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Shane’s here, in Ilya’s bed, and it’s so much better than the last time he was in Boston. They’ve fucked and cleaned up, and now they’re just lounging in the sheets, and Shane appreciates the absence of shame; the pit he used to feel in his stomach after their hook-ups, now gone. He used to crave more every time, but allowed himself less and less; now he can be here with Ilya, and he can call him Ilya, and the world doesn’t feel like it’s ending.
Shane should go soon, but he doesn’t think about that. He soaks up the peace, and he can’t help but smile to himself. All the pain and years of pushing each other away it feels distant now. Sure, they haven’t quite figured out what they are doing, but at least both of them can admit they want it, that they want to hold each other just as much as they want to touch each other’s dicks. It’s freeing, at least for Shane. He feels lighter than he has in years.
Ilya’s phone buzzes, and he leans over to the nightstand to check it. Over Ilya’s shoulder, Shane can see he’s getting a call. Ilya mutters something to himself and clicks it off. He sighs in exasperation and turns his head to Shane.
“My brother,” he offers in explanation. Shane remembers their last conversation in Tampa, Ilya telling Shane how he could not come out, or he would never be able to go back to Russia, how his brother is police, his father is police. And the tears down Ilya’s face, the unexpected vulnerability of it all. Shane sees Ilya's newfound openness again, here, when Ilya tells him who’s called.
“You can take it if you want to,” Shane offers. He doesn’t really want anything to take Ilya away from him right now, especially when he has to leave so soon, but more than that, he wants Ilya to be okay. “No, I don’t want to,” Ilya responds immediately.
“Is everything okay at home?” Shane wants to know more; he wants to know everything, if Ilya will tell him. Already from the All-Stars game in Tampa, he feels like he’s learned so much. That there was so much he did not know about Ilya, for so many years. And now, finally, Ilya is beginning to open up.
“Your father–” Shane continues when Ilya does not respond. “Enough,” Ilya cuts him off firmly, but not harshly. “Enough what?”
“Questions,” Ilya sighs. “You have too many of them.” Shane smiles to himself, not really feeling bad. He’s riding high on Ilya, and being here, in Ilya’s bed, relaxed and freshly fucked.
“I’m sorry.” He’s not, really, but it’s a nice thing to say. Ilya sighs again and turns his head, looking at Shane in the eyes now. Against his will, Shane blushes.
“Is okay,” Ilya says with meaning.
“I wasn’t clear,” Shane can’t help himself. “I’m sorry in advance for tonight’s game; we’re going to destroy you guys.” He’s beaming at Ilya now.
“Oh,” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “So you are the asshole?”
“No, it’s still you,” laughs Shane.
“No, not me, you are the asshole. Everyone must know this.” Turning to an imaginary audience, Ilya announces: “Everyone, Shane Hollander is an asshole.”
Shane laughs and playfully shoves Ilya. Ilya cracks a smile, which turns mischievous when he looks into Shane’s eyes.
The phone buzzes again, cutting through the energy in the room. Ilya groans and flops away from Shane.
“Seriously, you can take it,” Shane says. Ilya shakes his head, but he’s already reaching to check his phone. Shane can’t see his face when he sees the screen, but he does notice that Ilya freezes, just for a moment, at whatever is on the screen.
He glances at Shane, like he’s double-checking this is okay, and Shane catches a glimpse of Ilya’s face. It’s fine, really, but he sees something, something that Ilya wipes away quickly, but it looks a little like concern. Before Shane can process what might be happening to warrant that reaction from Ilya, he’s sitting on the side of the bed, turned away from Shane, clicking accept on the call. He doesn’t leave the room, Shane notes with slight confusion. Back…back on the day Shane left, the last time Shane was here in Ilya’s house, Ilya had taken a call then too, but he had made a point to leave the room.
Even though Shane can’t see Ilya’s expression and he doesn’t understand a word of Russian, he can sense a rigidity in Ilya’s tone, a tenseness that drifts into something else, something Shane can’t discern. He hears the word “papa,” but the rest means nothing to him. It reminds him, again, of the phone call on that day, the last time Shane was here and ran away. A bad day.
Ilya falls silent for a long moment, his shoulders sag. Shane sits up a little more, letting the churning memories dissipate, replacing them with concern because something in Ilya has shifted. Is he okay? Shane thinks about Tampa again, how Ilya cried, and let Shane hold him. It was a side of Ilya that Shane had never seen, even after all the years they’d been doing this thing.
