Work Text:
MOSCOW
FEBRUARY 2017
The clock on the microwave flashed orange in the dark kitchen, giving off enough of a glow that Ilya didn't bother flipping on the overhead light.
04:02
Хуй с ним. (Fuck it.) He grabbed the bottle of Tsarskaya Gold vodka off the counter and poured two fingers into a crystal tumbler. Maybe that would help him sleep. Jet lag, combined with the high emotions of the last few days, had kept Ilya awake well into the dead of night. He padded back into the living room, traveling the familiar path in the dark. Faint lights from the Moscow city skyline filtered in through the ostentatious tassled curtains his father had insisted on.
Ilya hated this apartment. It had always been more his father's than his own. There was nothing here for him anymore except dust and painful memories.
This was never home.
He looked out the window and let his thoughts drift to Shane. Somewhere out there, across the world, Shane was probably getting ready for bed at the super late hour of 9 p.m. Ilya smiled. He bet Shane was reading a boring book, resting against the way-too-many pillows on his bed. He would shut his book, not folding down the corner of the page. Shane would use a bookmark. He would set the book on his nightstand, take his glasses off, and place them on top.
Ilya had only just learned that Shane wore reading glasses. He came back to that visual image again and again over the past week; those black frames over chocolate brown eyes were a glimmer of goodness that helped him survive the agony of being back in Russia.
He imagined Shane taking a sip of water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Would Shane wear his plain white T-shirt to bed? Or perhaps a secret Boston Raiders T-shirt? Ilya lingered on that image for a minute, raking his gaze over the black and yellow logo, then he shook his head. No. Shane would be shirtless. Ilya imagined the dim, golden light casting shadows over Shane's muscled chest. He imagined the way his chest would rise and fall with his breath. Then he imagined Shane's toned arm reaching over and turning off the lamp. He would settle in to sleep. Alone.
A deep pang of longing hit Ilya, sudden and sharp. Ever since the All-Star Game in Tampa, Ilya felt like a knife had been twisted into his heart, the tip snapping off and lodging in the muscle, scar tissue growing around it. He could ignore it sometimes, but it was always there, an ache in his chest. It ached to feel this much. He yearned to crawl into bed next to Shane, to curl up against Shane's chest, to be the little spoon. He wanted Shane to surround him, to hold him until the rest of the world faded away.
He never had Shane for more than a few hours here and there. Except once. They fell asleep together on a sunny afternoon in Ilya's Boston apartment. Well, Hollander fell asleep for twenty minutes, and Ilya had just held him close. Even after the pins-and-needles feeling spread down his trapped arm, Ilya still didn't move. He remembered the faint smell of salt in Hollander's hair, a trace of lavender laundry detergent in the sheets. He remembered the outline of his ear, the stubble on his chin, the line of his jaw. In those twenty minutes, Hollander became Shane, and Shane became his.
But Shane could never be his, not in the way Ilya needed. They couldn't keep going down this road together; it would only lead to heartbreak. Ilya knew that now more than ever in the clarity of darkness that only comes at 4 a.m.
He didn't care. He felt fragile in this darkness, the same darkness that had smothered him after his mother's death. His fingers ghosted over the cross around his neck. When he discovered his mother's body, he had collapsed to the ground, held her lifeless hand, and found himself praying at her bedside. He prayed to hear her melodic voice say "Ilyusha." He whimpered. Just one more time. Please.
His father never called him that; it was always "Ilya" in a hard, cruel tone. That tone had softened in his final years, but it was too little, too late, and now he was dead. Ilya tried not to feel guilty that he wasn't praying for his father's voice. He was glad he would never hear it again.
Tonight the only voice he prayed for was Shane's.
They were calling each other now, a welcome but unsettling shift in their dynamic. A step forward but also a step off a cliff. Ilya wanted to fall.
He took a sip of vodka and moved away from the window to sit on the black leather couch. He grabbed his phone from where he had left it on the coffee table and stared at it, heavy in his hands, the light from the screen blinding him in the dark room. It was always inevitable, texting Shane tonight, his subconscious typing out a message before he even realized. He hoped Shane would respond. He hoped he wouldn't.
