Chapter Text
Scott Hunter isn’t stupid. He’d heard, loud and clear, Ilya Rozanov tell Shane Hollander his room number back at that All Star Game in 2011, half a decade ago. Ok, yeah, so maybe he shouldn’t have used a secret relationship as chirping fodder, whatever. He hadn’t expected it to hit Hollander that hard, which also makes him a hypocritical idiot. He contemplates this while walking around the Manhattan streets after a game against Boston.
They’d lost, which is fine. There’s worse things to lose than a hockey game.
He wants to call Kip, but he’s working late tonight. Scott could provide financially—having never had anyone to share his salary with before, he has too much money than he knows what to do with—but Kip insists on holding his own. He understands, obviously, and doesn’t usually think much of it. Until it’s 2:00 AM on a random Friday night and Scott’s reminded of a time when he didn’t have a Kip in his life.
Then he can hear retching in the alley up ahead. Which is fantastic. It sounds painful, too. He’s already planted his foot, about to swivel around, until he hears an unmistakable sob mixed in between heaves.
Maybe because it sounded so pitiful, maybe because there wasn’t a second comforting voice, maybe because Kip wouldn’t have hesitated to, Scott rounds the corner to check.
Ilya fucking Rozanov. The man who’d spat in his face and laughed on the ice earlier today. Who’d called him geriatric after the loss, that cocky ass smirk plastered on his face. Who may or may not be hooking up with Shane Hollander.
God he wishes he could call Kip right now.
Then Rozanov looks up, and Scott can barely breathe. Ilya Rozanov, eyes red and wrecked, unseeing. His leopard print shirt is nearly fully unbuttoned, vomit dripping all from his mouth down his chest.
“...Hunter?” His voice is wrecked too.
“Up and at ‘em, Rozanov,” he lifts the drunk Russian by the armpit and waits for him to readjust, “I swear to god if you throw up in the Uber I’m leaving you out in the street.”
“Is ok, is…is dry heave, now.”
Reassuring. This night just keeps getting better and better.
Scott knows which hotel the Bears are staying at. It wouldn’t be that hard to call around, find his room number from a teammate. He could dump Rozanov off and be done with it. But Kip wouldn’t be callous like that, not in a million years. Scott types in his own address into the Uber app.
…
Ilya’s throat hurts. Bad.
He doesn’t remember exactly what happened earlier that night. What he drank, how much, or when he’d left.
He thinks her name was Eliza, or Emily maybe. It started with an E, probably. By the time she’d come up to him his vision was sliding around all funny, and even if he’d tried to catch the rest of her name he still wouldn’t have gotten it. It was hard to look at her freckle-less face, much easier to look down lower. She wore a sparkly, silver dress he’d thought was pretty. It was low-cut and backless, very sexy. But then at some point it looked too much like the dress Rose Landry wore to that club in Montreal, the one Shane had his hands all bunched in when he’d seen him last. Then, when he looked down at Eliza/Emily/Emma’s face all he’d seen was Rose Landry and suddenly the sparkly dress was not so sexy anymore.
He’s in an alley now, arms bracing on the concrete wall. He doesn’t know where he is, and doesn’t remember getting there. His arm is starting to hurt too.
He’s covered in vomit. Shane would call him gross.
Shane
He wants to throw up again, but he can’t. He gags anyways, unhelpfully, and it accomplishes nothing but hurting his throat more. There is an English word for this. He doesn’t quite remember it, but it's there on the tip of his tongue. There is an English word for everything, but he never knows the right one. Maybe if he’d known all the right ones, he could’ve stopped Shane from running away and dating pretty Rose Landry with her pretty sparkly dresses.
Fuck
He doesn’t remember any of this when he wakes up on Scott Hunter’s couch the next morning.
…
Wrangling a wasted Ilya Rozanov from the car up to his apartment was about as impossible as it sounds. He was right about the vomit thing, though every time Rozanov gagged it took another year of the American’s life.
He’d said sorry the whole elevator ride up, over and over. It made it hard to stay mad, squeezing his chest against his will.
Now that Rozanov is safely(?) unconscious on his couch, he has absolutely no idea what to do. He needs to call someone, probably, but who knows who Ilya Rozanov is actually close to.
Scott Hunter isn’t stupid. He can tell Rozanov wouldn’t want just anyone to see him like this.
Or actually,
Maybe he does have an idea
Scott Hunter is probably a little stupid, because he just remembered a small something he’d overheard at practice this morning.
A small something that Shane Hollander is in New York, shooting an ad for Rollex, or Reebok, or whatever other brand he’s an ambassador for.
And because he’s not just stupid, but a complete utter dumbass, he finds Hollander’s contact and calls it.
…
Shane Hollander doesn’t actually like Rolex watches all that much. They’re heavy, and if there’s too much weight only on one wrist he feels uneven. Rolex ads aren’t too bad, though. They always have nice pastries and good coffee on set, even for quick little photoshoots like the one earlier today. If Montreal were any farther from New York, he’d think flying out for something so minor was dumb. But it’s a quick flight, and the Metros had a few days off anyways. He likes New York, it’s nice here.
His phone rings just as he settles into bed. Too tired, he doesn’t even look at the name when he picks up.
“Hollander,” it’s Hunter, “you’re in New York, right? I’ve kinda got a situation. Look, it’s your boy…”
“Not my boy,” Shane interjects, nearly growling
“...Look dude, I don’t care whatever you and Rozanov are, or have been. I’ll continue keeping my trap shut, and not my business anyways. What I do know is I found him totally trashed up in midtown tonight and figured you’d be the best person to call.”
I’m not, I’m the worst person to call. You were right back then, but not now. He doesn’t want to see me, Hunter, you shouldn’t have called me.
—is what he wants to say, what he can’t say.
“Oh shit. Trashed like how?”
Hunter sighs, “Trashed like covered in vomit. Crying too, didn’t know he knew how to do that. I brought him back to mine, he passed out on my couch like immediately.”
“I’ll head over now, what’s your address?”
“No point in coming, it’s late and I doubt he’s waking up any time soon.” Good, Shane thought. He didn't think he'd know how to face him, unconscious or not.
“In the morning, then. I’ve got an early flight but it’s not hard to reschedule.”
“Sounds good. ‘Night Hollander.”
“Yeah dude, good night.” He keeps the phone up to his ear long after the hang-up beep, breathing a few extra times.
Shane toys with the idea of going back to sleep, but there’s only a few hours until sunrise and it’s not like he’d be able to, anyways.
There’s so much he needs to tell Ilya. That he’s gay, that he broke up with Rose, that he’s sorry for running away that day back in Boston. He wants to ask how Ilya knew he liked ginger ale and tuna melts. He wants to tell him that he’s been calling him Ilya in his thoughts ever since. Not Rozanov, never Rozanov anymore. He wants to try what the name would taste like when he says it aloud. If he ever does find the courage to.
The hotel room came with tea bags and an electric kettle. He made himself a cup, and by the time he’d finished it, the tea was cold and the sun had risen.