Chapter Text
November 2010 - Year 6 without mama.
Cliff:
The first time it happened, Cliff was rudely awoken by his rookie dry heaving in the bathroom. Cliff sighed, and checked his watch. 4:30am. Great.
They’d been out celebrating a much needed win against Philly, and Cliff had seen Ilya throw back AT LEAST 5 shots of vodka. And that’s just the ones he knows about. Aren’t Russians supposed to be good at handling their liquor? Well, he supposed the kid was only 18.
He remembered those days, feeling invincible against the effects of alcohol, until they all hit at once like a freight train and you were running to the nearest bathroom or bush. He doesn't miss those days.
Another dry heave followed by a wet sniffle bought him out of his thoughts. He’d give the kid 5 more minutes to get himself together before he went over to their shared bathroom to check.
He laid in the dark, pondering what colour Gatorade he should get Ilya in the morning, when he heard the toilet flush. Soft footsteps sounded on the carpet, and Cliff was rolling over towards them when-
“Holy shit Rozanov, you move like a ninja! Don’t scare me like that! You're gonna give an old man a heart attack!”
Ilya was inches away from Cliff's face, crouched at his bedside next to his head. Shocked at Cliff's sudden reaction and not expecting his teammate to be awake, Ilya fell out of his crouch onto his ass rather ungracefully.
Cliff, still breathing heavy as his fear subsided, turned on the hotel's bedside lamp.
____________________________________
Ilya:
Ilya was a mess. He’d been too excited about the team’s first win, his first win. They’d gone out after the game, and one shot became 3 shots, which became two thirds of the bottle. So yeah, he knows why he’s hugging the hotel toilet now.
Another dry heave pushes its way out of him as he slaps his hand over his mouth. The last thing he wants to do is wake up his roommate, Cliff, because of his poor decisions. That would be embarrassing.
Almost as embarrassing as silently crying about vomiting, which he was doing right now.
Jesus, get a grip. He thought to himself. Move on. It happened 6 years ago now. There’s no reason to be scared of a bit of vomit.
Suddenly, he’s 12 again, back in Moscow. He just got home from an intense practice and was feeling nauseous. He ran into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. It was the smell that hit him first. The last time he’d smelt that, he was shaking his mama's shoulder, begging her to wake up.
He grasped the toilet bowl, breaths quickening. You're going to die Ilya, just like she did. Choking on your own vomit, alone and afraid.
An hour later, he was still struggling to take a full breath when Sveta found him, curled in a ball, on the floor inside his mother’s wardrobe.
She’d coaxed him out, pushing aside the shoe boxes and scarf that had fallen around him. He’d been reluctant to move, until she confirmed that she was here alone and had come by to check up on him after he missed her calls.
The sudden onslaught of memories and grief was how he found himself crouched by Marlow's head 3 minutes later, silently begging him to wake up. He didn’t really know what he was thinking. Frankly, he wasn’t really thinking at all, just running off pure panic and adrenaline.
What he wasn’t expecting, however, was for Marlow to roll over and let out an ear piercing screech, before accusing Ilya of moving like a ninja. He fell on his ass, hard, and that was all it took for the dam to break.
____________________________________
Cliff:
Cliff flicked on the lamp just in time to see a fresh wave of tears streaming out of Ilya’s already red and puffy eyes.
He blinked, rubbing sleep from his eyes, before looking at Ilya’s face again. Yep, the kid was crying. His confident, cocky (all be it, emotionally stunted) rookie was crying, no, sobbing, on the floor next to his bed. It was a sorry sight to see.
“Rozanov?” Cliff called out carefully. No response.
“Ilya?” At the sound of his first name, Ilya looked up, meeting Cliff's sleep hooded eyes with his watery ones.
“What’s going on buddy? Are you doing okay? You're probably still a bit drunk, but this isn’t your bed kid. Yours is behind you.”
Something in Ilya shifted at that, snapping him out of his frozen heap on the floor.
“Oh I’m so sorry Mr Marlow. I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m so sorry to scare you. It won’t happen again. I don’t know why I did it. Please don’t get mad. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep and we can forget this happened.” Ilya rushed out, gripping the bedside table in an attempt to push himself into a standing position to no avail.
