Work Text:
The sound of the ice always was comforting. The thunder of dozens of skates hitting the frozen surface and the scape of metal blades and wooden sticks provided Ilya with a certain ease, an escape that afforded him sixty regulation minutes of weightlessness on the ice, and hours after for celebrations as time and time again he brought his teammates to victory, and the illicit dances of pretty much every woman he looked at made winning all the more enticing.
Of course, this is how things were. It was Ilya’s own version of perfect. His life, and his escape from his life. It wasn’t complicated. Or it wasn’t supposed to be. But a stupid, smart, boring, French-speaking, sexy Canadian dared introduce himself, find a hidden hole in Ilya’s life, and make home in it. It was easy when his relationship, or lack thereof, with Shane was casual. Just a fling.
But he was never a fling, was he? He was extraordinary. He was beautiful, from his freckles to his glasses, and his stupid haircut and how awkward he was socially, but not in bed. He was perfect, and Ilya found himself falling in love. He needed to stop this, it was dangerous for them both, their careers, their livelihoods, their sanity. Ilya was sure the very notion of living a simple life filled with joy and domesticity and boredom and kids and pets and hockey with his love would be the second worst thing that ever happened to him. Surely it would be. It needed to end before Ilya says something he’s going to regret, and Shane doesn’t say it back and he has to say it before his world explodes, because it will if he doesn’t. Tonight it is. They have plans. Not the plans Ilya wants or Shane expects, but they will get the chance to talk tonight. They have no future. Ilya decides this before Shane can and break his heart.
They’re playing against each other today. Yet another game that the NHL can spin to fit their dynamic as fated rivals, which is true. They are rivals. They’re just not only rivals.
Shane looks so pretty in his gear, so confident and tough. Not like he is off the ice, standing idly like he isn’t sure he’s welcome in any room he finds himself in. He’s awkward, and stiff. Usually, Ilya can fuck tranquility into him, and leave him in his pure state, loving, warm, and happy. Ilya sincerely hopes he can find a better man than him that can do that for him. He’ll be sad to no longer be able to love and take care of his… Something, but he’ll be glad to return to a simple relationship of a close battle on the ice and nothing after. Maybe shared congratulations and a nice smile after and before games against each other. It’ll be nice to see Shane outside of a situation where Ilya is slowly ruining his life and the longevity of his career.
Ilya felt a soft smile grow on his face when Shane and his team stepped onto the ice and took their positions. They were face to face, and in any other situation Ilya would have reached over and kissed him. The determined and focused look in Shane’s eyes was nothing short of breathtaking, and the quick glance he sent his way stirred butterflies in his stomach. He really was beautiful…
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya cooed, “Will you disappoint them?”
The passion in Shane’s eyes only grew. His form didn’t so much as shift when he softly huffed, “Nope.”
Their rivalry was very real. A constant, well-meant battle for the NHL’s Number One spot. Ilya would like to be in that spot more than he is, but Shane really is just that talented.
When the buzzer sounded, and the game started, Ilya and Shane were suddenly caught in the initial face off for ownership of the puck. He no longer had time to dwell on the beauty of his Something in all his gear, and the sparkle in his eyes when he did what he loved. It was time to play. It was time to win. One last good game before Ilya has to face the end of their decade-long secret.
Shane won the face-off, and sped off with the puck, and the chance for the first goal of the game. If it were anyone else, Ilya might have called it luck, but Shane really was the best player he’d ever seen. Maybe even beating Ilya. He skated after him.
His attention was split between his race with Shane for the puck, and Marleau lining up for a shoulder check to get it back from the opposing captain. Shane looked back, mischief gleaming in his beautiful eyes. He was looking for Ilya, which was cocky, and a little bit romantic. It was like a dance, and they were the only ones on the ice. Ilya wouldn’t mind if they really were, and if Shane kept looking at him like that forever, he would simply die happy. Shane’s smile bloomed brighter when Ilya made eye contact. Ilya had never seen him so distracted.
Wait, no. Shane can’t be distracted. He’s looking at Ilya and not the puck. At Ilya, and not Marleau. Wait!
The crack of a helmet on ice was not unfamiliar, but this one sent a chill down his spine that he didn’t dare blame on the cold. Marleau had slammed into Shane from an unforgiving, unintentional angle, causing Ilya’s ‘casual fling’ to slam into the ice with a force Ilya hadn’t ever thought to consider possible, and didn’t get back up. The sound had echoed across the ice and through Ilya’s entire body. The arena fell deathly quiet, and all Ilya saw was a completely different person, body prone in a similar way, and he moved forward without thinking. Hayden Pike was shouting and screaming at Marleau, but Ilya didn’t care. Shane needed to be alright. Shane needed to get up.
