Chapter Text
After the initial celebration after yet another win, especially against Montreal, Ilya’s chest feels lighter. When he walks into the locker room, he can feel a real smile on his lips, not only because of the win but also because of what comes after. The room is filled with hollering and laughter as all of his teammates get ready for the showers. The nights Ilya gets to win in Montreal are his favorite.
Marley’s running around without a shirt, and Carter is running away from Marley, still in his gear. They are really just kids. Big pain-in-the-ass kids. Coach left as soon as the game ended, so it’s just the team and the press left. That is, before Ilya, the captain of his circus, shouts at them to stop fucking around because they have an early flight.
Before Ilya has a chance to kick off his own gear, his phone buzzes, and his smile widens. ‘Jane’ must have finally sent his address, but when he grabs the phone, he finds Alexei’s name flashing. Ilya’s smile drops into a scowl.
Alexei has been calling nonstop for days; if he doesn’t answer soon, the bastard might follow him to America. That is, if he could afford the plane ticket without having to beg Ilya. Deep down, he knows Alexei will persist. Ilya is not trying to get cockblocked all the way from Moscow.
Fuck.
“What do you want?”’ Ilya snaps in Russian, his voice reverberating from the now sparsely occupied locker room.
“Oh, so Mr. Best Hockey Player can pick up the phone.” Alexei’s voice is annoyed, but there’s something else Ilya can’t quite discern. Tiredness? His voice is heavy and quiet.
“What is it, Alexei? I’m fucking busy.”
“Papa’s dead.”
Ilya freezes, his blood running cold, “What?”
“Polina found him. And you need to get home so you can put your money to good use.” Alexei says in a too casual tone.
Ilya drops the gear from his hands, “What, wait. What do you mean, Papa is dead? How long?”
“What do you think it means, faggot?” In response to Ilya’s silence, Alexei continues, ”Three days now, that’s why you need to get home, I’m not paying for all this bulshit.”
Ilya is nauseous, his head pounds, and the pit in his stomach churns. Three days.
“Why the fuck am I only hearing this now?”
“Well, isn’t that a good fucking question. You want to tell me when I first called you, or the second, or the fucking fiftieth?” Ilya swallows the acidic bile coming up his throat.
“That’s what I thought. Get here, cocksucker.” The line goes dead.
***
The next call wasn’t much better. “What do you mean, there are no flights?”
“Mr. Rozanov, like I said before, our earliest flight to Moscow is at seven am. I’m sorry.” The voice of a patient, exhausted woman reiterates.
“No, you said there is in one hour.”
“Yes, sir, but there is a two-day layover in—”
“I cannot have layover. My father is dead!”
“Again. I’m so sorry for your loss, but the only flight is at seven.”
Ilya takes a deep breath, “Okay. I will book flight.” Even now, he has the decency to apologize, “I’m sorry for shouting, you did nothing.”
“It’s really alright—” Ilya doesn’t hear the rest of the call.
***
Ilya: We are going out
Worst player on Boston team: Really? Thought you would be out with Jane tonight. ;)
Ilya: No. You are coming or not?
Worst player on Boston team: Yeah, sorry man
Worst player on Boston team: give me like ten minutes
***
Ilya, already at the bar, feels someone grab his arm from behind, “Long time no see.”
“Marley.” Ilya glares at him, shooting his fourth (fifth?) shot. “Took you long enough.”
Marleau grins lazily, running his hands through his hair. After years of playing with Ilya, he’s become immune to the look that makes the rookies cower.
“Well, you asked me out, so I wanted to look pretty on our first date.”
Ilya is no longer making eye contact, laser-focused on the assortment of alcohol behind them, “I would never ask you out. I do not want chlamydia.”
Marley’s face scrunches in confusion, “I don’t have chlamydia.”
“Oh. You look like that naturally? That is worse.”
“Fuck you, Rozy.”
“In your wet dreams,” Ilya says, pushing shots towards Marley.
So they drank. They drank a lot.
Marley switches to water after three of the strongest shots he's ever had, knowing one of them should be able to drive by the end of this bender. Based on how Roz is putting away drinks, it’s not going to be him.
“So, you want to tell me why you invited me to get hammered the night before our early flight? Trouble in paradise, perhaps?” Rozanov rolls his eyes.
