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Shane Hollander won the rookie of the year.
It’s fine. Better him than fucking Vincent Lemaire, Ilya Rozanov thinks as he lights his cigarette at the rooftop of the building this years MLH Awards are held. The whole place is gold and crystals, tacky in the way only Las Vegas is able to be.
At least the rooftop is sparsely decorated and empty of people. He isn’t exactly sure if he is even supposed to be here, though he can’t find it in himself to really care right now. If someone were to ask, he could just say the door wasn’t locked – which it hadn’t been.
He wonders is that what they would write on tomorrow’s headlines; Boston’s player, Ilya Rozanov, walked through unlocked door to the rooftop and accidentally stumbled over the railing into his untimely death. Or would they blame alcohol or drugs instead? This is the city of sins after all and he did have three glasses of vodka earlier, though he is Russian and can handle his liquor.
Ilya looks at the ground, the cars and people all seem so very small from up here, and thinks how he wouldn’t really care regardless of what the papers would say about him.
No, he thinks. Surely someone would suggest that he had done it on purpose, climbed over the railing and jumped into his death out of his own volition. He had just lost the rookie of the year award to his biggest rival on the ice, maybe they would say his ego couldn’t handle it after whole season of talking big.
Or perhaps they would poke into his past and claim he was just weak and cowardly; just like his mother was years before. He wouldn’t stand for that. His mother was neither of those things. She was simply just so very sad, so very tired all the time and didn’t see any other way out of her situation than through swallowing whole bottle of pills.
But Ilya would be gone and the dead don’t get to have a say.
He learned that from his mother’s death when his father said it had all been just one terrible accident. Just as easily as the man had ignored her cries for help, he rewrote the ending of her story altogether.
He takes a drag from his cigarette and tries to not think about how disappointed his mother must be seeing him like this. Smoking, playing hockey, fucking men and contemplating death.
Perhaps the smoking she can forgive him for. They all have their vices and he seemingly inherited his from her. He has a vivid memory of her sitting on the couch, cigarette on her hand as she said, Ilya, be a darling and never pick up smoking, it will ruin you.
The other things? Well, he likes to believe she would have never resented or hated him for anything.
It’s just that, he can’t be sure of that. She never got to know him, not really, because 12-year-old Ilya Rozanov barely knew who he himself is. And at the end of the day, she was very traditional. Never cold like his father is to this day but, perhaps, distant. No, product of the culture and her circumstances, Russian to her very core. Even if she lived, he can’t imagine ever bringing home a man and introducing him as someone special to him.
The memory of Shane Hollander sprawled over his hotel room bed, naked, fills his mind and with an agitated groan, he lights up another cigarette right after finishing the first one. Why can’t he get the other man out of his head even during moments like this?
Ilya has to suppress a little hysteric burst of laughter that tries to escape him.
It’s completely ridiculous thought to have but his mother would have loved Shane Hollander. The other is so polite, so well-behaved and if that wasn’t enough, he is also smart. He speaks French and English, both fluently and without a doubt still finished school despite his hockey career. Unlike Ilya who dropped out as soon as he was able to and speaks his sentences wrong with thick accent, something he can’t get rid off no matter how many times he practices speaking in front of the mirror.
The only thing she would probably despise about Hollander is that he too, is a hockey player.
God, she never liked Ilya playing hockey and now here he is, doing it for living. She always thought it too dangerous, too violent. She never said it aloud but he always knew regardless. His mother never, not even once, came to watch any of his games.
It’s fine. At least she always made sure to celebrate his goals and achievements. Unlike father who always found something to improve.
“I’m sorry, mama” he says to the empty night sky between drags from his cigarette. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Ilya isn’t exactly sure what this is. What he does know is that the world keeps telling him he is living the dream life and behinds closed doors he is surprised every morning where he opens his eyes and finds the strength to get out of bed.
He isn’t sure why does everything feel so difficult. There is nothing really wrong, he is quite literally living the dream life. He is in America; he plays for the biggest hockey league in the world and Ilya knows he is a damn good player too. He wasn’t the first draft pick for Boston for nothing.