Lily: Can I call you?
Jane: Hang on.
Ilya hung on with bated breath, anticipating hearing Shane's voice, desperate to feel anything good. He startled when his phone vibrated, the sound jarring in the silence.
Incoming Call from Jane
He answered on the second buzz. "Tell me something boring," he said without preamble.
"W-what?" Shane stammered.
One word. That's all it took for a calm to settle over Ilya, the darkness less suffocating. He imagined Shane's freckles scunching up in confusion, delightfully flustered.
"Were you asleep?" He couldn't resist asking, teasing.
"No? I'm in L.A. It's only six here."
Much to Ilya's disappointment, his imaginary, shirtless, glasses-wearing Shane asleep in his Montreal bed vanished, replaced by Shane wearing a bland, fashionable outfit picked out by his stylist. A car honked in the background of the phone call. Maybe he was out for a walk on Hollywood Boulevard.
Ilya said, "Your game was yesterday."
"I know, but I had to stay in town."
"For the clubs and hot women?" Ilya regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, the sting of Shane dating Rose still unhealed.
"Did you just call to make fun of me?" He could hear the frown in Shane's tone.
"No, I..." Ilya considered his next words. He was sleep-deprived enough to make the mistake of saying something stupid like I just wanted to hear your voice.
Or even worse, Я тебя люблю. Once he spoke the phrase out loud two days ago, Я тебя люблю had become a constant presence on the tip of his tongue, ready to burst forth whenever Shane did anything. Texted him a thoughtful message? Я тебя люблю. Scored a goal in a shitty quality YouTube video on Ilya's tiny phone screen? Я тебя люблю. Asking if Ilya called just to make fun of him? Я тебя люблю. I love you.
"Everything here is terrible," he said instead. "I want to hear about you. How is your week?"
"Oh." Shane paused long enough for Ilya to think the call had disconnected. "Okay, um... Well we beat L.A. last night."
"Your goal in the second period was impressive."
A sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. "Really?"
Ilya smiled, his first real smile since their last phone call. "Really."
"I'm glad you were watching."
Ilya imagined the blush on Shane's cheeks as he admitted that, the way he would chew on his bottom lip. Я тебя люблю.
This was dangerous territory. "Why are you still in L.A.?"
"My brand deal with Reebok. There was a break in the Metros schedule after L.A. I was here anyway, so the producer set up a commercial shoot." Shane sounded frustrated by the whole thing.
"Are you doing anything else there?"
"Just meeting with the producer to go over details. I'm walking to the restaurant now." Ilya heard a car drive past, music blaring. "I fly back right after the shoot tomorrow, so I don't have time for anything else. I'll probably go to bed early."
Ilya groaned, exaggerated, almost comical. "Oh my god, this is so boring."
"You asked!" Shane's tone was louder, indignant, which was exactly the reaction Ilya hoped to elicit. Ilya wanted to dive through the phone and bite him. Я тебя люблю.
A genius idea struck him then. He smiled his crooked smile that always meant trouble, forgetting for a moment that Shane couldn't see him.
"Talk to me in French."
Shane huffed out a laugh. "I'm hanging up now."
"Hollander, you would deny me this simple request? After my father has just died? And I am very very sad?"
"Seriously?"
Ilya raised his eyebrows, again forgetting that Shane couldn't see him. "Would be sexy."
He heard Shane's sigh over the tinny speaker of his cell phone. Then he heard him mutter this is ridiculous not quite under his breath. Fabric rustled in the background. Maybe he took off his jacket and sat down on a bench, leaning back against the cool metal, the pink Los Angeles sunset reflecting off his sunglasses.
Ilya waited. He knew Shane. He knew he would do this.
At last, Shane's voice came back. "What do you even want me to say?"
"Anything. I don't care."