Shane wishes he could see Ilya’s face from where he’s sitting on the bed. Maybe he would be able to get a better read on the situation. Into the phone, Ilya responds in clipped, mechanical sentences. In Russian, obviously, still leaving Shane in the dark.
And then the call is over. Ilya clicks the phone off, but he does not turn around. “Ilya?” Shane scoots himself across the bed, but he’s not sure if he should touch Ilya because he doesn’t know what’s happened. Is he angry? Or sad? What’s going on?
But time is stretching, and Ilya is still frozen, sagging into himself slightly, so Shane reaches out to tentatively touch his shoulder. “Hey,” he tries to keep his voice soft, like Ilya is a wild animal that might spook easily. But Ilya still doesn’t move, and that in itself is an indication that something has happened; Ilya heard something on the phone that upset him. Shane considers Ilya’s father; has something happened? Something definitely happened.
“Ilya, are you okay? What’s going on?” Shane reaches to touch Ilya’s face as he comes to sit next to him on the side of the bed, and for the first time, he sees Ilya’s expression. Totally blank. His eyes meet Shane’s, and the trance seems to break; Ilya blinks once hard, and then several times, like he’s remembering where he is, what’s happening around him.
“My father–” Ilya’s voice comes out strangely neutral. “Dead.” Shane’s eyes are wide and searching, but Ilya won’t meet his gaze now. “Ilya, I’m so sorry,” Shane says. He wants to wrap Ilya into his arms, but he’s so rigid, Shane’s worried he hasn’t really processed this information. And how is he supposed to? Ilya’s father is dead? Yeah, Shane knew he was sick, but he didn’t realize…
“Ilya,” Shane tries again, almost pleading now, his hand clinging to the top of Ilya’s thigh. Ilya has another moment of snapping back into the present, blinking hard and looking directly into Shane’s eyes.
“Shane,” he breathes Shane’s name with so much emotion that Shane isn’t sure if Ilya’s going to burst into tears or say something crazy or jump to his feet and say the whole thing was a fucking prank. But instead, Ilya just stares into Shane’s soul, for a very, very long moment. A million moments, really.
“What do you need?” Shane asks because he has no experience with loss like this. He’s not sure how to help. He doesn’t want to fuck it up. Especially not with Ilya. But he’s going to have to figure it out because Ilya is nonverbal again, just blinking.
“Dead,” Ilya finally musters, gasping it out like both a sigh of relief and an agonizing reality. He lets himself fall backwards, hitting the bed hard enough to knock another heavy breath out of his chest. Ilya stares at the ceiling, his mind somewhere else completely. Shane considers, for a brief moment, saying something fucking stupid, like “it will be okay,” but obviously that would not be helpful at all. So instead, Shane carefully lowers himself beside Ilya on the bed, curling onto his side. And he focuses on logistics. “You can’t play. The game.”
Ilya gives him a sharp look, and Shane can’t decide if it means no shit, I can’t play, or I’m fucking playing and you can’t stop me. “I just mean,” Shane puts a grounding hand on Ilya’s heart. “Your coach. Do you want me to call him?”
This seems to snap Ilya back to reality again, at least for a moment. “And say what? Hi, I am Shane Hollander. Captain of team you are playing today? I am calling to tell you Ilya Rozanov cannot play. How do I know? Oh, his dick was just in my ass. Is normal rivalry thing, we do it all the time. Have been for years.” It’s actually quite the monologue, given the news Ilya just received. It makes Shane a little relieved, actually, because Ilya sounds more like himself.
“Fuck off,” Shane says softly, no heat. He just feels like Ilya needs to hear him say it, the normal banter they always do. Ilya teasing, Shane reacting. “It’s just that the game is soon, Ilya. And you obviously can’t—“
“I will play,” Ilya announces and sits bolt upright again, Shane’s hand dropping from his chest in the process; untethered.
“You can’t play right now. Not like this,” Shane doesn’t even know why he has to argue this point. Ilya obviously cannot get on the ice in this state, dead father or not, he keeps fading in and out of sharpness, his attention waning and waxing in a way that is not conducive to a fucking professional hockey game. “Please, please, Ilya,” Shane begs, because this seems like something worth begging for.
The begging seems to get Ilya’s attention, and he twists around to smirk at Shane. “Oh? What will you do to convince me?”