Get up.
Shane, get up.
He needs to get up before Ilya loses him like he lost his mama, and his world explodes in a different way. Please, you have to get up. Medics were rushing onto the ice, the referees were saying something, Ilya wasn’t sure, but he needed to get to Shane. His heart was pounding, so loud he could barely hear the shouts of the medics for Shane to open his eyes, and his lungs were burning. He couldn’t breathe. Shane is the air he breathes, and suddenly being faced with an involuntary eternity without him feels like every cell in his body is being rapidly burned and frozen over. This isn’t fair. Ilya was supposed to break things off so neither of them continued their dance of pain and kisses, so neither of them continued to hurt each other. More so Ilya could not hurt Shane with his fear of love in the open, even if Shane shared the sentiment. The unyielding ice was not supposed to take him away before he got what he deserved, a life unconcealed. It isn’t fair.
“Is he okay? Fucking tell me!” Every attempt he made to get close resulted in even more distance being put between Ilya and his Something. The referees pushed him back, making unnecessary room for the medics and their equipment. Ilya still hasn’t taken a breath.
Get up, Shane. You can’t let it end here. Please get up. You can’t do this to me, you fucking asshole, get the fuck up! I haven’t said goodbye.
Some of his own teammates had come to pull him back, and the referees kept glancing at him every chance they got, like they were waiting for Ilya to snap. They probably thought his tranced state, and his restless attempts at getting a better look was a trait of their supposed rivalry, that Ilya only wanted to get closer to mock the vulnerable form of his ‘arch-rival’, when their situation hasn’t been nearly so casual in years. Shane was his greatest love. His greatest pain.
Distantly, he heard Pike being dragged away from Marleau by his follow Voyageurs, shouting and spitting about killing him, and maybe he heard Marleau mumble in agony that he didn’t mean to, it was an accident. Ilya couldn’t take his eyes off his Something, his Shane. The referees and coaches kept shouting at him to go to his bench, and reluctantly he had to obey. There, he joined Marleau, who looked as haunted as Ilya felt. Perhaps the oxygen in the room had been sucked out for more than just him. Maybe this pain is felt by everyone, as the star of the NHL failed to rise again after a brutal hit. Maybe this feeling was just an infection that rooted in the presence of Shane Hollander, a ruthless form of vile care for a good man in distress, and Ilya wasn’t alone in his fear that he wasn’t going to get up at all, or ever again.
“I didn’t mean to hit him so hard,” Marleau choked out, “He’ll be fine, right? He always gets up.”
His uncertainty presented an awful alternative; that he doesn’t. That on this night in 2017, Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Metros and two-time winner of the Stanley Cup, leaves this world for good. It would rival 2016 for worst year of Ilya’s life, for a completely different but eerily similar reason. He had never seen Marleau so distressed. He had gotten into fights before, both ones he starts, and ones he doesn’t. He’s a hockey player, and a good one at that, he’s built to take hits. Ilya supposed he had just never caused an injury like this before.
“He will be okay. He has to be.” He said more to himself than his friend. The thought of having to continue playing stung like a thousand bees in his throat, and he wished desperately, not for the first time, that he wasn’t such a coward, and could love Shane in the open. Maybe then his coaches wouldn’t make him get back on the ice after his Something is taken to the hospital, and away from him.
The game, of course, was the last thing on his mind once Shane was gone. How could he even consider caring about hockey when the only other joy in his life was being taken away? The buzzer that signaled the game restarting was a distant addition to the symphony of self-loathing in Ilya’s head. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. He doesn’t score again, but that doesn’t matter either. The Metros, being the talentless mess they are without their Captain, lost the game. Ilya didn’t care. He didn’t care when Hammersmith or Connors or St Simon tried and failed to drag him and Marleau out for drinks and dancing. They described them as ‘spoilsports’, deeming their distress to be trivial, and telling Marleau that he ‘did good’ by getting Hollander out of the way of their cup. Marleau looked like he was about to kill the entire team, or himself. It wasn’t fair.
What if he dies? He’s sure the same thoughts are running through his AC’s head as they cleaned up and cleared out. Marleau did not say another word until they went their separate ways. Ilya was going to try to go to the hospital. It’s not uncommon for a captain to visit an opposing player after a bad hit. Ilya had done it once before, when he had gotten particularly angry at Michigan’s captain, through no fault of his own. Ilya had just been berated by his brother again and unnecessarily took it out on his opponent. But he was in good spirits, given the circumstances, and told Ilya it was nice to see a different side of his ‘turbulant’ and ‘boisterous’ personality. Ilya didn’t know what those words meant, but it must have been a compliment.
