Archive of Our Own

It starts the way these nights always do. Playoff-level hockey, an overtime goal, and a rare day off in the middle of a road trip. It's the perfect storm to make Ilya promise to put his card behind the bar and celebrate with the team without thinking twice.

The bar itself carries the kind of pretentiousness Ilya has come to expect, even though he doesn’t particularly care for it. Rows of liquor bottles line the back wall, arranged more for show than for use. The bartenders pour with an extra flair, as if every drink is a performance. Light spills through the windows from the busy city, brighter than the low lamps and scattered candles that catch on glasses and polished marble tabletops inside.

It's all very predictable, and it becomes the kind of night that's easy to fall into. One drink becomes three, becomes five, becomes who's even counting. Ilya lets it – you only get one post-win night out in Colorado a season, right?

Their table is crowded, the group just that little bit bigger than the space really allows. Extra chairs have been dragged over, jackets slung over their backs, and half-finished drinks and emptied bottles are gathering at a steady rate.

Ilya sits in the middle of it all, close enough that he's part of the group without having to try too hard. The ice is melting in his glass, leaving it covered in condensation, cool against the skin of his palm. Someone says something, and it takes him a moment to catch up, his eyes lagging behind the movement of his head.

He looks along the table, observing his team. They’re mostly paired off or in small groups now, their voices overlapping each other. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his phone. Nothing.

Sighing, he drops it onto the table in front of him.

“I'm bored,” he announces. “You're all boring.”

Someone wordlessly slides another drink into his hand. He hadn’t even realised that his glass was empty. He takes it without thinking, lifts it to his mouth, and lets the burn settle in his chest. Counts to five before taking another sip.

He picks up his phone again.

Still nothing.

Games run late all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. Ilya knows that, really. There’s always something that comes after – media, showers, Shane’s stupid post-game routine. The silence isn’t unusual. It’s not even late.

He sets the phone back down and forces himself to listen to Sebbin replay his assist from the first period.

God, Ilya thinks, when did Hollander become the interesting one?

He picks it back up again, as though those thirty seconds that he pretended he wasn’t waiting for anything would have tricked his phone into spitting out a notification.

Across the table, someone laughs too loudly at something that probably isn’t that funny. A shoulder knocks into his, and someone leans over him to grab another drink. The conversation shifts, and they’re suddenly hearing all about some girl Connors used to know here in Denver. It all keeps moving around him without him needing to do much at all.

Ilya takes another sip. Then another.

His eyes drift down to his phone again.

He exhales loudly, and pushes himself up from his seat.

“Yes. I was right. You’re all boring,” he says. “I’m going to the bar.”

There’s a half-hearted protest from Marleau next to him, accusing him of already being wasted, and someone else laughs, telling him to bring some shots back. But Ilya’s already turned away, making his way through the tables.

He pushes his way through the crowd hovering close to the bar, their bodies pressed in close to each other and their chatter loud. He leans against the edge, waiting to catch the bartender’s eye.

“Tequila,” he says, holding up his pinky and ring finger. Then, wrinkling his nose as he considers it, he adds a third.

“Rough night?” someone says beside him.

He looks over. She’s smiling at him, leaning in in an attempt to look casual, making sure he heard her over the noise. Her expression is flirtatious and well practiced; all fluttering eyelashes and slow, methodical looks.

“Good night,” he replies automatically.

“Yeah?” She takes his response as permission to shift in closer to him, pausing and flipping her long blonde hair off her shoulder. “You aren’t really acting like it.”

He huffs something that sounds a bit like a laugh, and turns back towards the bar. His phone is already back in his hand, scanning their text message thread quickly.

“So,” she tries again. “You're partying tonight?”

“Mm,” Ilya makes a noncommittal noise, his eyes still on the screen as he sends another message.

He brings his attention back up as the bartender sets the shots down in front of him with a practiced flourish. He shoots a quick, thankful smile as he reaches for one without looking, knocks it back, and sets the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink.

“Wow,” the girl next to him says after a second, her voice unable to hide her annoyance. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

He raises his eyes up from his phone and looks back to her, just remembering that she is there.