“I’ll do anything,” and Shane means it. They literally just fucked, but he will do it again, anything Ilya needs. Shane needs to leave soon, sure, to make it back to the hotel before the bus leaves for the game, but for Ilya, if Ilya needs it, if Ilya needs anything, Shane will be late. Shane will do anything. He hopes his tone and face show how fucking serious he is.
Ilya gives Shane a long, assessing look, like he’s considering his options. But then he just furrows his brow, and his expression collapses. “Okay.”
“Okay?” That’s it? Ilya had not even set terms, and Shane had offered anything. Shane was expecting more of a back-and-forth. Maybe he doesn’t actually think Ilya would want to fuck again, but he thought he would want something. At the very least, Shane expected to have to argue with him, that Ilya would say you just want to win the game or that Shane would have to convince him it would actually be in the Raiders' best interest for him to sit the game out. But Ilya is not fighting at all. He is simply giving up, which is… definitely an indication that he shouldn’t play the game. And that he is not okay right now.
“I will call my coach now,” Ilya says tiredly, reaching for his phone.
“Do you want me to stay?” Shane finds himself reaching out and grabbing Ilya’s free hand. “I mean, I have to leave soon, but I can sit with you while you call…or…”
“Mm, okay.” Again, Ilya gives into this way too easily. It’s not normal for him to ask Shane to stay. Well, maybe now it was? This is new, the staying, even though this is a different type of staying. What’s more intimate: staying the night or staying to offer emotional support while Ilya makes bereavement-leave phone calls? Shane feels guilty, suddenly, because this isn’t intimacy Ilya is choosing. Ilya’s being pushed into this by this awful, horrible situation – as he processes the fact that thousands of miles away, his father just took his final breath.
Ilya is clicking call on his coach’s contact, and Shane suddenly remembers that literally all of that other shit does not matter right now because Ilya needs him. So he coils his fingers around Ilya’s and squeezes. Ever so lightly, Ilya squeezes back. Okay.
“Coach,” Ilya’s voice comes out stiff. Shane is sitting close enough to Ilya that he can hear LeClaire on the other end of the phone. “Rozanov, is everything okay?”
Ilya’s eyes dart to Shane for reassurance before he takes a breath and keeps talking. “My father is dead. My stepmother just called me. I–” He stops because his voice cracks. It’s so horrible and awful that Shane instinctively puts his hand on Ilya’s knee, as if touching him will make Shane feel any less helpless than he does right now.
“Rozanov,” LeClaire is saying. “Hey, don’t worry about the game, okay? Get yourself home, kid.”
“Yes, Coach,” Ilya has regained his voice, robotic but functional.
“Good,” LeClaire says. Pauses a beat. “Are you alone, Roz? Do you have anyone to help you with the travel arrangements? I can ask the team travel coordinator to book you the soonest flight to Moscow.” Shane tries to squeeze Ilya’s hand again, get his attention, so Ilya can see how Shane’s nodding, yes, you should accept help, yes, have them book the flight. Ilya doesn’t look up, tilting his head away from Shane to purposefully avoid eye contact, but again, he squeezes back.
“Yes, flight is good. Please tell Meredith thank you from me.”
“Of course, Roz. I am so sorry for your loss. Let me know if you need anything from me or the guys.”
“Thank you,” Ilya’s voice is so stilted and wobbly, like he is now just barely keeping it all together. “Tell the guys I am sorry to miss the game. You can tell them why, is okay.”
“Okay, Rozanov. Don’t worry about that. Take care of yourself.”
“Mm, yes. Bye.”
Ilya practically throws his phone down on the nightstand and then leans into Shane, wrapping his arms around him and burying his head in his neck. Shane tries to ignore how touched he is that Ilya feels comfortable enough to do that. After all these years, and they had only just started really letting themselves hold each other, and now Ilya trusts him enough to come completely undone in front of him. Or maybe it’s not trust, Shane reminds himself, maybe it’s just grief. So he shouldn’t read into it.
“Is stupid,” Ilya says, pulling away suddenly with a scowl on his face. “He was not a good person.”
“It’s okay to be sad, though,” Shane offers meekly, like he would know anything about having a complicated relationship with a parent. Sure, his parents weren’t perfect, but he got the feeling they were entirely different from Ilya’s dad. “Or angry, or hurt. Or anything. Or nothing.”
