Chapter Text
The chair was hard beneath him and he had been sitting in it so long, his ass was starting to go numb. Which, normally, would have made him laugh. But he was not laughing because he was overwhelmed and he was overwhelmed because planning a wedding was, apparently, a lot of fucking work. Shane sat across from him at their favorite little coffee shop on the corner of downtown Ottawa with a binder (an actual fucking binder) of to-do lists, to-don’t lists, to-make-Ilya-suffer lists that all were, apparently, imperitive to their upcoming wedding.
Shane had been talking for the better part of a half hour, his coffee to the side, cold from abandonment, and Ilya wasn’t sure when, but at some point he had stopped listening. Normally, he loved seeing Shane like this, all focused and talkative and almost overbearing. It was a version of Shane he knew not a lot of people got to see. But the more Shane talked about the “important details” of their wedding the more stressful it seemed and the joy of it all was slowly starting to leak out.
He had tried, at the beginning, to follow along and contribute to the conversation. He really did. But the conversation was still going and it felt like it was leaving Ilya behind and he was running trying to catch up to it, to catch up with the English that was being spoken but the ground was slippery and English was seeming more and more inaccessible in the moment.
“Did you see that email I sent you? It’s all the things we still have to do and I put a link with each item so they should take you directly to all the websites. We still need to decide if we want to do the seafood course or if we want to stick to just chicken and steak. I’m not sure how many people would actually want the seafood. Oh! And catering said they could provide their own decorations if we want, we just need to show them what everything else will look like and they’ll bring whatever they have that’s closest. I was thinking we tell them no, though. I’d rather know that everything will go together. And we need to settle on a color scheme so we can order all the floral stuff. I know we talked about it but we really need to pick between the sky blue or the arctic blue so-.”
“What? Shane, I- I do not know what you are talking about. I do not care. I do not care about colors, or flowers, or catering, or whatever the fuck. Just, whatever. Do whatever you want.”
Shane watched him, silent for the first time since they sat down. There was something shining in his eyes that Ilya thought might be hurt, but he wouldn’t let himself look at it close enough to know for sure. Ilya closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Decided that he needed to amend a couple things because looking back on what he just said, he realized how it sounded and yes, that was probably hurt in Shane’s eyes. “That is not what I meant. I care. I care about getting married. I care about you. I do not care about… the details. I do not think I will be noticing those at the wedding anyway. We could get married at the court house and I would be happy. I just want to be married.” He opened his eyes to look at Shane, but now Shane was looking down, avoiding eye contact, doing that thing where he pretended that the very uninteresting thing in front of him was actually Very Interesting. Fuck.
Shane sniffed. “Yea, I get it. I know what you mean, Ilya. I just-.” He sniffed again. Shook his head briefly. “I never thought I would get a wedding, you know? I never thought that I would get to pick out wedding invitations, or courses for the dinner, or what song to dance to. I never thought I would have that. And sometimes I still have a hard time believing that I do get to have that. Like something will happen and the wedding will get canceled or something for some reason. I don’t know.” He finally looked up, found Ilya’s. “So, to me, it does matter. It’s important to me.”
He held his eyes and suddenly Ilya felt the 20lb sinking weight of guilt in his stomach and 20lbs of guilt was a lot heavier than 20lbs of anything physical. Of course this was a big deal for Shane. Ilya had always figured he would find a wife if he ever decided he wanted to settle down. Truthfully, for a while he had assumed he would one day marry Sveta. But Shane... Even before Shane had come to terms with his own sexuality, he knew part of him had known that would never be the case for him, electing to marry hockey instead of confronting the reason why for years. He had told him as much, that marriage and picket fences had always been filed away under “pipe dream.”
“Okay,” Ilya finally said. “I will Google pretty colors and let you know what I think.”
“No,” Shane sighed. He was closing the binder, sliding it to the side. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it Ilya.”
