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No fucking way. No. Fucking. Way. The picture was clear as day, plastered on every gossip blog, every tabloid site— hell, even People Magazine had it on their Instagram. They were holding hands, fingers intertwined, and his eyes were fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“Shane Hollander steps out with Rose Landry, dating rumors fly.”
He looked good. He looked really fucking good. Way better than he had looked when he ran out the door a month ago. Shane had been scared, scared to explore what it could look like if they did more than just have meaningless sex in hotel rooms, so instead of staying and talking it through like a fucking adult, he had just ran away.
“That’s so fucking wild, who knew that Hollander had game like that? Rose fucking Landry? What a fucking pull dude.” Cliff Marleau clapped him on the back, waiting for a normal response. Instead, Ilya felt like he was going to puke.
“Hollander is boring, so she must be boring too.” It wasn’t even a good insult, but Ilya didn’t have anything left to give.
Night 1: The American Vodka
Cliff Marleau knew Ilya Rozanov like a brother. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could tell when something was wrong with his best friend. Tonight it was the shitty American vodka— he was watching Rozanov down shot after shot of a brand that Rozanov had described as “actual gasoline” on more than one occasion. Yet, here he was, drowning himself in it. Something had changed recently, Cliff just knew it. Rozanov was going out again, but this was different. He was fucking downing shitty liquor!
Cliff watched Roz go home with a girl, show up again an hour later, and take another one home. All brunettes, all with freckles. Something was off, and Cliff didn’t know what it was or what the hell to do about it. Lost in his thoughts, he barely registered Rozanov stumbling into the bathroom, arms clutching his stomach, not even locking the fucking door.
He found his best friend puking up everything in his stomach. Sure Rozy drank a lot but Cliff could count on one fucking hand how many times he’d seen the man puke. He locked the door of the bathroom behind him, and crouched down next to his best friend, taking in the vomit and the slump of his shoulders.
“Why does she get to have him?” It came out as a whisper, Cliff heard him, but he didn’t fucking get it.
“Who, buddy?”
Ilya looked at him like he was stupid, eyes crossed and frowning, but continued on without answering the question. Before Marleau could ask again, Ilya’s eyes unfocused and an almost wistful expression crossed his face. “I had him for years before she did. Years Marley. Then he runs away, and now she gets him and it’s not fair.” Rozanov hiccuped, pausing briefly before he started to sob.
Cliff stopped short. He’d always suspected that his best friend might not be completely straight but it seemed wrong that he was learning about some secret male lover when Rozanov was wicked shitfaced. Cliff couldn’t even begin to process this confession. Years?? Running away?? Some woman?? He turned back to Rozanov to ask who this mystery man was, but Rozanov had passed out, face resting on the cool surface of the toilet. His eyes were puffy and he looked really really tired.
Cliff managed to haul his drunk, pain-in-the-ass of a best friend back to his apartment. He pulled Rozy’s shoes off, tossed his jacket towards the door and was halfway through pulling his nasty bar-and-vomit-smelling shirt off when Ilya spoke.“He hates messes.” He let out a little hiccupy laugh. “So much that he folds his clothes before sex. Isn’t that boring? He’s sooo boring.” There was a dreamy smile on his face that Cliff had absolutely never seen before.
“Good night Rozy, you fucking bastard.” Cliff couldn’t help the affection in his voice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night Marley.”
As Ilya’s drunk snores started to fill the room, Cliff sat frozen on the end of his bed. Boring. Something about that insult sounded familiar, but the answer was just out of reach.
Night 2: Canada Dry
Svetlana watched Ilya dance. She knew him and she knew he had had too much to drink. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle as a scantily clad brunette stuck her tongue down his throat. Sveta turned towards the bar, making eye contact with the bartender. “You see that very drunk man?” She pointed Ilya out, pausing as the bartender turned in the direction she pointed. “He is cut off. You will give him water. Only.” The bartender nodded, and Svetlana hummed in satisfaction as she nursed her drink. It didn’t take long before the pair stumbled back to the bar area, and Ilya leaned heavily on the counter.
“One more vodka, the good shit please.” Ilya smiled at the bartender before pausing, face falling into a frown as the bartender slid him a glass of water. “What the fuck is this? Do you not know who I am? I know vodka, this is not vodka.”
Svetlana sighed, walking towards the pair. She wasn’t a damn babysitter—they were going home. The girl he was dancing with was also absolutely shitfaced. When the bartender asked for her drink order, she replied, half slurring her words, “I don’t know, I probably shouldn’t drink more. I guess a ginger ale?”
Svetlana watched as the cocky grin vanished from Ilya’s face. She saw him tense, watched his face rapidly pale, and she was shocked to see his eyes grow glassy, sneaky tears frozen a blink away from spilling over. “Good night, I’m taking him home.” She said with barely a glance in the girl’s direction, never one to mince words.
“Are you his girlfriend?” The girl looked her up and down, confused, and Svetlana didn’t feel like explaining anything, so she just nodded. With her arm in Ilya’s, she steered him out of the bar.
In the Uber home, Sevtlana took a moment to look over and take in the sorry state her Ilyusha was in. Absolutely drunk as a skunk, quietly sobbing with the occasional hiccup.
“What’s happening Ilyusha, talk to me.”
“It’s his favorite drink, and it wasn’t enough for him to stay. I bought it special for him, and he still fucking left me. Everyone leaves me, why does everyone fucking leave me Sveta?”