Truly, he is only second to Shane Hollander. Though if he is completely honest, he thinks he is the better player out of the two of them.
It’s just that when the choice is between Canada’s golden boy and the big scary Russian, he can’t really even pretend to be surprised about not being the one to win. The hockey world is as old-fashioned and close-minded as always and, in their league, he will always the outsider from the other side of the ocean.
Ilya doesn’t mind. He isn’t here to be liked. He is here to do what he has worked for his whole life and that is to play hockey; to win games and hopefully, eventually, the Cup. And it’s not like he was well liked in Russia either.
Of course, his father thinks that to play hockey anywhere else expect in the Russian league is a disgrace. But now the man is on the other side of the world and it’s like the distance takes away the sting of his harsh words. Or perhaps it’s because he always dreamed of playing here, in America, partly to get away from his father.
He breathes in cigarette smoke and thinks about his home, the one he has in Boston that looks more like hotel room than an actual place someone lives in. And how he despite all that, loves the place more than he thinks he has ever been capable of loving his home in Russia.
He has a garage full of flashy cars and a girl to call in every city they play in when he tries to forget about Hollander– No. He doesn’t know where that thought came from. He has a girl in every city because he likes things casual, that’s it.
All the things he used to dream about as kid, he has them now.
Who knew dreams could feel so heavy to carry once come true? He glances at the ground far below him once more and wonders why does this all feel so meaningless to him.
The night has been serene; not too warm nor too cold and even high up on the rooftop, blessedly without any wind. Until now. There is all of a sudden strong gust of a wind that ruffles his curls and pries his mostly finished cigarette from his unsuspecting fingers.
With somewhat fond sigh he turns to look at the sky instead. He likes to think that the wind it’s really just his mother saying hello. He can almost hear her calling him; Ilya, Ilya, my darling Ilya.
The wind makes him think of the true coldness and the freezing winds of Russia, the kind that burrows deep down into your bones. The kind of cold that never quite seems to leave you no matter what you do. Even here, on the other side of the world, Ilya can still feel the cold bitterness of his homeland edged into his core.
He curses under his breath, not wanting to think of home when he has to return there so soon and yet he doesn’t know how to stop.
Or if he manages to, his mind is immediately plagued with images of Hollander. He fears he might crave the other man more than any of his other vices; nicotine or the good vodka.
With a slightly shaking fingers he lights up yet another cigarette and then leans down, resting his head against the railing. The city lights blink below him, almost as if an invitation. He pretends that if he stares at the billboards and neon lights, he can forget what Hollander looked like in his suit earlier today, how he glowed when he received his award.
Ilya knows this city never sleeps, the streets buzzing with life but here, on the rooftop, it’s blissfully quiet. The sounds of life only a distant echo.
He is glad about it. He has had enough of people patting him on the back and saying things like; too bad on the award, we were rooting for you or you are one hell of a player.
Ilya Rozanov already knows all that already.
And he also knows that nomination means nothing when his victory was expected. No, necessary. Ilya’s success is not only his but whole Russia’s success. He has now brought shame to his family and to his country and he knows there a long, lonely and miserable summer ahead of him.
His father didn’t want him to come to America to play hockey in the first place. To him the only country in the world that matters is Russia and thus the only league that really matters is also Russian.
But Ilya went anyway, desperate to get away from his family even just for a while. And now he is returning as a failure.
He holds onto the railing, feels the cold metal under his fingers and breathes more and more cigarette smoke in. An ambulance speeds through the streets below him and for a brief moment he wonders what it would be like if it was coming for him.
The distance to the ground is so great he doubts there is any way he would survive the fall. But would it hurt? Or would his mother swoop in like the wind and take him away before the collision? Would she come for him, kiss his pain away or would she loathe him, even just a little bit, for taking the easier road out just like she did?
“I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over,” a familiar voice says suddenly behind him.
Ilya stares at the ground far below him, takes another drag from his cigarette and thinks that maybe it is indeed worth jumping over.