He didn’t think he’d ever have to check on Shane like this. He didn’t imagine it was going to end in a compliment.
Marleau looked relieved, like he wasn’t sure Ilya had planned to visit, or check on his supposed nemesis, and was glad he did.
“I didn’t think he was going to get hurt that bad. I was going to go see him if you weren’t,” he said, doing his best to look casual about it, “Can you keep me updated?”
He was sure he looked more than a little pissed-off. He knew he had a habit of snapping when his games were interrupted, and he knew Marleau was expecting a talking-to about what had happened. He wasn’t in the mood. God forbid he make things worse again and scare off the only other person in this nightmare that knew a fraction of what Ilya felt.
He nodded to his teammate; unsure he’d be able to actually say anything without screaming or crying. Marleau nodded back, and Ilya knew he understood his hesitance, because he didn’t bother saying anything else and started walking towards their hotel with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders drawn up to his ears. He looked every bit as scared and pathetic as Ilya felt.
Ilya waited another few minutes for his Uber, wanting to melt into the sidewalk with every passing second. A few fans walked by, whispering about asking for an autograph or a photo, but stopping themselves. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe he took pictures with a fractured smile and a ‘thanks for your support’, maybe he snapped at them to go the fuck away, can’t you see my world is ending? He doesn’t remember. All he can think about is Shane dying.
It’s over. The thought of ending their ‘situationship’, as Americans call it, probably, was yet another brick of sorrow added to Ilya’s wall of shame and worthlessness. He hates that he needs it, but this wall will protect everyone else from him, and all his worst qualities. He should never have let Shane see the inside of all of Ilya’s horrors, the inside of his soul where dreams of domesticity and peace go to die. He should have taken Shane’s hesitance at face value and left him alone. They’re not right for each other, and deep down, Shane knows that. The last time they saw each other they proved that. Shane all but ran away from him the very second Ilya started to tell him about himself. It was his mistake, thinking his Something would care about his fucked-up family, or about Ilya, beyond what he can do in bed. That whole day he had hoped to extend a hand past the line of bedpartners, maybe into just partners, and he thought he had done everything right to get Shane to see his intent. He could have killed someone; he was so angry at Shane for running away.
But Ilya isn’t so angry that he won’t tell Hollander to his face that they shouldn’t be together anymore. They’re not together. They never were. He needs to stop.
Before he knew it, he was at the hospital, climbing out of the car and asking that the driver not tell anyone they saw him, and to wait until he got back, to take him to the hotel. He gave them all the money he had on him, he wasn’t sure how much, but it must have been a lot, because the driver started stuttering a thank you, and promises of secrecy.
Fuck, Ilya really didn’t want to be here. He wished he would feel better if he ghosted Hollander and never saw him again. That would make things easier. But he owes him an explanation. Plus, Ilya would sleep better if he could confirm that he was going to be alright.
He was back out of the building after ten minutes. Of course he hadn’t thought about privacy policies, and visitation hours. No one but family could see Hollander. Just another reason they should have been open about their love or never started this poison-sweet dance.
The driver was clearly confused by his quick return. Ilya was half-upset that he asked them to stay at all, simply for the shame he felt after his unsuccessful endeavor.
The drive to the hotel was quiet and somber. Neither of them said a word. And Marleau was even more confused. He looked expectantly at him, waiting for an update and sank when Ilya shook his head.
“Not tonight. No visitors.” He was shocked by the sound of his own voice. He sounded dead, and Marleau clearly heard it too, judging by the look on his face. How is he going to explain his grief to his teammates? No one knew about them. No one knew how much Ilya loved Shane Hollander.
“Okay…” he seemed to be thinking. Ilya wished he cared, “Tomorrow then… Maybe we can go together?”
Ilya shrugged.
“Lets head up to our room, then. Try to get some sleep.”
He followed, wishing he was doing anything else.
The wait starts…
“Ilya~!” Shane sounded out of this world with pain medication, the slur in his voice and clearly heavy limbs suggested that he was high out of his mind. Shane keeps glancing at him like he’s hiding the best secret in the world. Ilya supposes their secret was pretty close to that, even if it ends tonight, and Ilya never sees Shane again.
“I, uh... I just wanted to…” He wanted to be able to tell Marleau that he’s fine, and he’d hoped to tell Shane that he’s going to block his number, and that he’s sorry for dragging him down to Ilya’s own hell where everything has to be an awful secret. “Are you okay?”
Ilya hardly had a mind for conversation right now. He’d hoped to come to see him in between visits from concerned teammates, who were all suspiciously absent, and his parents. He just wanted to know he would be okay, so he would stop seeing his still body in his nightmares, and every time he closed his eyes to think.
“Concussion and fractured collarbone. Out for the playoffs, but”
“Could have been worse?”
