Work Text:
There is an Olympic medal around Shane Hollander’s neck, and it should make him happy. It should make him proud. He represented his country with pride and honor, and he delivered.
But Shane isn’t happy, he hasn’t been happy for days now, and as much as he wants to tell himself that it’s because he’s disappointed that the medal is silver and not gold, deep down Shane knows that’s just not true.
He’s a professional hockey player, an up-and-coming star in the game, and now a goddamn Olympian, and he’s miserable. Miserable over a boy.
It would be hilarious if it weren’t so pathetic.
The party he’s at is the last one he has to attend before he flies back home, and Shane just wants it to be over. He’s not one for parties to begin with, but this one, where he has to work harder than usual to keep a smile on his face as people he doesn’t even know congratulate him, has left him exhausted.
The fact that he hasn’t been able to push out of his mind his last encounter with Rozanov, and the coldness in his expression as he told him they weren’t anything and to go away, is like a cut Shane keeps picking at just as it starts to scab over.
He wants to go home and lick his wounds, he wants to stop thinking about Ilya Rozanov. Instead, he sits alone at the end of the bar, as far as he can from the people around him celebrating, nursing a drink he didn’t even want but felt appropriate to order for his mood.
“Mr. Hollander.”
Shane looks up at the accented version of his name to find an older man in uniform staring at him with cold blue eyes. There are two younger men behind him. One that looks at him with a sneer similar to the older man's, and the other…
…the other is the man he can’t get out of his head, even though it makes his heart ache to think of him.
“Hollander,” Ilya Rozanov greets him quietly. He looks weary and tense. He tilts his head towards the older man and then the other. “My father, Grigori Rozanov, and my brother Alexei.”
Shane stares at the man, confused as to why he would approach him now, after their last exchange, and with his family, of all people.
Rozanov’s face grows even tighter, if that’s possible, and Shane knows he’s a lost cause if the misery he sees in the other man’s blue eyes makes him feel even worse than before.
“I wanted to congratulate you on your win, Mr. Hollander,” Grigori Rozanov tells him, his accent thick in a way that reminds Shane of when he first met Rozanov. The words are complimentary, but the expression on the man’s face – Shane suppresses a shiver, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen eyes so lifeless.
“Thank you, Mr. Rozanov,” he says, holding out his hand to shake, his Canadian politeness kicking in. He shakes hands with Ilya’s brother, too, and again Shane has to stop himself from outwardly reacting to the man’s nasty look. He looks more like his father than his brother. Honestly, Ilya Rozanov looks nothing like either of them, and Shane can’t help but wonder if he takes after his mother.
“You have brought honor to your country, your parents must be very proud,” Grigori continues to say, but his words aren’t really directed at him anymore. Instead, he looks at his son, and if the look on his face when he first spoke to Shane was mean, that’s nothing to the look he directs at Rozanov now. “It’s a shame I can’t say the same for my son. What a disappointment he is. Lazy.”
Shane is unable to stop the sharp breath he audibly takes at the cruel jab. His eyes meet Rozanov’s, and he has to swallow hard at the look he finds waiting for him there. Embarrassment, yes, but not surprise, if anything, he sees resignation to this humiliation. Like it’s a common occurrence, and Rozanov has learned to weather it with a stiff upper lip.
Punishment.
Is that what this is?
His punishment for failing once.
Shane is desperate to ask. He wants to take Rozanov away from the cruel looks his father and brother are giving him, and ask him if this is what he has to deal with every time he comes home.
He has a sudden picture in his head of the award show after their rookie season – of how dejected Rozanov had seemed when he lost rookie of the year to Shane.
‘Not everything is about you, Hollander!’ he had yelled before telling him he was headed back to Russia.
How had Rozanov’s family reacted to that loss? With more cruelty?
It’s none of Shane’s business, he’s nothing to Ilya Rozanov, the man had said it himself, and yet Shane can’t stop himself. Not when Ilya looks so small and so unlike himself as he silently waits for his humiliation to continue at the hands of the people who are supposed to love him.
Fuck, Shane’s heart really fucking hurts.
“Mr. Rozanov, your son is an asshole,” he starts, ignoring for the moment the wounded look Rozanov sends his way. He hates the way Alexei smirks in his brother’s direction at his words. “He’s been named ‘the player you want to punch the most’ since his rookie season. He’s a menace on the ice, because of his mouth, but also because he’s so fucking good at the game. Your son may be many things, but lazy is not one of them.”