"Fine. I, uh... Bon. Peu importe. Je tourne une pub demain, et le producteur m’a écrit dans son courriel qu’il voulait que ça ait une 'ambiance audacieuse?' Je sais pas trop. Je suis un peu nerveux. J’aurais préféré qu’ils ne planifient pas ça en pleine saison. Je déteste toute la pression liée aux contrats de pub. Le fait qu’on me considère comme un 'modèle.' C’est tellement con. Je veux juste me concentrer sur le hockey. Mais je peux même pas faire ça cette semaine. Je dois jouer mes games, tourner la pub, parler à mes parents, parler à mes coéquipiers, tout en faisant semblant que tout est normal… Alors que je ne pense qu’à toi." (Okay. Whatever. So I'm filming that commercial tomorrow, and the producer's email said they want it to have 'edgy vibes?' I don't know. I'm a little nervous. I wish they hadn't scheduled this during the season. I hate that there's so much pressure with these brand deals. That I'm a 'role model.' It's so stupid. I just want to focus on hockey. But I can't even do that this week. I have to play these games, shoot this commercial, talk to my parents, talk to my teammates, all the while pretending that everything is normal... When all I can think about is you.")
Shane's words had gotten progressively faster and more animated, but he finally paused and took a deep breath. Ilya heard the sound of cars speeding by, snippets of strangers' conversations as they walked past Shane on the bench. "Merde, c'est pas comme si tu comprenais le français." ("Fuck it, it's not like you understand French.")
Ilya grinned at the swear word, the only word he recognized so far. If he had retained anything from his European party days with Svetlana in Paris, it was the swear words. He took another sip of vodka. Я тебя люблю.
Shane continued. "Je n'arrête pas de penser à toi, mais je peux le dire à personne. Même pas à toi. Je dois être parfait cette semaine, et ça me fait chier. Depuis notre appel l'autre jour, ça m'a comme frappé. Peut-être que je le savais avant, mais... je sais pas. Tu me manques. Et j'aimerais pouvoir te serrer dans mes bras jusqu'à ce que tu te sentes mieux." ("I can't stop thinking about you, but I can't tell anyone. Not even you. I have to be perfect this week, and it sucks. Ever since our phone call the other day, it just kind of hit me. Maybe I knew before, but... I don't know. I miss you. And I wish I could hug you until you feel better.")
Ilya enjoyed letting Shane's distinctly Canadian French wash over him. Shane somehow made even the French language boring, but it was still sexy. Ultimately, it was the boring that Ilya found sexy, even if he would never admit it. He liked how honest Shane sounded, that his voice didn't have a lot of variation in tone, the low hum of a zamboni resurfacing the ice.
"Et je pense que... que je t'aime. Voilà. C'est comme ça que s'est passée ma semaine. Tellement plate." ("And I think... I love you. So yeah. That's how my week has been. So boring.")
Ilya's heart snagged on two words and frayed into threads. His eyes shot open. Je t'aime. That meant 'I love you.' Ilya knew that meant 'I love you.' Я тебя люблю.
The crushing, oppressive blackness closed in as the room started to spin. Ilya gripped the armrest of the couch, running his thumb over the line of small buttons that curved into a spiral, back and forth, back and forth.
Je t'aime echoed in Ilya's mind. Was Shane talking to him? Had he understood when Ilya said Я тебя люблю the day before last? Was he saying it back? Did Shane... love him too? That was terrifying and impossible. Je t'aime was already burrowing into his heart, but Ilya refused to let himself feel it.
Maybe Shane had been talking about someone else. There were plenty of reasonable explanations for why he would say that. Ilya's mind flew through the possibilities, but he kept coming back to the one he wanted the most, the one that would fucking kill him. His heart raced like a Ducati weaving through lanes of traffic destined to crash. Je t'aime.
"Ilya?"
At the sound of his name from Shane's lips, Ilya realized that Shane had stopped talking a while ago. He gripped the phone tighter against his ear. блять. (Fuck.) What was he supposed to say now? Je t'aime. He rubbed his thumb over the spiral of buttons on the armrest again, back and forth.
"Are you there?"
Ilya forced an answer past his strangled throat. "I'm here, Shane."
"Are you okay?" Shane's voice was hesitant, laced with concern. It was soft and kind and... loving. That monotone voice held depths of love that Ilya never dared to notice before. And Ilya knew. He knew that Shane's je t'aime was meant for him. He also knew he couldn't keep it.
Ilya was decidedly not okay.