According to Marley, if he has an attitude or makes the team do extra drills, it’s always about ‘Jane’. He missed Shane. He shouldn’t. But…
“Shut up, Marley.” Ilya snapped with real venom in his voice.
Marley’s hands shoot up defensively, “Okay, man. But you know you can talk to me. About anything.”
Ilya avoids his eyes, “Be useful and get another drink.”
Despite Marley’s own concerns, he does what he’s told. Two more hours pass, and Marley loses Rozanov temporarily after getting whatever round he’s on. Only to find him puking in the bathroom.
“Jesus Christ, Rozanov. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“M’ fine. Just need more drinks.” Ilya's words are so slurred he might as well have been speaking Russian.
“Absolutely not. Fuck, I should’ve cut you off sooner.” Marley, being the gentleman he is, holds Ilya’s curls back when Roz wrenches, “God damnit.”
Ilya’s head is floaty. He can’t quite see right, and he can’t hear Marley’s concerned voice over the music. All he comprehends is that it hurts. The bile in his throat burns, and he can’t breathe.
He wants Shane.
He wants his mom.
And his dad? Maybe. It was hard to tell. The music is too loud for Ilya to think.
And he just wants to be home. Home like Shane’s expensive display pillows, his stupid, boring art, and the fireplace he looked so pretty being fucked by.
“What?” Marley's voice rings, “Rozanov, I can’t understand you. Mutter in English.”
“-hane, want Shane.” Ilya slurs, incoherent.
“Jane? What happened with you two?”
“Nothing, want Shane, take me to see him.”
“Him?” God, he was a mess, “Rozanov, you need to go to bed.”
“No! Take me to Shane. Please.”
“It’s midnight. I don’t think she’s awake.”
“Yes. He is.”
“Shit, fine. Only because Coach would kill us if I brought you back to the hotel like this.”
***
“Man, you have to give me directions if you want to see your girl.”
Ilya glares at Marley; his head is pounding. He’s too warm.
“Phone give.” Marley hands his phone over wordlessly, and Ilya inputs Hollender's address. It’s safe to say that Ilya hasn’t exactly thought any of this through. All he knows is that everything hurts, and Hollender makes him feel better.
Ilya pulls out his own phone, watching Marley drive.
***
Ilya: I am come to see you
Ilya: I know code wilkn be in for a second
Sexy Second-best Hockey Player: What?
Sexy Second-best Hockey Player: Ilya, it’s one in the morning.
Sexy Second-best Hockey Player: Are you drunk?
Sexy Second-best Hockey Player: ????
***
“Do you know why we get drinks?” Rozanov felt himself ask.
“Not really,” Marleau raised an eyebrow, “you want to tell me?”
“My dad died.”
Marley's face fell completely, “Oh fuck. I’m sorry—”
“Do not be sorry. Was abuser, but… I not get flight home. Not til’ morning. Was too much.” Ilya shugs, but Marley can see silent tears forming in his eyes. “Now, I just want Shane.”
“Yeah, okay, man. We’re almost there.” An uncomfortable silence falls between them. Ilya cries silently, and Marleau pretends he doesn’t notice, so Ilya doesn’t feel like he needs to stop.
Over the years, Ilya had become extremely close with Marley. On a special occasion or when they were both super fucking drunk, they called each other brothers. The only ones both of them could trust. Hell, Marley’s the only one on the team who knows Ilya’s mom is dead.
“Shit, this is where she lives?” Marleau asks, pulling on the property, “Fuck, does she make more than me?”
Ilya smiles like an idiot, “Maybe. Yes. Probably.”
Ilya swings the passenger door open, only to trip over his own legs, landing on the pavement.
“Shit, Rozanov!”
“M’ fine. Shane.” Ilya looks around, confused for a moment, trying to stand.
“I better be the best man at your wedding for this.” Marleau leans down to grab a slightly scuffed-up Rozanov, walking him slowly to the entrance.
Ilya goes to put in the code when the door cracks open, to reveal a shirtless, half-asleep Shane Hollander.
“Shanne!” Ilya shouts, throwing himself into Shane’s arms, forcing him to catch Ilya. “I am here! Like I said. I missed you.”
“Hollander?”
“Marleau?” The two men looked at each other in mutual shock, like some awkward stalemate. The tense confusion is broken by Ilya breaking into a sob.