Cliff watched as Ilya’s knees buckled, sending the kid down to the floor again in an unceremonious heap. Another sob escaped the rookie.
Cliff jumped out of bed and sat down in front of Ilya on the floor. He waited for the kid to collect himself before reaching a tentative hand out, resting it on his knee.
“Bit of a rough night, hey bud?”
Ilya just nodded, biting his lip.
He’d never seen the kid this upset, this vulnerable before. Sure, he’d seen Ilya frustrated after missing a shot, or scared when he had to get his brow stitched up after getting a puck to the face in game 2. But never like this. He was feeling way out of his depth.
So, Cliff did the only thing he could remember his older sister doing when he was sick. Inviting him into bed.
“You know what, why don’t you jump in with me for the rest of the night? I’ve got a king bed, and then I’m right here if you feel sick again or need anything.”
And I can keep an eye on your physical and mental state, Cliff added to himself. The last thing he needed was his rookie choking on his own vomit. He shuddered at the thought.
Ilya considered his proposal for a moment, before nodding and accepting his hand to pull him up.
Cliff sat him on the side of the bed, packing pillows around him, before realising that Ilya was only in his boxers. The kid must be freezing.
“Wait there.” Marlow said, before rummaging around in his suitcase at the foot of the bed to produce a clean set of pajamas.
He grabbed a water bottle from the mini fridge behind him before taking the newly acquired goods back to Ilya.
“Okay Ilya, I’ve got you some fresh, clean PJ’s and some water. Have a sip, then we’ll get you into some warmer clothes.”
He unscrewed the lid before handing it to Rozanov. The kid took the bottle with shaking hands, coughing and spluttering on the first gulp.
“Woah, easy kid.” Marlow implored, giving the rookie a few pats on the back. “Don’t start choking on me now.”
Cliff watched as Ilya’s whole body tensed at the word “choking”. He barely managed to catch the water bottle as it slipped from Ilya’s hands. The kids' breaths sped up, coming in short, sharp gasps.
“Woah, woah, woah, hey, Ilya, it’s okay. You're okay. No one is choking here.”
Nice move, dickhead, Cliff thought to himself. Just making a joke about choking to an already panicking kid. Great thinking.
But Ilya didn’t even acknowledge that Cliff had spoken. He just kept staring off into the distance, hyperventilating.
Cliff called out to him, shook his shoulders, pinched the skin on the back of his hand. Nothing. No response.
Cliff was worried now. He was in way over his head. What is this more than just a drunk kid being sick? What if he’d been spiked? What if he was injured? Cliff didn’t remember any notable checks or hits to Ilya during the game…
Right, Cliff thought to himself, shaking himself out of his panic. Panicking is helping no one. What’s a practical thing to do in this situation?
What would Sarah do?
That’s it! Sarah would know what to do! This is what older sisters are for right? And she’s a psychologist. She’d help him out.
He reached around in his sheets, searching for his phone. He found it and put the password in, wincing at the brightness illuminating his face. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds her name.
Waving a hand in front of Ilya’s face one more time to no response, he pressed call.
On the 3rd ring, he was nervous, on the 5th he was panicking. He’d started planning out his next plan when she picked up on the 6th.
“This better be good Marley. It’s 5am over here.”
Cliff didn’t even acknowledge her complaints, instead jumping right into the issue at hand.
“It’s the new rookie, Ilya Rozanov. The Russian one. We went out tonight and he had a bit to drink, but seemed okay. We got back at 3am and at 4:30 I woke up to him vomiting.”
“Okay?” Sarah said, clearly frustrated. “Why are you calling me about a drunk spew? We’ve all done that Cliff. You would know better than most.”
“No, that’s not it. Just listen!” Cliff cut in. “He was sick, and I went to check in on him, and he was crying and hyperventilating and really scared. So I gave him some water and he was about to jump into my bed with me, like we used to do when we were kids. But then he swallowed too much water and I made a joke about him choking and now he’s like frozen. He’s not moving at all when I talk to him or shake him. But he’s still hyperventilating and I don’t know what to do, so I called you.” Cliff recalled without taking a breath. Sarah was quiet for a few seconds, before she spoke again.