Ilya actually laughs. “You say everything, which is actually nothing.” Shane lets himself laugh too, because Ilya doesn’t mean this as an insult or a criticism. And he’s right. Shane is just saying bullshit. But it’s not nothing that Shane made Ilya laugh – that counts for something, at least, for Shane, who is still trying to figure out how to offer support to Ilya, given both the situation and their… situation with each other. Which has recently changed a lot.
“Yeah, I don’t know what to say,” Shane admits, and at that, Ilya is suddenly thumbing a finger over Shane’s cheek, staring into his eyes. “Is okay,” Ilya hums. “You just look pretty and hold my hand, is perfect.” Perfect. The praise makes Shane’s heart fucking soar. If the circumstances were different, he might even be half-hard from that comment. Ilya, gently stroking his cheek, calling him pretty and perfect in a completely genuine way, not hidden behind a chirp or a joke or anything at all.
“You have to leave,” Ilya says somberly. “Go play game. Will be easy for you without me on the ice.” Shane rolls his eyes, but they both know Ilya’s right. Although Shane’s not sure how focused he’s going to be after all this. “Focus on the game,” Ilya demands, as if reading Shane’s fucking mind.
“Will you text me? When you have your flight details.” Shane wants to ask for more text updates than just the flight, but he doesn’t want to overstep or overwhelm Ilya by adding another thing to his mental to-do list.
“Mm, yes, I will text you,” Ilya pulls away from Shane now, standing up. Shane hums his approval and busies himself with retrieving his shirt, which he left folded on Ilya’s nightstand.
Ilya walks him to the door, hands in his pockets, eyes down. He’s withdrawn, but Shane can’t blame him for that. It’s a lot. It’s understandable. At the door, Shane slips on his shoes before turning to Ilya.
“Hey,” Shane says, with enough authority that Ilya looks up, meets his gaze. Shane leans in and gives Ilya a soft kiss; Ilya welcomes the contact, lets a hand float to Shane’s hip to ground himself. When Shane pulls away, he lets his face hover centimeters from Ilya’s for a moment. “I’m here for you, you know. Whatever you need.” His words are awkward, conveying for the first time the unprecedentedness of this entire fucking situation.
Ilya lets out a small laugh and a true smile. His hand gripping Shane’s hip a little tighter, he murmurs something in Russian. “Ты такой чертовски идеальный.” It’s gentle, intimate, and Shane wants to demand that he translate it, but it’s not the time for that. Besides, Ilya comes up with a reply for Shane to hear in English.
“I know, Shane. I know.”
_____
Shane isn’t playing badly, but it’s definitely a departure from normal; his head is clearly not in the game. It’s not hugely impacting the score though, because Ilya isn’t on the ice, and half the Raiders team seems to be just as out of it as Shane. The announcers seem confused, unable to explain why Shane Hollander is asleep at the wheel or where Ilya Rozanov could be, his absence only cited as “family-related.” After the end of the first period, the score sits firmly at 0-0.
“What’s going on with you, man?” Hayden asks him when they get back to the locker room. “Was it something with Lily?”
“No,” Shane snaps so fast, glaring at his best friend. Hayden puts his hands up in innocence. “Hey man, no harm intended. I’m just concerned.”
“I’m fine,” Shane says, and he feels a little guilty for treating Hayden like that. “Sorry.”
Hayden drops it after that, so Shane quickly checks his phone. Two messages from Ilya, both sent six minutes ago.
Lily: You are playing like shit.
Lily: Leaving for flight now. Layover in New York.
Shane lets out a relieved breath, some of the tension rolling out of his shoulders.
Shane: Good.
Shane can’t leave it at that; he needs Ilya to know… what exactly? He already told him that he supports him, whatever he needs. And over text, it’ll sound dumb to say it again. Ilya might make fun of him. Or he might not. He might appreciate it. Shane thinks about Ilya in his arms, Ilya’s curls buried in Shane’s neck, how Ilya held his hand, squeezed. How Ilya looked at him, straight into his eyes and into the depths of his heart. Fuck it.
Shane: Call me if you need?
His vulnerability is rewarded immediately with a response from Ilya.
Lily: I will. Thank you.
Lily: I have to go. Keep playing like shit so Raiders win.
Shane huffs out a laugh.
Shane: You fucking wish, dude.
Lily: 😈
The Metros win 1-0. Shane wants to gloat, thinks the banter might be alleviating for Ilya. But Ilya's on a plane now, so he doesn't text. As much as he wants to, he doesn't text Ilya at all.
Two days later, Ilya texts him, asking if he's alone, if he can call.
Shane: Yes.