“Shane. Shane, I am here. Like I said, I was.” Ilya’s voice is weak and slurred; his accent is heavier than normal. Safe to say he wasn’t understood by either man. Hollander’s face was pinched with concern.
“His dad died.” Marleau supplied, not really knowing what to do, standing on Shane Hollander’s porch with his wasted captain in Shane Hollander’s arms. Ilya tries to talk again, this time completely in Russian, looking frustrated with a red, tear-stained face. Shane only holds Ilya more tightly.
When he locks eyes with Hollander (terrifying by the way), there is a note of protective competition. Like he’s daring Marleau to say anything against the spectacle to see Rozy wrapped in Hollander’s arms.
“Look—”
“Marleau—”
The men start at the same time.
“Look, Hollander, Rozanvo is a private person. This is none of my business, and it’s not anyone else's unless you want it to be. He was just having a horrible night, and I thought seeing Jane would do him some good.”
“Nothing is going on—”
“Again, it’s not my business, just make sure he’s okay.” Shane looks like he wants to say more, but decides against it when Rozanov lifts himself from Shane.
“Rozy, do you want me to come pick you up in the morning?”
“No, I have different flight. To Moscow.”
“Okay. Do you want me to tell Coach?”
“Yes…” Marleue turns to go back to his car, “Marley?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
***
“I’m sorry.” Ilya slurs from the coach as Shane gets him a glass of water.
“Don’t be. Here, drink.”
Ilya takes the glass, tucking further into the blanket draped over his shoulders. “I’m a mess.”
“It’s okay,” Shane says as he sits next to Ilya, rubbing soothing circles into his back.
Ilya shakes his head frantically, eyes glazed over, “No… Three days.”
“He’s dead for three days, and he’s been sitting in a cold room rotting because I wasn’t there… I didn’t even pick up the phone, Hollander.”
Shane tries to focus on the Russian’s words, but Rozanov can be hard to understand on a normal day. The image of the untouchable, cocky Ilya Rozanov, so upset, so broken, does something to Shane he can’t even begin to name.
“I thought Alexei was just asking for more money, like always. I— I didn’t know Hollander, I swear. I didn’t know.” Tears continue to fall, and Rozanov is becoming more frantic with every word.
“You had no way to know.” Shane tries in a gentle voice, “It’s not your fault.”
“But it is! I left my home. I knew he was sick, and how Alexei is nothing more than a fucking—” Ilya pauses, frustrated when the proper word doesn’t come, “Drug addict! That leaves our father alone.”
“Rozanov—”
Rozanov’s standing now, pacing unsteady and angry, “No! Is all my fault!”
“Ilya!” Shane shouts, and the other man freezes with a sharp intake of breath. Ilya.
Shane continues without noticing Rozanov's reaction, “Please. Sit before you hurt yourself.”
Ilya locks eyes with Shane, his chest heaving from his outburst. But before Shane could reach for the other man, Ilya was on top of him.
Ilya’s lips were wet and salty from his tears, not to mention he smelled like an open bar, so it should’ve been easy for Shane to push Ilya away. However, it takes Shane a considerable amount of resolve, keeping him at arm's length.
“Ilya, we can’t,” Shane says, but he’s not listening.
His head is light, just filled with Shane. His smell, the taste of his lips. He’s intoxicated with more than just alcohol. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Il…
“Why not?”
Shane continues bracketing Ilya’s shoulders, “You’re drunk and not in any condition to consent.”
Ilya's stomach twists, “But—” I need to be close to you. I need your skin on mine. I need you to make me feel alive.
“No. Okay?” At Ilya’s truly devastated face, Shane softens and opens his arms, “Come here.”
While Ilya wants to complain, to argue that he planned to have sex with Shane tonight anyway, he knew this would not be a battle he would win, and he was just so tired. So Ilya climbs into Shane’s Adonis arms, burying his head into the other man’s chest.
“What time’s your flight tomorrow?” Shane whispers, his palm rubbing circles into his back.
“Seven.”
“Sleep, I’ll wake you up.”
Ilya's brows pinch in confusion, “You have early flight as well?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Shane pulls a blanket over the two of them.
“....Hollander?”
“Mmn?”
“Call me Ilya again.”
“Go to sleep, Ilya,” and Shane smiles, almost sad that no one was there to see it.