Chapter Text
His last day on Earth, and Ilya is spending it alone. A game of solitaire is abandoned in front of him, the cards already worn and soft, thanks to 14 days of near constant use between the three astronauts trapped in quarantine. He worries at the torn edge of the king of hearts now, listening to quiet murmurs from the other beds.
Svetlana and Cliff are both talking to their families, voices low but happy. The thin curtains that separate their sleeping areas give the illusion of privacy, but do nothing to stop the sounds of love and care drifting towards Ilya. Cliff asking one his kids about their school project; Svetlana describing something to her father in Russian.
Ilya’s own phone sits on his bedside table, silent. A reminder that he has no one to call him– no one that would want to call him, even if they could. He abandoned his country, sought refuge in the arms of the space program of his mother country’s enemy. A defection in practice, if not technicality, according to his father. There is only Russia to him, nevermind that Ilya would never have achieved all that he has under the stifling weight of the oligarchy. He would probably be a cop, or maybe a hockey player, if his father decided he couldn’t be trusted with a gun.
But his mother had always wished for more for him and Ilya had followed those dreams across continents and oceans, collecting degrees until no one paid any mind to the seal on his passport. It was now just an inconvenience, additional paperwork to fill out when his immigration status required renewal. And he was important enough, had proved himself valuable enough, to be worth the trouble.
It is fine. Svetlana and Cliff were his friends, his family even, if he had at least three beers in him. He loved them in a way he had never loved his father or his brother, and they loved him in a way his father and brother had never been able to do. It was a small circle, but it would be enough for Ilya. He had gotten greedy a few weeks ago, staring into brown eyes, three words on the tip of his tongue, thinking maybe he had finally done enough good in his life to earn more love, just for it to catastrophically implode in his face. So, Sveta and Cliff would be enough for him.
Ilya is contemplating just going to bed, at least attempting to sleep, when there's a sharp beep from beside him. Ilya turns towards his bedside, confused, wondering which of his various health monitors is squawking in false alarm for the millionth time. But the monitors are calm, certain of his perfect health, his readiness to be launched out of Earth’s orbit in 14 short hours. Instead, his phone blinks, an insistent red light informing him there's someone trying to reach him on his last night on Earth.
He lifts the receiver to his ear, so thrown by the turn of events, wondering who could possibly be calling him, that his mother tongue slips out. “Алло?”
“Rozanov?” Shane Hollander says directly into his ear. Shane fucking Hollander, who had barely looked at Ilya for the entire week leading up to his quarantine period, was calling him on the phone that until five seconds ago, Ilya assumed no one except him even had the number to.
Despite all that, Ilya can't stop the smile that pulls at his mouth, nor the tease of his voice as he replies, “Do you know any other Russian astronauts in quarantine, Hollander? Do not tell me I have competition.”
There is a scuffle on the other side, like Hollander is adjusting the receiver against his ear, trying to get closer to Ilya’s voice. Whatever the reason for his call, it must be serious, because Shane doesn’t even bitch at Ilya about his flirting. “Glad to hear you're in good spirits.”
“As good as possible I think, yes.”
“Good, good.”
The line goes quiet, except for the fading distant sounds of mission control the night before launch, like Hollander is walking away from his desk for the night. Ilya wonders if Hollander is wearing his glasses, or if he has the silver frames tucked into the collar of his polo. He wonders if Shane is thinking about how they have not spoken outside what has been strictly necessary for their jobs in over four weeks. He can’t ask any of that though, not anymore. “Did you need something, Hollander? Isn't it past your bedtime?”
“Fuck you, Rozanov.”
Ilya can’t help himself as he shoots back, “Ah, I thought you said you did not want to do that anymore.”
Again, the line goes quiet for long enough that for a moment Ilya thinks Hollander has already had enough of him and disconnected the call. But, no, because Ilya can hear the soft sounds of Hollander’s exhales through the speaker. Ilya waits in the quiet sounds of Hollander’s breaths because he supposes he has nothing better to do and one more night waiting for whatever scraps of attention Shane Hollander is willing to give him won’t kill him.
And the wait is worth it, because eventually Hollander says, stuttering a little, “I– I saw you didn't request approval for any calls tonight.”
“I did not want to be called a traitor on my last night on Earth, so, no, no calls. I did not know this was mission control priority before launch. More important things, yes, than lonely astronauts?” Ilya flops back on the bed, not muffling his grunt as his back thumps against the mattress.
Hollander, always so careful with his words, surprises Ilya as he replies, “I didn't want you to be alone tonight.”
The words slip through the phone, into Ilya’s ear, settling somewhere in his bone marrow, pressing him down into the mattress like a g-force. “Careful, Hollander. It’s starting to sound like maybe you do not hate me as much as you say.”
“I don't hate you.”
“Mmm, news to me, Котёнок.”
“Don’t call me– When have I ever– What does that– You're just so–” Shane pauses, collecting himself with a frustrated huff. Ilya can picture the angry little furrow between his eyebrows. “I’d do it for anyone. It’s for the mission.”