“Sorry,” he says, although he doesn't sound particularly sorry, shrugging as he reaches for the next glass.

By the time he makes it back, two shots down and the third sloshing dangerously in his hand, the table has shifted into a loud, friendly argument about the best city they get to visit on the West Coast during their road trip. Marleau swings his knees to the side, making space for Ilya to pass him and flop back onto his seat.

He sets the glass down with a bit more force than he means to, muttering under his breath as it spills over the edges. He catches Marleau looking at him.

“What, Marly? You miss me?” he says, already reaching for the drink.

“Who were you talking to?” Marleau asks.

Ilya barely looks up. “Jane,” he says, like it should be obvious. “Well. I was trying. But I don’t think she’s home yet.”

There’s a pause before Marleau laughs, confused.

“No, dude. The woman at the bar?”

Ilya blinks at him, trying to catch up.

“Oh.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I don’t know. No one.”

The reaction from the group comes immediately.

“What the fuck, Roz?” Carmichael cuts in from further down the table. “You’ve changed.”

“Yeah,” another voice cuts in, “she’s hot, man. What’s happened to you?”

Ilya shrugs, loose and unconcerned, tipping the next shot back.

“Not interested,” he says, like it’s the most simple thing in the world. “Maybe she will let you fuck her instead, Seb.”

Everyone laughs, a few of the guys nudging Sebbin encouragingly, before the conversation moves on.

“Not interested?” Marleau echoes quieter, eyebrows lifted.

Ilya smirks, a little bit off centre as he blinks slower than usual.

“Better option.” He picks up his phone and shakes it vaguely in Marleau’s direction.

The screen lights up with the movement, and his eyes dart to the screen thinking it has suddenly started to cooperate. But there's still nothing.

Ilya frowns at it before dropping it back on the table with a thud, reaching for another of the beer bottles from the ice bucket on the table instead.

Marleau keeps watching him, looking equal parts quizzical and entertained.

“I'm waiting for a text,” Ilya says, by way of an explanation.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ilya pauses for a moment, considering something, then adds, “Also, I think I might be drunk.”

He reaches for his drink again, knocking it lightly with his knuckles before getting a proper grip on it, as if to prove his point.

Marleau shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Not like you to get sloppy, Roz.” He nudges Ilya's elbow with his own. “Everything okay?”

Ilya shrugs, trying hard to look relaxed.

“Yes. Told you.” He gestures vaguely at his phone on the table. “Just waiting for text.”

Marleau nods, catching on. “From…Jane?”

Ilya doesn't usually open up like this – not to Marleau, not to anyone on the team. His habit is usually to deflect, or make a joke that distracts from the original point so that the conversation moves along naturally. So it isn't like Marleau is trying to take advantage of this maskless Ilya, loosened by the alcohol; he's just unable to ignore it, unwillingly curious.

“Yes.” Ilya looks around at the rest of the group, quick and instinctive, as if to check that no one else is listening before he adds quietly, “I miss Jane.”

Marleau's eyebrows raise despite himself, the surprise at Ilya’s response clear, but he can't quite stop the softness that comes with it.

“Well, fuck.” He shakes his head, directed more at himself than Ilya. “Never thought I’d hear you hung up on some chick, Rozy.”

Someone further down the table hollers at something unrelated, the noise cutting through the moment and breaking the illusion of privacy. Ilya is distracted for a moment before his attention comes back to their conversation.

“Not replying,” Ilya says, slumping back into his seat a little too far, his fingers gripping the edges to steady himself. “Montreal game finished ages ago.”

Marleau's interest sharpens, leaning in and lowering his voice without thinking.

“Yeah? She works for the team, or something?” He looks away, considering the options quickly. “Is it their socials girl? She's fucking hot. No, wait, her name is Abi. Okay. Shit, the media girl. Does their match interviews. What's her name? Is it her?”

Ilya’s face flickers with amusement, his smile bigger and brighter than usual.

“No,” he says, laughing. “No. Not like that.”

Ilya takes another sip, his face still painted with glee at Marleau's lack of comprehension, like he's missing out on a private joke.

Marleau, predictably, refuses to drop it that easily.