He glances to his left, taking in the sight that is Shane Hollander as the other man leans against the railing as well. There is a slight flush on his cheeks but his suit is just as annoyingly proper as it was in the beginning of the night.
“Party all done?” He asks, knowing full well it isn’t.
After all, this is Las Vegas. The party never ends here because before it does, there will be another, most likely even bigger, party ready to take its place.
“No, I just need some air,” comes Hollanders reply.
With mild but even greater delight, Ilya realizes; “You are drunk.”
“I’m not,” the other says in not at all convincing manner as he leans against the railing more heavily.
“Good for you. Big night for you,” he nods.
“Yeah, well, it could have gone to either one of us.”
Ilya takes a long drag from his cigarette, trying and failing to keep his annoyance at bay. It’s not Hollander’s fault he won. And it’s true, it could have gone to either one of them. But it went to Hollander because no one wants to give the big awards to the scary Russian, to the outsider.
And truly, if it can’t be him, it’s best it went to Hollander. He doesn’t know if he could have been able to stand anyone else receiving the award that should have been his.
“It went to you,” he says.
He can feel Hollander’s eyes on him but for a moment, he can’t face him. And when he finally manages there is sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Hollander looks awfully close to tears as he asks; “So what?”
Ilya doesn’t know what to do with tears; regardless if they belong to someone else or God help him, himself.
“So, you’re just up here sulking because, what you couldn’t take another victory lap around me? All you do is beat me. I win one stupid fucking thing and you couldn’t even show your face down there.”
“It wasn’t–,” he starts, quieter than he meant to and Hollander interrupts him.
“What was that?”
“Not everything is about you, Hollander!”
He regrets the words even before they fully leave his mouth; they are angry and loud, just like his father is. The thought makes him feel sick. All the time he has spent trying to escape his father’s shadow, to be anything but like him and here he is. Exactly like him.
He fears that if he were to look into the mirror at this very moment, it would be his father’s image staring back at him.
What makes it all even worse is that Hollander barely even takes a step back and instead asks; “So, what is it then?”
No. What makes it all even worse is that despite the other not immediately turning around and leaving him alone, Ilya doesn’t know how to stop being angry.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see the view and get some air,” Hollander’s tone is resigned. Tired, almost sad.
“And what?” Ilya asks, motioning towards the city view. “Here is fucking view, Hollander. Check it out.”
And for a good measure, he adds; “Fuck!”
He takes a long drag from his cigarette and with it tries to swallow down his anger. It’s not Hollander he is angry at; the other doesn’t deserve any of his outburst. It’s just that he seems to be so very angry, so very tired, all the fucking time. And what scares him the most is that Hollander might be the only person in the entire world who he feels safe enough to let it show.
It’s not right nor does it make it any better. It might be even worse because the last thing Ilya wants to do is hurt Hollander.
That is the thought that finally brings some peace and clarity to him. His father would never think like that, he would never care who he hurt. He never has. Perhaps there is still some hope left for him before he turns into his father.
He takes a deep breath and tries with calmer tone; “I go home in three days.”
He tries to not think about the suitcase that rests open but empty on his bedroom floor. A part of him hopes if he just pretends it’s not there he won’t have to go.
Russia is home. Despite everything, it’s his home. He knows that. He loves his home. Or at least, he is pretty sure that he does. So, he doesn’t know why sometimes the thought of returning makes him feel sick in his stomach.
He doesn’t know how to quiet down the little voice in his head telling, no, Boston is home. Or even worse; this is home, whenever Shane Hollander is in his field of vision.
“Okay,” the other man says, his tone careful and Ilya feels bad about it but he doesn’t know how to put it into words. It’s not the English that makes it difficult. He wouldn’t know how to say any of it in Russian either.
“That must be nice,” Hollander adds.
All Ilya can do is look at him. There are no words for him to explain how not nice any of it is. Feelings – it’s not something he is good at. Most days he can barely tell what he is feeling or why. Growing up feelings didn’t matter, only playing good hockey did and that has carried into his adult years.