“Shane-”
“It’s fine,” he reiterated. “You don’t have to care about it just because I do.” Shane flashed him a smile but it was the same smile he flashed fans when they asked for a selfie he was not in the mood to take and knew he would agree to anyway. He took a sip of his coffee and scrunched his nose at the temperature. “Um. I’ll see you at home tonight. Good luck at your game.” Shane stood up, leaned over to quickly peck him on the lips. “Love you,” and he was out the door before Ilya could even find the English within him to respond.
30 minutes later, he was still sitting at the coffee shop when he received a text from Shane.
Shane: Did you remember to go by and sign the papers for the photographers like you were supposed to?
Shit. Ilya checked his watch. He had to be at the rink in 30 minutes. It would make him late and Coach would be mad, but he couldn’t bear the thought of letting Shane down again.
Ilya: No. I am sorry. I will try to run by and do it on the way to the rink.
Shane: No, it’s fine. I’ll call them and tell them you’ll be by a different day.
Shane: :)
-
Ilya played like shit that night. He couldn’t even explain what went wrong. It just was. It was wrong. It was like sitting down to type at a different keyboard than you’re used to and all the keys are slightly shifted. It was like the ice underneath him was softer than usual and he was sinking into it instead of gliding over it. It was like he had been an idiot and hurt his fiance’s feelings and hadn’t had a chance to apologize for it yet.
He dragged himself into the locker room. Weibe opened his mouth to say something (probably encouraging), but then promptly closed it after a single look at Ilya’s face. Harris, though, poked his head in the locker room and said “Roz, come do media before you get changed.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened. He already knew the questions he would receive. What went wrong out there tonight? What threw off your game? Why weren’t you connecting? It wasn’t like he would be able to tell them the truth. I am terrible fiance and I disappointed the love of my life and I do not deserve him and I will never be worthy of him and it is even worse because he has to know that but he will never admit it and he will spend his entire life being disappointed by me and there is nothing I can do about it because I am selfish and want to be with him anyway and I will spend our entire marriage knowing that I am not what he deserves and he could do so much better than me and I cannot stop thinking about that tonight.
“No.”
Harris’ eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “No?”
“Have someone else do it tonight.” He expected Harris, or Coach, to argue. But he had never said no before (honestly, who would even have the audacity to) and that must have been more telling a sign of the current state of his mind than anything else, because neither one of them pushed it. Harris grabbed someone else and Ilya added that little grace to the growing list of things he didn’t deserve.
Wyatt slid down the bench, closing the distance between them as they all stripped off their gear. “Heard Hollander’s in town for a couple days,” he said conversationally. He was probably trying to cheer him up.
“Yes.” Ilya’s answer was short and to the point. He expanded on it for the sake of being polite. “He has two days off, so…” He shrugged once.
“Bet that’s nice.”
Ilya swallowed. “Is nice, yes.”
They were quiet as they finished stripping off their gear. Just before Ilya stood up to grab a towel Wyatt asked, “hey, man. Are you ok?”
Ilya plastered a smile on his face, checked to make sure it was arranged correctly before looking up at Wyatt. “Just stressed about the wedding.”
“Ah.” Wyatt nodded knowingly and leaned back, relaxing a little. “Hey, I get it man…”
Ilya did not hear what exactly Wyatt got, because he was already walking through the door into the showers.
-
Ilya didn’t want to go home yet. Couldn’t. He wanted to talk to Shane, to apologize, but he needed to work through his thoughts first. Without thinking too much about it, he started driving towards the only other place he knew he would feel safe enough to process. He pulled out his phone to fire off a text at a red light.
Ilya: can I come over
David: of course
The Hollander house had first become a home for him multiple years ago. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but it must have happened suddenly because one day, it was simply his boyfriend’s parents’ house, and the next, he was having to clarify to his inner circle which of 4 places he actually meant when he said he was home (his apartment, Shane’s apartment, the cottage, or the Hollander’s).