“Could’ve been worse~”
He’s so fucking glad it’s not worse. It could have been so much worse, Ilya is tortured by the possibility of Shane losing the one and only thing he truly loves. Hockey is Shane’s world, and a hit like this could have devastated his ability to play to the magnitude of his talent, if at all.
“Marleau feels terrible, he did not mean to hurt you.”
“I know. Part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”
“Right,” because that’s all this was. He would be okay in a few weeks.
He had agonized all night over loving his Something. And then losing him so abruptly, and he felt this otherworldly pull to be there for him. He needed to say what he needed to say and leave before anyone saw. He can’t be here. This has to end, this relentless chase for another night together after a sultry exchange of room numbers. It didn’t matter anymore how much Ilya loved him, he wasn’t going to risk losing the rest of his awful family and his home for a hot fling. Ilya has to stop pretending that there’s anything more to what they’re doing. It’s lust, nothing more.
“Hey,” Shane said, smiling like an idiot with a hand outstretched to Ilya’s. He felt the smallest surge of panic at the volume and motioned Shane to quiet down.
“Hey~” he said again, more insistent, and louder. Ilya had no choice but to move quickly forward and take his hand to shut him up. “Yes~ Bet-ter.”
It almost made him feel guilty how endeared he was by Shane’s behavior. It was, at best, confirmation of reciprocation of Ilya’s unfair feelings. At worst, it’s delusion. Affection brought on by copious amounts of intravenous pain medication. Ilya isn’t sure which he’d prefer.
“You scared me.”
Fuck, he really did. He didn’t even want to know just how long he’d spent wide awake after the game, while most of his teammates celebrated, thinking about Shane and a woman he could barely remember the face of. He didn’t want to admit just how much he cared about Shane fucking Hollander, and this incident only proved the worst-best case scenario. He’s so selfish for this. All of this.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night,” Shane said, like Ilya would have expected him to while he was in the hospital.
“No, it’s okay.” It would have been wonderful to know sooner that Shane wasn’t in danger of losing everything he cares about, but a text from Shane was the last thing he expected. The very idea of Shane feeling like he had to text Ilya to cancel plans because he got sent to the hospital is baffling, and more than a little heartbreaking.
“I was excited about last night, I’m mostly mad at Marleau for fucking that up.”
“He feels really bad.” He truly did. Marleau had denied any post-victory celebrations because of how distressed he was about this. If he hadn’t felt as bad as he did, Ilya probably would have made it so. But his best friend had spent the entire silent night in their room, next to Ilya, thinking about what had happened, nearly completely silent. Ilya had frankly never seen him look that distressed, it was unnerving and did wonders to worsen his already terrifying intrusive thoughts.
“You know, I had a whole plan to ask you something,” Shane continued, his giddy smile spreading wide over his face, and Ilya felt a sense of unease at just how happy Shane seemed to be to see him. He needs to end things now, before it’s too late.
“Maybe its better if you just rest now.” Just don’t ask him something. Ilya needs to leave. Shane is as high as a kite; he’s not in his right mind.
“I was gonna ask you-“ he said, either not hearing Ilya, or not listening.
“Hollander-”
“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” Shane asks, clearer than before but quickly enough that he stumbled over it. He looks immensely pleased with himself, and Ilya would have thought it was the cutest thing in the world if he wasn’t so scared and confused.
“Don’t go to Russia,” he sounded so sure of himself, and so excited, like this wasn’t the worst thing they could do for their secret. Their secret that Ilya was trying desperately to end without breaking his own heart, “Come to my house. We’ll have so much fun.”
Ilya couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe.
“It’s so private, no one will know,”
He had to interrupt. He’s so selfish because he wants so badly to go to Shane’s house. “Hollander, you know I can’t do that.”
Shane hummed, ignoring Ilya and continuing his pitch, “We could have a week, or even two.”
Just say no. He can’t indulge in this. How long had he thought about asking him this? He was planning this. Does that mean Shane has fallen in love too? Would it be like Shane’s visit to Ilya’s house in Boston? A fridge stocked with Ilya’s favorite foods, and an environment crafted to be the most comfortable for him? He would shamefully admit that it was a bold-faced attempt at saying ‘I love you, please stay’ without the dangers of getting his heart ripped out and stepped on, even if that ended up happening anyway. Is this Shane telling Ilya that he loves him…? No, don’t think about that. He just has to say no. This is too dangerous. The two of them being together is too dangerous.
“Completely alone~”
Stop. Ilya can’t do this. He can’t go.
“Together~”
Fuck. Ilya is so fucking selfish… He needed to say no.
“Yes.” He loves Shane so much. “Okay. I will come to your house.”