“What is it like, then?” He twists in his seat so that he's facing Ilya completely. “This mysterious Montreal situation. Shit, Rozy, she’s not one of the WAGs, is she?”

Ilya huffs another quiet laugh, wrinkling his nose at Marleau’s suggestion. “No, she is definitely not one of the WAGs.”

Ilya pauses, something akin to guilt flashing on his face briefly, almost imperceptible. He adds, “They are all very lovely women. Very beautiful. But no. Sha–” He falters momentarily before he recovers. “She is definitely, absolutely not a WAG.” A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Better.”

Marleau nods slowly, but the frown lingers as he tries to piece everything together. “But it’s, what, complicated? Because it isn’t like you not to spill, either.”

It's not entirely fair, Marleau concedes. Ilya isn't an open book by any means; but he's not usually this careful and considered, either.

Ilya smiles, small but genuine. “Yes. Complicated. But good.” He pauses, his gaze dropping down to his phone again. “Usually.”

Marleau feels emboldened to press further. “Yeah? But not now?”

Ilya lazily brushes his thumb over the screen, like he might be able to force something out of it if he keeps trying. He grimaces at the empty wallpaper, exhaling quietly.

“Maybe my phone’s broken,” he says, prodding at it so that it lights up again.

Marleau snorts. “Don’t think so. Looks fine to me.”

“No, I’m being serious,” Ilya insists, staring at the screen intently. “Nothing.”

Marleau stares at him for a moment, trying to work out the riddle Ilya is spinning, then glances across the table at the rest of the team. He hopes, vaguely, that someone else is listening and able to make sense of it. Johansson would be the best bet, but he’s literally got his hands full at the opposite end of the table, keeping the rookie upright.

When he looks back at Ilya he has his phone held up above his head, arm fully extended.

Marleau shakes his head in disbelief, blinking at him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“It could be the signal, yes?” Ilya says, his expression completely serious.

“I mean, maybe?” Marleau says, hesitating. “But we’re not in the fucking mountains. So it's probably not that.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ilya says, petulant, but he lowers his arm anyway.

Further along the table someone knocks over a glass, the rest of them erupting into a raucous cacophony of jeering and clapping.

Ilya exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath that Marleau doesn't catch over the noise around them. He pushes his chair back a little too abruptly.

“I need air,” he announces, already halfway to standing.

Marleau watches him, his brow furrowing as Ilya has to steady himself on the edge of the table, gripping it hard enough that his knuckles pale.

“Don’t trip, Roz. We need you on the ice in two days, bud.”

Ilya doesn’t even look at Sebbin as he flips him off, his arm dropping heavily back to his side as he sets off towards the door, walking a path that's not quite straight.

“Fucking hell,” Marleau mutters, watching him stumble around a group of people gathered by the exit before slipping out.

Across the table someone starts shouting for another round. The rookie nearly falls out of his seat again before Johansson catches him by the shoulder. It would be easy to rejoin the conversation and get carried away with the rest of the team. But Marleau can’t help himself, and glances towards the door once again.

“I’m gonna go make sure he isn’t puking,” he says, already moving to stand. “Or rip the shit out of him if he is.”

The air outside is cool and crisp, quieter too, the chaos of the bar becoming muffled as the door swings shut behind him.

It doesn’t take long for Marleau to spot Ilya.

He is slumped near a lamppost just off the curb, one shoulder resting heavily against it, legs stretched out in front of him. It’s not clear if he meant to sit like that. Or at all.

Marleau huffs a quiet laugh as he approaches him. “Jesus, man.”

Ilya tips his head back to look at him, squinting one eye shut as if it will help him focus.

“I’m fine,” he says, immediately betrayed by his body swaying sideways. He catches himself with a sharp slap of his palm on the ground.

“Yeah, you look it,” Marleau deadpans.

“It’s good,” Ilya says. “Comfortable.”

Marleau snorts, dropping down beside him. He’s close enough that if Ilya tips too far one way or the other he can catch him. It wouldn’t do them any good for their captain to get concussed. Or pictured passed out on the sidewalk.

They sit quietly, Ilya’s face tight with concentration as he tries to stay upright.