Ah, of course. Shane Hollander will not let anything put his mission team at risk, even if it means talking to Ilya. “You flatter me,” Ilya murmurs back sullenly, even as he thinks about the warm press of Shane’s body curled against his in quiet dawn hours, the ceiling fan whirring over Ilya’s bed trying in vain to stave off the Texas heat. A moment of perfect peace before he woke up to Shane standing over him, hands shoved into his stupid cargo pants, eyes averted like he wasn’t in the process of breaking Ilya’s heart.
“No, Rozanov, that's not–” Shane starts to sputter, before Ilya interrupts.
“I do not want to fight tonight, Shane.” It’s his last night on Earth, so Ilya lets himself feel the shape of Shane’s name in his mouth. “Tell me a story.”
“A story?”
“Yes, bedtime story. I need one.”
“I’m not very good at story telling.”
“Hollander, you are good at everything.” Ilya indulges in the mental image of Shane’s hot blush beneath his freckles, embarrassed but pleased by Ilya’s teasing. “Tell me about Laika.”
Shane exhales directly into the receiver and Ilya rolls to his side, trapping the phone against his ear. “Laika is sad.”
“All Russian stories are sad. But Laika is less sad when you tell it.”
“When did I– Oh. You remember that?”
As if Ilya could forget anything Shane has ever done. As if Ilya could forget Shane crammed into a dark booth with him, limbs loose thanks to two shots Shane’s CAPCOM teammates had bullied him into, telling Ilya how he read a book about Laika as a child and decided then and there he would become a “space scientist” so nothing ever had to die alone in space again.
Ilya says none of this though. Instead, he defaults to safe teasing. “A very pretty man was telling me Russian story. Of course I remember.” His eyes flutter shut when he hears Shane’s soft laugh huff against his ear. “Please, Shane. I could die tomorrow.”
“You are not going to die. Don’t say that.”
“Okay. I could die.”
“But you won’t.”
“You are supposed to be telling me a story.”
Another angry huff in his ear and, with his eyes closed, Ilya can pretend Shane is curled on the cot next to him. “Fine, fine.”
Shane begins talking in a low, earnest tone, starting the story not in Russia, but in a little twin bed in Ottawa, where a little boy in dinosaur pajamas read past his bed time. A little dog, chosen for her rugged, tenacious demeanor.
“She is like you,” Ilya interrupts. “So brave, so smart.”
Shane doesn’t know what to say to that, just a little “Oh,” before he continues on like Ilya never said anything at all. He sidetracks the story into details about how the Russians thought they could keep her safe, all the places Shane suspects their math went wrong, all the places Shane triple checks his math now.
“And as a reward for all her hard work, her goodness and loyalty to the scientists, the chief took her home with him the night before launch. So, she spent her last night on Earth playing with his kids in the yard, chasing them, and snuggling with them before they went to sleep.”
“You did not let me play on my last day. No one to snuggle me.”
“Ilya.”
“Okay, okay. You can finish.”
“You know how it ends, Ilya.”
“Yes, but not with her. With you.”
“Oh. Well, after she… after she completed her mission, someone read about her and decided to write a book about the brave little dog who went into space. And my dad gave me that book after he took me to the planetarium, and it made me so upset that I told my parents I would become a scientist so nothing like that ever happened again. And then, well, I guess the rest was history.”
Shane goes quiet. Ilya doesn’t say anything– can’t say anything around the thickness in his throat. “Rozanov?” Shane prompts.
Ilya still can’t make himself speak. He isn’t afraid, not really, not in the way he assumes normal people get afraid. Normal people with normal lives that don't require them to sacrifice their bodily autonomy and relationships and families for the hopes of one day being strapped into a rocket and shot into space. He has studied and worked and trained most of his life for this moment. Instead, it’s the heaviness in his chest when he spends too much time letting himself exist in Shane Hollander’s attention that scares him. It’s the way he can’t quite seem to free himself from Shane Hollander’s gravitational pull, tug himself out of his orbit, that worries him. He worries he will look out into the endless vastness of space and compare the sea of stars to the pattern of Shane Hollander’s freckles.
Shane must think Ilya is freaking out for normal astronaut reasons, because he says, voice firm and decisive, “You’re going to be ok. It’s going to be amazing.”
“Yes, probably,” Ilya finally manages, ignoring the way his voice cracks over the syllables.
“Not probably, Ilya. Definitely. I will not let anything happen to you. It’s my job and I am very good at my job.”
“Mr. Scientist.”
“That’s– Sure, Ilya.”
They lapse into quiet again and in the silence Ilya realizes Svetlanda and Cliff have gone quiet, too, likely attempting their own sleep. “Ilya?”
“Hmm?”
“I– I know things are not… Well, we are… Or, we’re not… Ugh. What I’m trying to say is I hope you are proud of yourself. Everyone here, all of CAPCOM is proud of you. I… I am proud of you, too.”
Gratitude clogs Ilya’s throat again, so much so that he has to swallow several times before speaking again. The wanting in his chest feels bottomless, uncontainable. It’s his last night on Earth and Ilya feels greedy and there’s nothing like an imminent trip out of Earth’s orbit to make all of his inhibitions around Shane Hollander seem pointless. “Will you stay? Just until… Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
“Oh.” Shane is going to say no. It’s too much, too personal for two people who have been pretending that they do not know each other. Ilya has not earned that sort of– “Yeah, of course, Ilya. I’ll be right here.”