if it did three years ago, before coughing up that flower. His throat felt better, the air not burning at anything, and there was nothing stuck in there. He felt refreshed.
"How long did you have it?"
This is where Ilya got shy. Admitting this meant admitting that he chose Shane Hollander over his entire life. His career, his family, his country, and himself. He inhaled and exhaled.
"Since the night we presented that award. 2014, the sportsmanship one, we had to take a picture for a bit-"
That's when Ilya saw the first teardrop. Shane's eyes had finally given in, and he was crying. He bent down, crouched beside Ilya's bed with a hand over his face as he held Ilya's arm.
"How long did you have left?"
Ilya didn't expect to be asked. He knew he didn't have long, but he never thought someone would ask just how long he had in the face of the news.
"Three years in best case scenario."
A sob. Ilya heard a sob, and then a deep breath. He waited. Shane got up and looked down at Ilya again.
"I love you so much you don't even know it."
Ilya fought the urge to laugh.
"I love you more."
He repeated the sentiment in Russian.
After Ilya got discharged from the hospital, him and Shane had spoken to their managers and told them in all honesty what was going on. They were thankfully supportive and promised they wouldn't leak the information. Shane's sigh of relief brought Ilya joy, and he gripped his hand. Shane then made plans for them at his family's cottage for the summer. Ilya was more than happy to oblige. Shane texted Hayden, and Ilya called Svetlana. He explained simply that Jane and he had finally confessed, and Svetlana's scream could've exploded Ilya's phone. She spewed congratulations. Shane's was smiling down at his own phone, seemingly happy with the text he got back. They were fine, they were good even.
That summer, while Shane and Ilya were lying on the couch one on top of the other, the TV was playing some random Canadian news station as they heard the words,
"This year, Canada has voted the Bunchberry flower as the national favorite!"
Ilya looked, and Shane, and Shane looked back with confusion, slightly intrigued. Ilya just laughed and placed his head back on the other man's chest.
"Ya tebya lyublyu"
It was the last thing Shane heard before Ilya moved up towards his face and kissed him so deeply he thought he might drown.