The silence is broken by the buzz of Ilya’s phone in his hand. His face splits into a wide, dopey grin. He scrambles up onto his knees, grabbing at the lamppost with one arm to haul himself up only to overshoot it. The momentum carries him in a slow, unsteady half-turn around the pole before he manages to catch himself.

“Lyubimyy,” he says into the phone, instant and bright. “Finally.”

He wraps his arm around, one hand anchoring himself on to the lamppost. “I have been waiting,” he says. “You took too long.”

He listens for a second, his smile softening into something relaxed and content.

“No, I know.” He begins to pace, walking a slow, uneven line along the sidewalk. “I know you had things, whatever. More important than speaking to your boyfriend, apparently.”

Marleau freezes, the word hanging heavily in the air. Boyfriend. Ilya Rozanov, Boston's most prolific player – maybe even the NHL's – has finally been locked down. He can't help but grin at the sheer ridiculousness of it, let alone how soft he sounds saying it.

As he stumbles, Ilya’s arm comes out to catch his weight against the lamppost again. Marleau watches him cautiously, moving to stand as Ilya shifts and begins to pace again.

“Yes, yes, I know. Obligations.”

Ilya turns too quickly as he speaks, his foot catching slightly on the curb. Marleau steps forward without thinking, steadying him by the elbow before he can fall properly.

Ilya doesn’t react, just leans into it briefly before drifting off again, attention already pulled back to the voice on the other end of the phone.

“I’m a tiny bit drunk,” Ilya says. “Okay, fine, yes, quite drunk.” He laughs at whatever the reply was. “No. No more, promise. Am outside.”

Seriously, Marleau thinks, no one is going to believe him about this.

Ilya takes a few more tentative steps, Marleau watching tiredly as he veers off course again.

“I miss you,” Ilya mutters. “It has been –” his brow furrows, like he’s trying to do the calculation, “– too long.”

Marleau briefly considers recording this so he can use it to blackmail Ilya later.

“What do you mean only two weeks? That is a long time to not have your dick sucked.” Ilya pauses, then lowers his voice and says, “Fine, I will not suck your dick next time. See how you like that.”

Marleau whips his head round to look at Ilya, who is already making another attempt at walking down the street.

Yeah. He definitely wishes he had been recording that, just so he could replay whatever the fuck he thinks he just heard because – what?

He blinks quickly, eyes following Ilya with a mix of confusion and curiosity. It's surprising, but maybe not as shocking as he'd expect it to be. If anyone in the league was going to be... fluid, let alone shameless enough to blurt it out in public like this, it'd be him. He still needs a fucking second to get his head around it, though.

Before he can even begin to process it, Ilya staggers again, this time way too close to the road. Marleau steps in quickly, grabbing Ilya by the arm and mouthing sit down.

“I am sitting,” Ilya responds out loud, even though it’s blatantly untrue.

Marleau rolls his eyes and steers him back down onto the floor. Ilya squints at him like he’s the one being unreasonable, but lets himself go easily, landing with a soft thud. Marleau drops down next to him, one hand still hovering near Ilya’s arm just in case he tries to immediately get back up again.

Ilya shuffles and stretches his legs out, settling as if it was his plan all along.

“No, it was good,” Ilya says, his attention already gone again. “We won. Overtime.”

His mouth twists into a small smile, content again as he listens to the reply on the other end.

“Yes, I saw. You looked very good. Your backhand is getting better.”

Marleau snaps his head back toward him at that, his eyes widening, eyebrows raised.

God, is he talking to another player?

He shifts deliberately alongside Ilya, silently begging him to remember he’s there; to stop revealing not just his own secrets, but whoever the hell this Metros player is too.

Ilya laughs. “I’m kidding.” He drags his thumb idly across the edge of his phone. “I know, you’re always–”

He breaks off, frowning slightly at the screen as he pulls the phone away from his ear.

“Hold on,” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else. He taps it a couple of times, his fingers imprecise and clumsy, before setting it down on the sidewalk next to him. Then, inexplicably, he lowers himself the rest of the way back so that he’s flat on the ground.

“Okay,” he says, louder this time. “I’m lying down. You can keep being boring and talk about your stupid game. I will fall asleep nicely.”