David met him at the door. They didn’t always greet each other with a hug, but the moment Ilya was in reaching distance, David’s arms reached out and pulled him close. He squeezed him tight before dropping his arms and leading him into the house. Ilya turned the corner and there was a bowl of pasta on the table waiting for him. He sank into the chair and immediately began devouring it while David slid into the chair across from him, content to simply wait while Ilya finished his food.
A few quiet minutes later, Ilya swallowed the last bite, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Thank you.”
David nodded. “I saw the game,” he started.
“It was shit.”
David shrugged, allowing it. “You had a bad night. That’s okay.”
“I am not paid to have bad nights!” Ilya let his fork fall to the table, huffed, looked down, studied the lumps of sauce left behind in his empty bowl. “I should have played better.”
David studied him for a moment, seeming to absorb Ilya’s emotions, weighing them, before gently handing them back. He seemed a little confused by what he found. “Was your coach upset?” he finally asked, probing.
Ilya shook his head. “I do not think so. He did not say anything.”
David waited a moment. Spoke again when it was clear Ilya wasn’t going to continue. “I think if he thought there was anything worth saying, he would’ve said it. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. I guess, but…”
“But?”
“But it does not matter. Whether or not he is upset. I let the team down! I let Shane down.” His disappointment was turning into frustration and he didn’t know where to put it all.
David’s eyebrows drew together. “Shane? What happened with Shane?”
Ilya just continued to stare in his empty bowl. Picked up his fork again, just so he had something to hold, to squeeze.
“Do you think Shane will be upset about the game?” David tried again.
“I do not know, Papa!” They both startled. Ilya immediately corrected. “I mean Dad.” He shook his head quickly. “Shit. I am sorry.”
David leaned back in his chair. Like something suddenly made sense and he was trying to decide how much that one piece of information unlocked. “Why don’t you meet me on the back porch? We’ll sit a while.” He got up without waiting for an answer, grabbed the bowl, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ilya dropped his face into his hands. Breathed. Rubbed his eyes. Once he found the strength, he pushed himself up and headed out the back door. There were two rockings chairs and Ilya had long ago claimed the one on the left as his favorite. He sunk into it, leaned back, let physics do its job as he began to gently rock back and forth.
The rocking usually soothed him, but this night it seemed to mock him. Rock forward, you are a disappointment. Rock back, they all deserve better. Forward, disappointment. Back, deserve better. Forward. Back. His papa’s words from long ago and not so long ago were running, sprinting, through his head and whereas he barely remembered his mama’s voice, his papa’s was etched in his mind, a perfect recreation.
He sighed. He wanted a cigarette. He rarely smoked anymore. On his mama’s birthday, on her death day. That was usually it. But if he had a pack on him now, he would have reached for one. Smoked more than one, probably.
David walked out, two glasses in hand. He handed one to Ilya and he took a sip without even stopping to question what it was. Ah. Vodka. Good man.
“I texted Shane and let him know you were here. Didn’t want him to worry.”
Ilya took another sip, slightly too big and let his head thunk against the back of the chair. He hadn’t even thought about Shane worrying about where he was. He should have thought of that, should have texted him. He added it to the still growing list of reasons he was failing.
“So…” David sank into his own rocking chair. Took a sip of vodka. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever you’re actually upset about.”
“I played bad game. I am upset about that.”
“Okay.”
Ilya watched the glass in his hand. Watched the droplets forming on the outside of it, slowly dripping down its side. “I think Shane will leave me, probably.”
He expected David to scoff, to shut the idea down, to immediately reassure him that no, Shane loved him. Instead, he said “why?” and it was, shockingly, the first time Ilya was able to mentally step back just a little bit, enough to evaluate what he was feeling. Like that why, that moment of not having his emotions written off, was the little bit of space he needed to coral his mind into something he could work with.
Ilya looked at him. David was already watching him. “Why do you think he’ll leave you?”