She paused for a moment. Svetlana had always known, and she didn’t care who this man was, but she knew that she HATED him for what he’d done to Ilya. “Iyusha, I’m here, I’m here, and I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.” She looked over at him then, watching as he drew circles in the condensation on the windows.
“I miss him, but he moved on, and now I hate him, but I can’t hate him and I miss him, I miss.” He paused, and then very slowly, as if he was trying to choose his words carefully. “I miss my Jane”
Night 3: Staying in
Ilya was so fucking tired. He had been partying his ass off—hooking up with beautiful women, drinking vodka he’d never usually even consider drinking—all for the thrill and the distraction. Recently, when the latest girls he’d pick up were going down on him, he’d close his eyes and imagine it was Hollander. Shane. It never felt the same but he always came harder when he did. It also put him in a foul mood, but so fucking what. He could tell his friends were getting tired of his lifestyle, but he didn't fucking care; he would do anything to distract from the shit show of what he had dubbed “the tuna melt incident”
Fuck it, Ilya thought as he pulled the good Russian vodka out of the freezer and poured himself a glass. He downed it slowly, savoring the burn, before pouring himself, another one. Phone in hand, he searched his contacts, eyes skipping over the contact labeled “Jane” and scrolled to the M’s. Hitting the call button, he drawled out “MARLEYYYYY, you ready to paint the town black and goldddddd?”
He heard some rustling on the other line as it took Marley a moment to answer. “Hey Rozy, how much have you had to drink already?”
Ilya hadn't realized it was that obvious. “Not too much to party tonight, yes?”
“Not tonight man, I need a break, but you can come over if you want.”
Ilya was surprised, Marley always wanted to go out. “Uh sure I guess, I'll take cab over.”
Ilya rolled up, knocking on the door and calling out in a distinctly drunk Roz fashion, “Is me Marley, open door, I brought gifts.” Marleau opened the door, and led him over to the couch. There was pizza on the table, and Ilya dug in as he pulled the bottle of good vodka out of his bag, and offered it to Marly before taking a swig straight from the bottle.
“Hey maybe you take a break from drinking tonight bud?” Marleau’s careful tone was new and Ilya bristled briefly at it, looking at Marleau like he was crazy. He felt embarrassment grow, but quickly pushed it down below his anger. Looking Marleau straight in the face he chugged the vodka. Ilya knew it was childish, but he didn't fucking care. He set the bottle down.
“I am Russian, vodka is like water to me, It doesn't affect me way it affects you.”
Marleau just looked at him with disbelief. “I know that something's going on in your life Roz, even if you won't tell me what it fucking is, but that was immature, come on man.”
It was obvious that the vodka was, in fact, affecting Ilya. Everything was getting fuzzy and funny, even the look on Marleau's face was funny, and suddenly Ilya couldn't stop laughing.
“Seriously dude, what's going on? I know something's fucking wrong, I can tell! I can't fucking help you though unless you tell me what it is. Look man, I gotta be honest, you said some shit the other night.”
The giggles stopped and Ilya’s face fell, suddenly somber. “What did I tell you?” Ilya couldn’t stop the slight tremble of his voice. What did Marley know?
Marley rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You talked about some guy, and it sounded like you had a um, a history…” Marleau trailed off and Ilya froze, looking at him in stunned silence. “You didn't say who it was or anything, and I want you to know that this doesn't change things for our friendship or anything obviously, I love you like a fucking brother Roz.”
Those sneaky fucking tears were back again, one blink away from spilling over. Ilya wasn't used to opening up, but he needed it and he was so god damn tired of secrets. “He's another player”
Marley's eyes were wide.
“You can’t fucking tell anyone. He's not out yet, and neither am I, and it's fucking complicated, and I made it more complicated and then he ran away. It's my fault. Everywhere I look there he is, he's too famous to get away from. I can’t stop seeing his stupid pretty face.” Ilya wanted to talk about the ads on TV, the billboards showing Shane's stupid pretty face. That fucking Calvin Klein ad. “He found someone new, and now I am nothing to him. It hurts Marley. Maybe she doesn't tease him about being boring, maybe she loves him, and maybe he fucking loves her.” Ilya felt his stomach twist as he searched Marley's face, looking for any hint of recognition, any clue that Marleau knew what name Ilya was trying so hard to talk around. He saw the moment it clicked, Marley’s jaw dropping in shock and recognition.
“No”
“Yes”
“That fucking guy? Really? Him?? Out of all the nice men in Boston, you chose that fucking guy???”
“I know Marley I know, is a lot, but I think I'm in too deep.” Ilya could see Marleau’s brain whirring, putting together the timeline. Rose Landry, the nonstop partying, the drinking, the practices from hell.
“Jane? Really?” Marleau laughed. He was fucking laughing at him. “You guys really are stupid.”
Before Ilya could react, in a move he never saw coming, Marleau moved across the couch and hugged him. “He obviously didn't know how good he had it. It would take an idiot to walk away from you, even though you’re a melodramatic asshole. What, he doesn't appreciate what a big ole teddy bear you are?”
Ilya shoved him, heart warmed by Marleau’s care even as he chirped back. “I am not teddy bear, I am growling bear, big scary bear. Maybe too much scary bear, though, scared him away.”
“Well you've never been a fucking quitter dude, go get your man!”
Fuck it, Ilya decided, it was now or never. His finger hovered over the contact “Jane” for a second.
He hit call.