“Fuck you,” the voice on the other end says before adding, sharper, “wait, aren’t you outside?”

“What the actual fuck?” Marleau says under his breath. “Oh my God.”

He knows that voice. For a moment, he thinks he must be hallucinating; that maybe he’s actually the one that's absolutely wasted. But no. Everyone in the league knows that voice.

Ilya doesn’t even look at him. He just keeps grinning, stretched out on the floor, while talking to Shane Hollander, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Yes, very nice out here.”

Marleau's jaw tightens, running a hand through his hair mechanically. This is a disaster, he thinks, a complete disaster.

“I don’t think you should be on the floor,” Shane replies. His voice is laced with equal parts concern and tenderness, and Marleau feels his stomach drop as everything clicks further into place.

Ilya Rozanov is calling himself Shane Hollander's boyfriend.

Fuck.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes flicking towards the bar's door to make sure no one else has come looking for them. The last thing he needs right now is anyone else discovering this. He's barely containing his own panic; he couldn't deal with anyone else's.

“No, is fine. It’s very stable.” Ilya's voice cuts through Marleau’s spiralling. “You worry too much, Shanya. Is all good. Being looked after.”

Shane doesn’t respond straight away.

Marleau looks down at his shoes, the sudden silence making him feel like he’s intruding, or that he's the one who’s been caught doing something he shouldn't be.

“I am outside,” Ilya rambles on. “I am lying down so I cannot fall down. And so that Marly stops following me like a stray dog. I am fine. So stop worrying.” He pauses, then adds, pleased, “Tell me more about how amazing you are.”

The line stays quiet.

Ilya grumbles as he rolls his head to the side, squinting at his phone. “See, Marly. Told you. My phone is broken.”

“Ilya,” Shane says, a discernible tightness running through his voice. “Who is with you?”

Ilya gestures towards Marleau, even though Shane can’t see.

“Ilya.”

Even to Marleau, it’s clear that Shane is about two seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.

Marleau clears his throat. “It’s uh. It’s just me, Hollander.”

There’s another pause.

“Marleau?” Shane asks.

He nods, because apparently that's what they’re doing now – acting like Shane can see them.

“Oh my god,” Ilya groans, “I just told you that.”

“Right,” Shane says. “That's–okay.”

Marleau knows he should probably say something, reassure him that he isn’t going to run to CNN or TMZ, explain why he’s with Ilya in the first place, or anything useful, in fact. Instead, he’s frozen somewhere between stunned and desperately trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Ilya, it seems, could not care less.

“You know Marly,” Ilya goes on, either not noticing or ignoring everyone else’s discomfort. “Big guy. Broke your head that one time.”

Ilya shifts onto his elbows and looks at Marleau with a serious expression. “Which was very mean, by the way,” he adds.

Marleau pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly.

“Ilya, stop,” Shane cuts in, his voice strained.

Marleau looks over at Ilya, who opens his mouth to argue before closing it abruptly. His expression shifts slightly, but Marleau catches it.

“Oh my god,” Marleau says, shuffling back a fraction. “Do not make that face.”

“I am not,” Ilya pauses to take a deep breath, “making a face.”

“You are,” Marleau argues. “The last time you looked like that you puked all over me. In your rookie season.”

“I am not going to puke,” Ilya insists, offended by the accusation. “I'm fine.”

But his voice is coming out slower now, and he looks like he is having to work harder to swallow the excess saliva in his mouth.

Marleau watches him for a couple of seconds.

“You really do look like you’re going to puke,” he insists.

“I'm fine,” Ilya repeats, his eyes slipping shut.

A silence stretches between them, broken only by the occasional rush of passing cars, the phone call momentarily forgotten about. Headlights wash over Ilya, sprawled on the sidewalk, and he groans as the light traces his face.

“Please just warn me if you're going to puke,” Marleau says, eyeing Ilya suspiciously.

“Am fine. Just have to lie down.” Ilya drapes one arm across his forehead.

“You are lying down,” Marleau mutters.

“Yes,” Ilya replies, as if that proves his point.

Another pause settles between them.