Shane hates the way his heart jumps as Rozanov looks at him in wonder. He hates the way it makes him want to take him in his arms and comfort him, even after he hurt Shane with his dismissal.
“He lost to Latvia,” Alexei sneers, and Shane is starting to think it’s the man’s default expression. “Fucking Latvia, what a joke.”
Shane narrows his eyes at the man, and he knows he should shut up, he’s already said more than he should. Rozanov doesn’t need him to defend him; he probably doesn’t want him to defend him.
Fuck, Rozanov doesn’t seem to want Shane.
But Shane has been nursing a wounded heart for days now, sad and confused about how he and Rozanov could go from the tenderness of their first night together to the chasm between them now. He’s hurt and angry, and Alexei Rozanov is the perfect target for his pain.
“I wasn’t aware your brother was also a professional hockey player, Rozanov,” he says with a mean smile of his own. “It’s a shame he didn’t join the Russian national team. I’m sure, with his expertise, you would have won gold.”
Alexei says something in Russian, and Shane doesn’t need to understand to know he’s cursing him. Grigori says something to his son also in Russian that makes the man scoff, but with one final glare, first at Shane and then at his brother, the man turns and leaves.
“For rivals, it’s surprising how passionately you defend him, Mr. Hollander,” Grigori says easily, but his blue eyes pierce Shane with a shrewd look.
It instantly reminds Shane that he’s in Russia and that, given this man’s uniform, he’s either military or police. It also reminds Shane of Carter’s comments from days ago.
The way Rozanov stands up straighter, his expression closing off, tells Shane he’s thinking the same thing.
Thread carefully, Hollander.
“Like I said, your son is an asshole,” he says again, trying for unbothered even as his pulse races in his ears. “But, and trust me, this pains me to say, he’s also really good at hockey. He makes me step up my game because he’s so good at it. Rozanov and I have been pitted against each other from the moment we stepped on professional ice. I hate it, but I wouldn’t be as good as I am if he wasn’t playing as hard as he does. I want to beat him –“
Shane pauses to look at Rozanov again. His body is tight to the point it looks painful, his eyes blazing but incomprehensible. That’s the worst part of all of it, Shane supposes. How badly he wants to know the man before him, how he wants to just be able to look at him and know what he’s thinking. But Rozanov doesn’t seem to want that, especially in this moment, in this place.
“But he doesn’t make it easy for me,” Shane trails off, his words having a double meaning.
“Hmm,” Grigori says noncommittally before extending his hand out to Shane again.
Shane takes it and nods as Grigori says his good-byes to him. He and Rozanov speak in Russian, the tone harsh as they go back and forth quickly. With a sharp nod of his head, the man takes his leave, leaving Shane and his son behind in silence.
“I can’t stay,” Rozanov says before he can open his mouth, and Shane can’t help but bristle.
“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” he shoots back, taking back his seat at the bar. “I think you already made it clear the other day how little you want me around. Message received, Rozanov.”
Rozanov opens and shuts his mouth with an audible snap, his jaw tight as he swallows, his eyes scanning the room. He looks like he wants to say something or maybe even shout. Shane wishes he would; maybe then he could let the words clawing at his throat out.
“I have to go,” he says instead, but for once his expression is open and Shane can finally see what he can’t say.
‘I don’t want to go, I have to.’
Shane gives him a nod, his eyes stinging. He tells his stupid heart not to break.
‘I want you to stay.’
Rozanov takes a step towards him, but stops himself. “Thank you…for what you said to my father. It was kind of you to defend me.”
‘No one has defended me since my mother.’
“I didn’t lie,” Shane says quietly, looking down at his glass for a moment. “You are an asshole,” he looks over at Rozanov, his lips quirking up slightly at the huff of amusement Rozanov lets out. It’s the first hint of something other than sadness from him. “But you aren’t lazy, and you aren’t a disappointment.”
‘If you let me, I would defend you against the world.’
Rozanov gives him a small smile that holds no humor. “You just lied,” he says softly, and Shane can’t help but be confused.
“I’ve disappointed you, Hollander,” Rozanov tells him, his eyes sad and remorseful.
‘I hurt you, I’m sorry.’
Shane can’t deny Rozanov’s words, so he says nothing; he just gives the man a half-shrug and a sad smile of his own.
“I’ll see you back on the ice,” he tells him instead, and Rozanov gives him another look before nodding once.
‘I wish you could stay with me.’
“Good-bye, Hollander,” he says quietly. “I’ll see you back on the ice.”
‘I wish I could, too. Maybe someday.’