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Loss is funny.
Sometimes it sneaks up on you.
Sometimes you see it coming from a mile away.
Sometimes you expect it, you don’t even let yourself believe you can win, so that when you do lose, when that loss happens, it doesn’t hurt so badly. Ilya never did that for hockey games; he always believed he could win going in, otherwise the game was over before it began. But in life, Ilya expected to lose everything. So that when he did, it was ok. He could survive it.
Losing Shane, watching him walk out that door. It was a loss that Ilya knew was coming. He knew they couldn’t keep this up forever. He knew. He knew. He knew.
But it still hurt.
It hurt worse than he could have ever expected. Because he was alone again.
Worse.
Because for that one brilliant shining moment, for a blink of an eye. For a brief heartbeat, he did have Shane. Not Hollander, the captain; not Hollander the role model; not Hollander the Conn Smythe, Art Ross, Ted Lindsay, Rocket Richard, Hart trophy winner; but Shane. Shane, who fucks him. Shane, who teases him. Shane, who drops to his knees and sucks his cock whenever he’s given half a chance.
Shane, whose lips he thinks about when he can’t sleep.
Shane, whose lips keep him up at night.
Shane.
For half a second, he had Shane in his arms, half a heartbeat. And now he’s gone.
It felt like a tying goal in the last minute of the third period. It felt like maybe, just this once, the loss wouldn’t come. Maybe he would be ok. Maybe he could go overtime and score. Maybe he could win this game.
But then, a turnover, an odd man rush. Distracted by the elation of things not being over, and suddenly they were. It was over.
And Ilya was left alone on his couch, cum sitting cold on his chest, getting tacky. Empty plates, a used napkin, a jar of pickles in the fridge. For a second, for a heartbeat, for twice as long as he got to have Shane, he thinks about gathering Shane's release; it’s the last time he’ll ever get it— gathering Shane’s release and have one last taste of his... the man he—
He can’t.
He can’t even think it.
It’s too much.
It’s better this way. Hollander is right.
They can’t keep doing this. Ilya can’t keep doing this. He can’t.
The only thing that lies down that road is heart ache, and embarrassment. For him, for Russia, for his father, for Shane, and he can’t.
He— despite what his father thinks, despite what his brother thinks, he is trying. Ilya wants to be a good son, and he wants to be a good brother. And he wants... Hollander. He wants Shane.
Those are two very contradicting wants. But as long as no one brings it up, as long as no one thinks about it too hard, they can exist on opposite sides of the world. Opposite sides of his body. Opposite sides of his brain.
Except that Hollander— Shane had thought too hard. And he came to the same conclusions that Ilya had, but was steadfastly ignoring. He couldn’t do this anymore.
They couldn’t do this anymore.
Couldn’t be Shane to his Ilya.
And he left. Because what else was he supposed to do?
The game was over. It was all over but the crying. Except Ilya didn’t cry. He didn’t. There was no reason good enough to cry, his father used to say. Before Ilya sarted loosing him too. So Ilya didn’t cry.
He didn’t cry when he found his mother, except when he was alone in his room at night. But that didn’t count because no one saw it.
He didn’t cry when he was 15, and he sprained his ankle, except when the doctor was wrapping it and said he’d be out for the rest of the season. But that didn’t count because the tears that leaked out were just a pain response, as the doctor had said, just like the dizziness that accompanied the manual inspection of the joint.
He didn’t cry when he came to North America, and he was so lonely he thought it was going to suffocate him......
He didn’t cry now, really, he didn’t. Not when he picked up the plates and napkins and a half-empty can of ginger ale. He didn’t cry as he loaded the dishwasher and poured the rest of the sweet-sharp drink down the sink. He didn’t cry when he the empted the fridge of the leftover tuna salad, the cheese, the jar of pickles, and the three cans of untouched ginger ale. It all went straight into the garbage because he couldn’t look at the remaining evidence of the last best thing in his life for even a second longer.
He didn’t cry when he did this.
He didn’t think about what would have happened if he had been able to keep his stupid mouth shut. If he could have kept that wall of separation his idiot brain had built between Hollander the hockey player and Shane.
His Shane. The man he— the man he...
His Shane.
He didn’t cry.
Until he went to his room and saw the sex-sleep rumpled sheets. Until he found the white T-shirt and dark pants folded on a chair by the door. Until he picked up the T-shirt and brought it to his nose so he could inhale deeply. Until he could smell Shane all around him.
Until he knew he’d never get to smell that fresh scent, straight from the source, the nape of Shane’s neck. He’d never get to have that again.
That loss. It was expected; he knew it was coming, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. It didn’t make the hole in the pit of his stomach any smaller; it didn’t stop his knees from going weak. It didn’t stop him from collapsing to the ground, back against the bed, knees pulled to his chest, and tears flowing freely from his eyes. Falling on the shirt, still clutched against his face, trying to memorize the smell before it was gone forever. Just like Shane.
Right now, he couldn’t stop himself from crying any more than he could stop himself from loving Shane Hollander, role model. Loving Shane Holdander, hockey star. Loving Shane Holdander, cocksucker. Loving Shane Hollanader the whole, even if Ilya himself was broken into parts.
He couldn’t stop himself from loving Shane, just like he couldn’t stop Shane from leaving.
Loss is funny. Sometimes you see it coming, but it still sneaks up on you. Sometimes you expect it, but it still tears you apart, cutting deep into your bones, your soul. Sometimes, you lose the Stanley Cup finals. Sometimes, you lose the gold medal game at the Olympics in overtime, even after you tie it up late in the third.
Sometimes you still lose, but you're proud of yourself for trying, for showing up. Even if in this very moment, the world around you is crashing down, falling apart.
You tried. He tried. He always tries his fucking hardest. Even when he thinks he’s going to lose, maybe especially then. Next time, if he ever got a next time, he would try again.
But for now, he cried, because he was alone, so it didn’t count.