“You remember mum telling us about the fight, flight, freeze, fawn response?” She asked.
“Of course.” Cliff said.
“Well, you said he was fine before he started being sick. So, based on the information you gave me, and his response, I’d say he’s either got some emetophobia or some trauma around vomit. Cause that’s not a normal reaction to the situation. You said he is frozen? Like not acknowledging you?”
“Yeah.” Cliff responded. “It’s like his body’s here but his mind isn’t.”
“Right,” Sarah said, “He sounds like he’s in what we would call a freeze or fawn response. He’s obviously anxious about vomiting, which triggered his nervous system into the freeze response, hence the crying and not moving. Has he told you about any specific things from his childhood about being sick or shared any traumatic experiences with you?”
“No.” Cliff grumbled. “But I’ve met his dad. On the draft day. He was not a nice person. I walked in on him yelling at Ilya in Russian.”
“Okay.” Sarah said. “It doesn't really matter why at the moment, the main thing is getting him out of this flashback he’s in before it develops into a full blown panic attack.”
Cliff was sure it was already merging into a panic attack, given how Ilya was shaking like a leaf next to him.
“What do I do?”
____________________________________
Ilya:
One minute Ilya was sitting on the edge of Cliff’s bed in his boxers. The next, he was waking up in strange pajamas to the sound of Cliff snoring in his ear. His throat burned and his teeth were fuzzy. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck.
He peaked over his shoulder to see Cliff, deep asleep on his side, facing him. He pushed himself up a bit, looking around the room. His own bed was unmade, sheets rumpled like someone had left it in a hurry. The bathroom light was still on. There was a towel laid out next to his side of Cliff's bed with a bucked on top of it. Cliff’s suitcase had looked like it had exploded overnight.
And just like that, the memories of last night came crashing back to him. The pub, being sick in the bathroom, ending up at Cliff's bedside, desperate for comfort from his memories. A poorly timed joke about choking. A woman’s voice coaching him to breathe over the phone. Cliff helping Ilya into pajamas.
Fuck. He had some explaining to do.
____________________________________
Cliff:
Once Ilya was calmed down, dressed and tucked in, Cliff got into the other side of the bed. He heard Ilya calling out to his mum throughout the rest of the early morning. At least, that’s who he thought it was. A combination of “mama” and “Irina” slipped out of Ilya’s mouth in his dreams. He’d never heard Ilya talk of his mum before. He wondered what she was like? Hopefully he'll get a chance to meet her at next month's up and coming ‘mothers game weekend.’ He thought of his own mum as he drifted off to sleep.
—————
Cliff woke up to a very sheepish Ilya. He’d expected as much. The kid had said a quick “Good morning” before practically leaping out of Cliff’s bed and into the shower.
Cliff had no idea what last night had been about. He knew now that vomit made Ilya anxious and upset, but other than that, it was up to Ilya if he wanted to disclose anymore. And Cliff had a feeling he wouldn’t.
Which is why, when Ilya emerged from the shower 20 minutes later, skin pink, and bags under his eyes, Cliff spoke up.
“Look, kid. I’m sorry you had such a rough night last night. You don’t have to tell me anything about what made you react the way you did, but just know you can always come to me. For anything. And if something like this happens again, you are always welcome to wake me up and jump into bed with me. If that’s what keeps you safe and okay, then let’s do that moving forward.” Cliff rambled.
“That is, if you're comfortable with that?” He added on, remembering what Sarah said about how important consent is.
Ilya looked at him for a beat, mouth opening and closing like a stunned fish. Then, he shook himself and moved to get changed as he spoke.
“Thank you Marley. I don’t know if I have the English to explain what happened yet, but maybe one day.” Ilya said, voice still thick with his Russian accent.
“I really appreciated your help last night. I promise it won’t happen again.” He added on, turning to look at Cliff after he pulled a t-shirt over his head.
“That’s okay bud, like I said, anytime. I’m here for you when you're ready, but no pressure.”
Ilya nodded, and that was that.