Marleau glances down at Ilya, then away again, his stomach flipping as everything catches up with him all at once; what he’s heard and what it all means. The worst part, he considers, is that he can't place how long Ilya has been managing to hide this.

“Ilya?” Shane breaks the silence through the phone speaker. “Are you all good?”

“I won,” Ilya replies, his voice soft again now that he's speaking to Shane.

“I know,” Shane says, matching the gentleness. He pauses for a moment before cautiously adding, “Do you think now would be a good time to call it a night?”

Ilya shrugs on the floor, and mumbles something incoherent.

“Where are you staying?” Shane asks.

“I can come to you, no? Please.”

“You're in –” Shane cuts himself off, seemingly remembering there is no point in trying to reason with Ilya right now. He hesitates for a moment. “Marleau?”

Marleau clears his throat, “Yeah?”

“Where are you guys staying?”

“Oh. Uh. The hotel? The Ritz-Carlton?” Marleau tries hard to sound normal, but everything is coming out like a question. Because he has a lot of questions, actually.

Shane sighs on the other end of the line, clearly considering something.

“Do you think you can get him back?” he says eventually.

It's not really a question, more a handing over of responsibility and thinly veiled trust.

“Yeah,” Marleau says, “I got him.”

Ilya makes a theatrical ugh sound. “You are both so dramatic.”

“You're on the floor, Rozanov.” Marleau rolls his eyes, nudging Ilya's shoulder. “Come on. Up.”

Marleau glances suspiciously at the phone on the floor, the contact name a string of cyrillic which he is pretty sure does not simply say Shane, and sighs as he struggles to pick it up along with Ilya.

Ilya makes a noise of protest, but he lets Marleau take his weight and hoist him upright.

“Don't leave Shane on the floor,” Ilya slurs.

“I've already picked him up, too.” Marleau hears Shane huff out a laugh, muffled through the speaker. “It,” he corrects, “I have picked up your phone.”

“I've, er, ordered an Uber. Ilya sent me a selfie outside earlier.” Shane's voice is careful. “I didn't think he would have gotten very far.”

Marleau secures Ilya's arm around his shoulders, using his knees to generate enough momentum to keep Ilya there.

“Yeah, he isn't going anywhere,” Marleau laughs. “Hollander, I might have to, er, put the phone away.”

“No,” Ilya cuts in, eyes suddenly blinking open. “Do not hang up, Shane.”

Shane shuffles on the other end of the line, hesitating. “Baby,” he says, his voice calm and measured, “I'll call you back. But you've got to get to the hotel first, okay?”

There's a moment, if only brief, that Marleau pretends he misheard.

Baby.

Then he looks at Ilya, his face glowing entirely at odds with the usual composure he carries himself with, and he feels his throat tighten again with the weight of all of this.

“Okay,” Ilya replies, before adding as an afterthought, “promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

Marleau glances up as another set of headlights sweep across the pavement, a black Toyota pulling up to them.

Marleau clears his throat. “I think our ride is here.”

“Yeah.” There’s a brief pause on the other end. “Okay.” Shane hesitates, like he doesn’t quite want to hang up. Then the line drops.

It takes longer than it should to manoeuvre Ilya into the back seat, his body like deadweight in Marleau’s arms. He refuses to duck his head, or bend his knees, laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever done. Eventually, he manages to fold Ilya into the back seat, slumped against the window like a ragdoll. Marleau follows, falling into the seat next to him, breathless by the time he shuts the door.

“Ritz-Carlton,” he tells the driver.

The driver eyes Ilya warily, probably worried about his leather detailing, but nods and pulls away anyway.

The car is quiet except for the low hum of the stereo and the uneven rhythm of Ilya’s breathing. Marleau glances over at him and assumes that he has finally drifted into sleep.

“You heard him,” Ilya says suddenly.

Marleau takes a breath. “Yeah,” he says. “I heard him.”

Ilya nods, eyes still closed. “Shane,” he clarifies unnecessarily, speaking his name like it’s something fragile.

Marleau hums quietly. He isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t know what Ilya wants: reassurance, maybe. Or just for Marleau to listen. Maybe he doesn’t want anything at all.