The both of them are quiet for a long time.
He wallowing in self-pity which he hates himself for just a bit more. Hollander next to him is seemingly trying to find the words, he keeps opening and closing his mouth. Ilya hopes it would make him look stupid, like fish, like most people would but no. Instead, he looks awfully endearing.
Ilya Rozanov doesn’t know for sure, not yet, not for certain. Perhaps he doesn’t even for quite some years to come. But even now, on this rooftop, he has a horrible suspicion that he is falling in love with Shane Hollander.
“And I guess I thought maybe we…” the other finally starts but the rest of his sentence dies on his tongue.
He keeps his eyes glued to the city lights, unable to face Hollander for now. He doesn’t say anything either because he had though too. He had hoped for it. And it scares him.
At first it was supposed to be just a joke. He wanted to see how far he could push the Canadian golden boy, Shane Hollander. He wanted to know how flustered the other would get and how far he would go.
It was all supposed to be fun and casual. No one was supposed to fall, least of all him.
“Never mind. Okay, I’m gonna…” Hollander says, finally turning away like Ilya expected him to do all along.
Everything he cares for in anyway always seems to leave him one way or other, so it’s really better this way. They are nothing. It’s better to end this before it becomes something, before it might kill him to not be able to see the other man again.
Hollander’s footsteps come to a halt.
“I guess I’ll… see you next season?” He says.
At the sounds of his voice, nearly as wrecked as Ilya feels inside, he can’t help but turn around to look at him. He feels like flower reaching for the sun in the darkness. The other has his hand raised, ready for a handshake like he did on their first meeting and Ilya might hate him a little bit for that.
He is so Canadian, so polite to the very end. And he is so very beautiful with his flushed cheeks and his eyes sparkling with the city lights and unshed tears.
Fuck it, he thinks as he flicks the end of his cigarette over the railing and watches as it disappears on its way down. If Hollander kisses him back, he won’t follow the cigarettes path down and go meet his mother today after all, he decides as he takes the first step toward him.
One, two, three steps and they are face to face. From there he pushes Hollander against the nearest wall. He finds himself holding his breath for the briefest of seconds, waiting for the other man to push him away in turn.
He doesn’t. Instead, he meets him halfway for a kiss.
Ilya kisses him like he is man drowning and Hollander is the only thing in the entire world keeping him afloat. He breathes a sigh of relief straight into the others mouth as he kisses him back with the same fervor, clinging onto him in what feels almost like desperation. As he sinks his hands into Ilya’s curls, for a moment he wonders if he had jumped after all and this is simply heaven and not a rooftop in Las Vegas.
He parts just to gasp for air and surges forward for another kiss when Hollander finally pushes him away. Not far, they are still standing nearly chest to chest but he deflects the kiss.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Not jumping, Ilya thinks and finds himself grinning.
“We’re both in tuxedos out in public,” the other continues, almost hissing, and Ilya finds himself carrying something very soft and tender in his heart for the other, something he doesn’t even dare to think to name.
“No one is looking,” he promises, his fingers itching to trace the freckles on Hollander’s cheeks.
“You don’t know that.”
Ilya smiles, trying to go in for another kiss but he is pushed away once more. Though with much less force than before, it’s like Hollander’s heart isn’t in it. Then he flips them around, pushing Ilya against the wall in turn.
There is something that he fears might be butterflies flying wild in his stomach as he watches Hollander walks away from him.
“See you next season,” he calls after him. “Hollander?”
But the other doesn’t even turn to look back at him.
With a sigh he makes his way back to his new acquaintance, the railing, and leans against it. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes and lights up one more. Usually, he tries to limit himself to one cigarette a day. Two if he had rough day. Maybe three if he is standing on a rooftop and thinking about jumping. He is an athlete after. Hockey is his world, he doesn’t know what else he would do if it wasn’t play. He needs his lungs.
But today? He thinks he deserves a fourth. To celebrate the fact that today has been a day and it’s not going to be his last.