Ilya swallowed again, then remembered he had vodka in his hand he could actually be swallowing so he took another sip. “I do not deserve him.” David was silent, waiting. “He is so good. I am a terrible fiance. I disappoint him. I know I do, he can not hide his feelings from me. And one day he will realize he deserves better and will leave me and I will not be able to stop him because he will be right.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the squeak of the chairs the only thing breaking it up. They sat long enough that Ilya began to feel the beginnings of panic, that maybe what he had said was absolutely correct and David was trying to figure out how to tell him it was a hopeless situation.
“Has Shane never disappointed you?”
Ilya balked internally at the question. “No. Of course not. He is wonderful.” David raised an eyebrow. “I mean, there have been times, yes,” he amended, shrugged. “But I love him. So it does not matter.”
David nodded once, like Ilya had just said something that was correct. “You don’t think Shane can show you that same grace?”
Ilya sighed. He knew, logically, that it was true. But every time he tried to believe that, to internalize it, something in the back of his mind snapped him back like a rubber band. Something that took root long ago.
“It is hard. To accept. I do not want him to ever be disappointed. I want him to be happy. Always.”
David stretched his toes long, pushing his chair all the way back, before releasing it and letting it take him on a little ride.
“Did I ever tell you about what Yuna and I did for our 20th anniversary?” Ilya shook his head. “That’s because we didn’t do anything. I completely forgot. It wasn’t until a week later when I realized. I had been so busy, it just slipped right past me.” He chuckled. “She was really upset.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing… I apologized. She forgave me. We moved on. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve had to apologize to each other. I’ve also lost count of how many times we’ve forgiven each other. I know I’m not worthy of her. But she loves me, and that is a gift I will always treasure. I have a feeling she feels the same way.”
“I do not feel like I have earned his love.”
“We don’t earn love. Not real love. It should make us want to be better, but we can’t earn it. ” And then David reached out and squeezed his forearm, “I’m proud of you, son.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened. His eyes started to swim. His chest clenched tight and the back of his mind wondered briefly, stupidly, about his cardiovascular health. David’s eye contact was unwavering and it was the quiet patience he emitted while Ilya processed that made him realize David was being very serious, not just throwing platitudes to the wind.
Of course, David had told him many times before how proud he was of him. But not late at night, on a back porch, after playing possibly the worst game of his career and explaining to him why he was not good enough for his son.
His initial reaction was to reject it. What had he done worthy of being proud of? He played at his best when his papa was still alive, and it had never been good enough. And yet now, during the lowest slump of his career, battling a depression that made him feel shame, failing as a fiance, David expected him to believe he was proud of him?
David’s eyes, still holding Ilya’s patiently but insistently, said yes, believe me, I mean it.
Ilya reflected on all the post-game texts that came regardless of the final score. He thought about the way that David still trusted him with his son, despite all his shortcomings. And how during the moments when his depression was at its worst, David would somehow know, and not only not mind spending time with him anyway, but insist on it, even if all Ilya could provide in those moments was simply his presence.
He swallowed, knocking a tear loose from his eye. He believed him, he decided. Even if he didn’t feel proud of himself at the moment or felt like he deserved it. He believed that David meant it.
“Thank you, Dad.”
They sat in silence while they finished their vodka.
David cleared his throat, breaking up the comfortable silence. “Listen. Bring Your Son to Work Day is next week. You want to come with me? My job can be pretty boring, but I have a feeling you’d find a way to make it fun.”
“Isn’t that, like, for kids?”
David shrugged. “I mean, most people bring their kids, yea. But, there’s no rule that explicitly says you can’t bring your adult children.”
Ilya smiled softly to himself. Maybe the first real smile of the day. “Okey. Yes. I will come.”
-
Ilya went home later that night. He apologized to Shane, Shane kissed him and said he forgave him. He did not quite understand it, but he accepted it and he believed it, and he thought that was a good first step.