"No, I–"
The English words in his heart petrified him. Anything said in English, their language, would be real. How could he acknowledge what he heard when he knew it would destroy everything? They couldn't be in love. Cheating once more, he finished speaking in Russian, clinging to the tenuous limbo of both being in love and not. If they never said any of this in English, never made it real, perhaps he could keep Shane's je t'aime just a little longer.
"Ты сказал, что любишь меня. я понял, что любишь, я в глубине души это понял. Я тебя тоже люблю. И это не честно. Это нихуя, блять, не честно! Я знаю, тому, что между нами... пора положить конец, но... прости. Я побуду эгоистом ещё немного." ("You told me you loved me. In my heart, I know you did. I love you, too. And it's not fair. It's not fucking fair! I know this has to end, but... Forgive me. I'm going to be selfish a little while longer.")
The air in his apartment was hot and stuffy, despite the cracked window letting in a draft of February cold. It smelled like stale cigarettes. He never wanted Shane to breathe this air.
Ilya closed his eyes, listening to Shane's breathing on the other end of the line. He pretended he was there with Shane, sitting next to him on the bench watching the tourists on Hollywood Boulevard. Maybe their feet would be touching on the sidewalk, nobody else noticing, a secret just for them. They would breathe the same Los Angeles air - a mix of jasmine, car exhaust, and hot dogs from a street vendor. Ilya would lean in to kiss him, not caring if anyone saw...
Ilya let the dream of je t'aime go. It would never be his. "Sorry, I'm done," he said.
"Don't be sorry."
"Okay."
"What a weird phone call though, right?" Shane laughed.
Ilya wanted to cry.
LANAUDIÈRE
JULY 2017
The small clock on the top left of Ilya's phone screen mocked him as he brushed his teeth in Shane's en-suite bathroom.
21:06
Fuck it. Ilya didn't care. Normally, he would be embarrassed to be going to bed so early, but he only slept for a couple hours the night before. From the moment Shane woke him up in the middle of the night to tell him the Ten Year Plan, he had been wide awake.
Even after Shane fell back asleep, Ilya stayed awake, afraid to lose consciousness, guarding oh my god I love you so much with his life. He held Shane in his arms until dawn.
Thus began the best day of Ilya's existence. They watched the sunrise together. They made love. Shane was his boyfriend. He met Shane's parents. They fed him homemade pasta. They came over later with chicken and salad stuff. They smiled at him like he was already family.
Ilya plugged his phone into the charger on the bathroom counter and turned around to walk back into the bedroom. It was a long, wonderful day, so yes, Ilya was going to bed with his boyfriend at 9 p.m., too tired to even have sex first.
He was home.
He paused when he reached the threshold of the bedroom and leaned against the wooden door frame, watching Shane shift against the pillows. He was shirtless, the light blue comforter and beige sheets draped over his waist, just low enough on his hips for Ilya to think maybe he wasn't too tired for sex anymore.
Shane peered over the pages of his book, and his brown eyes caught Ilya's, twinkling under his glasses like the stars outside. A thrill shot through Ilya. He would never get used to the sight of Shane in glasses.
Climbing into the soft bed, Ilya leaned over to kiss Shane and distract him from whatever boring chapter of hockey history he was reading. He kept the kiss tender and chaste, but then Shane dropped the book and melted into his touch, and the taste of mint lingered on his tongue as he swiped it over Shane's lips, and well... He had never been good at chaste kisses.
When they pulled apart, Ilya caressed Shane's cheek and ran his thumb over the smattering of freckles there. His glasses were all askew. Shane's eyes flickered down to the fallen book on the comforter between them, now closed.
"You made me lose my place," he pouted.
Ilya smiled. "Sorry."
Shane's brow furrowed as he flipped through the book. When he found the last page he read, he slipped a bookmark inside and set the book on the nightstand. He removed his glasses and placed them on top. A sip of water. A click when he turned off the lamp.
Ilya turned off his own lamp, nightfall settling over them like a patchwork quilt. Shane snuggled into the crook of Ilya's arm and rested his head on Ilya's chest. Their eyes closed. Breaths synced. The air in the cottage was cool and crisp, but Shane's skin was warm.