“He is very good.”

He looks back at him. Ilya's eyes are open now, fixed and distant out the window. Marleau lets the silence hang between them, still unsure whether he should respond – or if he would even be capable of saying anything that doesn't amount to how insane this situation is.

“I love him,” Ilya says.

Marleau's attention shifts to the driver. The rearview is angled just enough that he can't be certain he isn't listening to their conversation. He moves in his seat, suddenly conscious of how quiet it is and how carefully he needs to navigate this conversation.

“I don't think he knows.” Ilya speaks quietly, his head dipping forward, the words blurring into one another.

Marleau looks back at him, observing how the alcohol has stripped him of his usual composure.

“What?” he asks, a little too quickly. “That you love him?”

Ilya turns sharply, like the response reminds him that Marleau is there.

He shakes his head slowly, almost shy. “He knows that.” The words trail off as he blinks slowly, frowning at the effort of forming them.

Marleau shifts awkwardly in his seat again, looking between Ilya and the driver.

“Well whatever it is, maybe don't tell him when you're drunk.”

Ilya snorts, looking back out of the window. “Okay.”

The car slows, the indicator ticking softly as it turns, the light from outside passing across Ilya's face in golden ribbons until they roll to a stop at the entrance of the hotel.

Marleau steps out of the car and makes his way around to the opposite side, bracing himself before tugging Ilya's door open. He coaxes him out slowly, positioning one hand flat across his back and giving the driver a quick thank you, his voice straining as he tries to keep Ilya upright.

Ilya is bleary-eyed and staggering as Marleau wrestles him through the lobby, his limbs loose and unhelpful as he leans heavily into his shoulder. He sways like he might fold in on himself if he's left alone for a second, so Marleau has to keep a steady grip on him the entire way. By the time he gets Ilya into the room, Marleau is slightly out of breath, dropping Ilya onto the bed unceremoniously before pausing to gather himself.

Ilya stirs as Marleau tugs at his shoes, dropping them with a thud on the floor next to the bed.

“Phone,” Ilya mumbles, grabbing at Marleau’s wrist. “Want to speak to him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marleau laughs, the stupidity of the situation not lost on him; a drunken Ilya flailing underneath him and begging to speak to Hollander. “We've got to sort you out first, bud.”

It takes longer than necessary – Ilya protesting half-heartedly, his limbs uncoordinated – for Marleau to wrangle him out of his jacket, then his shirt, the clothes falling to a crumpled pile next to where his shoes landed. By the time he gets him under the covers, Ilya is sinking back against the pillow with a content smile tugging at his lips.

“Phone,” he repeats.

Marleau hands it to him, rolling his eyes as Ilya fumbles with it and drops it next to him with a groan.

“Give it here,” Marleau sighs, scooping it back up into his own palm. “Pin?”

Ilya narrows his eyes like it's a trick question. “One-four-one-zero.”

Marleau unlocks the phone, scrolling until he finds Shane’s contact. He hits the call button and lifts it to his ear. It only rings once.

“Hey,” Shane answers immediately.

“Er, hey, man. It's me. Cliff. Marleau.” He feels awkward all of a sudden, his eyes flicking towards Ilya mumbling to himself against the pillow. “I've got him back. He's in bed, but he's still asking to speak to you. I had to, like, undress him. Sorry.”

Shane exhales a short, sharp breath which mimics a laugh. “Not really what I'm worried about now, Marleau.”

Marleau winces. “Right, yeah. Sorry.” He presses his free hand across his eyes. “I'll just put you on speaker on the bedside table before I go. He can't really hold the phone.”

“Thanks.”

Ilya makes a satisfied noise as Shane's voice comes back through the speaker, twisting his head towards it as Marleau places it down.

“Sure,” Marleau says, already moving towards the door.

As he backs out of the room, he hears Ilya laugh at something Shane says and pulls the door shut behind him with a soft click.

Marleau lingers in the hallway for a moment, staring at the carpet as though it might offer some kind of explanation for the last hour of his life.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “What the actual fuck.”

He takes a breath before pushing himself into motion, walking slowly down the corridor to his own room as he pulls out his own phone.