Ilya wrapped one arm around Shane and laid his hand in Shane's hair, fingers tracing mindless patterns. It was still damp from the shower Shane had taken earlier, silky and smooth, like dewy blades of grass underneath a summer picnic. He felt Shane snuggle even closer, felt his lips curve up into a smile against his chest.
"Je t'aime," Shane murmured.
Ilya stilled his hand in Shane's hair and gazed down at him in the twilight. He could only see the outline of Shane's form, shadowed in the lakeside darkness permeating the room through the wall of windows. Ilya's pulse spiked. Je t'aime.
"You said that before."
"I did?" Shane was already half asleep, the words little more than a whisper.
"When I was in Moscow. You spoke French, and you said this, yes?"
Shane tensed, and Ilya could feel the adorable panic radiating off of him.
Ilya prodded further, tightening his hold across Shane's back. "That was real?"
Shane hummed and nestled himself closer to Ilya's heart, his hand squeezing Ilya's shoulder. "Yeah. That was real." Then he tensed again and tilted his head up, more awake now. "Wait, you know what 'je t'aime' means?"
Ilya smirked. "Hollander, 'je t'aime' is basic phrase. Everyone knows 'je t'aime.'"
Shane swatted at Ilya's chest. "Fuck off."
"Never."
Shane gave him a faint smile, barely visible in the darkness.
Sometimes Ilya thought that he had dreamed that phone call. When he woke up the next morning, it had been easy to dismiss what happened as a late night hallucination. Over the next few months, he rationalized the words as something he definitely misheard in a sleep-deprived state, burying any thoughts that they were real. But deep down, he always knew. Now Shane's je t'aime was finally his to keep forever.
Shane nuzzled back into Ilya's chest, but his eyes stayed open, his back muscles drawn taut underneath Ilya's arm. Ilya could feel him overthinking this, replaying that phone call again.
"I did the same," Ilya confessed, running a hand along his back. "In Russian."
Shane braced his hands on Ilya's chest and pushed himself upright. "Really?" Such an endearing two syllables, eyes shining, an unguarded smile on his face.
Ilya smiled back and shrugged. "A few days before. On the phone. You did not know this?"
Shane shook his head, smile fading a bit.
Ilya was surprised. In the moments when he let himself believe in je t'aime, he had assumed Shane only said it back because he knew Ilya said it first. "You didn't?"
"No! How would I have known that?"
"A translator app on your phone? I don't fucking know!"
Their voices were raised now, in relief, in happiness, the frustrating uncertainty of the last few months dissipating. They locked eyes in the indigo dark, catching their breath together.
"Well, I didn't know," Shane said quietly after a moment. "I wish I had."
Ilya grinned. "Я тебя люблю is basic phrase too. Mr. I Speak Bird didn't know that?"
"You're such an asshole."
Shane yelped as Ilya hooked his foot under Shane's ankle and flipped him onto his back, tangling the sheets and caging him in his arms. Ilya dipped his head down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Shane's chin. He felt smug.
"I knew about 'je t'aime.'"
"You know what? I take it back." Shane pressed his hands to Ilya's chest and pushed, hard, throwing him off. "Je ne t'aime plus." ("I don't love you anymore.")
"Любишь, любишь." ("Yes you do.")
Shane shook out the sheets and comforter, straightening them, smoothing out the wrinkles. He reached up and fixed Ilya's necklace, too, twisting the chain around. He gently placed the gold cross back where it belonged.
"I love you," he said, holding his hand against Ilya's cheek.
"I love you," Ilya whispered.
Ilya turned onto his side. Shane surrounded him in an embrace, pressing his body flush against Ilya's back, one arm underneath Ilya's neck, the other wrapped around his waist in a strong grip. Shane pressed delicate kisses into Ilya's curls, his breath tickling at Ilya's neck.
Twilight faded to a deep black outside, enveloping them in this perfect darkness. It was so silent in the cottage that Ilya could hear every breath, every heartbeat, every sheet rustle. Insects buzzing, a cricket chirp, a distant loon call. Wind whispered in the trees. These sounds of the lake lulled him to sleep. The rest of the world faded away, and there was only this moment. There was only je t'aime.