Chapter Text
Ilya took another pull from the bottle in his trembling hand. The vodka no longer burned. He didn’t feel anything, actually. Not the sting in his throat, not the pain of his shattered heart.
It was his own fault. He’d wanted what he had no right to. He’d hoped when he should have known better.
He’d always known he was easy to use and easy to leave. Disposable, if you will. But he thought that Shane Hollander, nice, polite, sincere and Canadian, might be the exception. He had wanted Shane- no, Hollander- to be the exception.
Because if Hollander could just leave him behind, then no one would stay.
He shook his head, and the room span. He closed his eyes, but that made the spinning worse. The world was soft at the edges and tilted as he got unsteadily to his feet. He swayed, reaching for the wall to anchor himself, still gripping the cold glass of the vodka bottle in his other hand.
He snickered at the idea of Russia’s greatest hockey player for generations, a miracle on the ice, unable to stand steadily in his own living room.
Another long pull of vodka. Then another, the level in the bottle dropping in a way Ilya should have found alarming.
He didn’t even notice.
Unsteadily, he made his way upstairs, stumbling and pulling himself up with the bannister. At the door to his bedroom he paused, holding onto the doorframe for stability. His eyes fell on the unmade bed, the rumpled sheets still smelling of Shane - Hollander - and bearing witness to the wreckage of a relationship that, just hours earlier, had been the most important thing in Ilya’s life.
Something beautiful. Something fragile.
Something broken by Ilya’s own neediness and stupidity.
He drank again. And again. When he tried to take another pull, he found the bottle was empty.
Somewhere in the back of his vodka-soaked mind, something was screaming that this wasn’t good.
Too much. Too fast.
He should call someone. He needed his phone, but it wasn’t in his hand. He had nothing but an empty bottle of vodka.
Ilya actually laughed out loud at how accurately that represented his entire life.
He should find his phone. Call… who? Not Hollander. He wouldn’t be contacting Hollander again. That was done. Not Svetlana. She would be so angry. Not Marleau. They had a game. Marleau would be on the ice.
Oh. Oh.
Ilya should be on the ice. Right now. Even the wrong side of a bottle of his best vodka, he knew that was bad. He was missing a game. Right now. Against Montreal. Against Shane. Hollander.
And he realised he didn’t care. Not about the game. Not about his team. Not about seeing Shane. It would all hurt too much. He didn’t want to do it anymore.
He didn’t want to do anything anymore.
The thought hit him hard, washed through him like the ocean, and left him cold. Numb.
Maybe he didn’t have to do anything anymore. He could make that choice. To just stop. So many people did.
His Mama had.
He smiled at the memories of his mother that rose unbidden in his clouded mind. Her voice as she sang. Her smile.
Her cold hand that day when he found her.
The empty little plastic bottle she was still holding.
Pills.
He had pills.
Staggering across his bedroom, Ilya left the empty vodka bottle on the dresser and stumbled into his en suite bathroom. He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he opened the cupboard.
He couldn’t meet his own eyes.
His unsteady hand reached for the little orange bottle on the shelf. It took a moment for his fingers to work out how to grab it. He dimly realised that he was beyond the normal levels of drunk. The world seemed to be the other side of some sort of filter. Real but not real.
Maybe all of this was inside his head.
Maybe he didn’t exist at all.
Maybe taking the pills wouldn’t actually change anything if this wasn’t real anyway.
Suddenly, it was too much of an effort to keep upright. He slid down the wall, coming to rest on the cold tile. He could feel the chill through his sweatpants and it was grounding. Helped him focus, despite how much the world was swirling unsteadily around him.
Ilya tipped his head back, resting it against the wall. The ceiling swam above him. His body felt distant and out of control.
He couldn’t decide if he liked that feeling or if it terrified him. His arm fell loosely at his side and he heard the rattle of the pill bottle as it hit the floor. It stayed within his limp fingers, still within reach.
Still an escape.
Ilya knew he wanted the escape. Needed it. But he couldn’t focus on why any more. Something had happened. Had it?
He didn’t know what was real anymore. Everything seemed to be layered in a haze he couldn’t penetrate.
And he was just so tired. The world tilted again and he realised that the cold against his face was the tile of the floor.
He became aware that something in his pocket was vibrating. After a minute of uncoordinated one-handed fumbling he managed to free what turned out to be his phone.
Oh. He’d wanted that. But he couldn’t remember why.
It had stopped vibrating. Ilya looked at it, not sure what was required of him.
Then the screen lit up and the vibrating started again. Ilya looked at the screen, which seemed to be sideways for some reason. Or maybe he was sideways?
Jane
Jane was calling him.
But that wasn’t right. Jane wouldn’t call him. Jane was Shane. Ilya knew that. And Shane left. He couldn’t be with Ilya because Ilya pushed too hard. Shane would never call him again.
But Jane was calling.
And there was no way on earth that Ilya didn’t answer if Jane called.
He clumsily accepted the call.
“Rozanov? Where the hell are you? Why aren’t you here? You’re supposed to be on the ice.”
It was Jane. Shane. Hollander. And he sounded… something. Angry?
Ilya realised his cheeks were wet. He was crying.
He tried to bring himself to say something but his mind couldn’t seem to get his tongue to work.
“Damn you, Rozanov. Say something.”
And Ilya tried. He wanted to tell Hollander he was sorry. That he didn’t mean it. That he wouldn’t ask him to stay again. Wouldn’t ask for anything. That he would take whatever Hollander would give, just to be near him. So they could go back to what they had been.
Ilya wanted to say all of this, but all that came out when he tried was a strangled sob.
“Ilya?”
Hollander’s voice was suddenly different. Quieter. Not angry.
Worried?
There were muffled sounds on the phone, sounds of movement. Then there was a click and the background noise stopped instantly.
A moment of quiet. Then Hollander spoke again.
“Ilya, talk to me. Where are you?”
And finally, Ilya managed “Hollander”.
The name was soft, slurred, as it escaped almost as a sigh.
“Ilya. Where are you?” The repeated question more urgent now.
And then, “Are you Ok?”
Was Ilya Ok? He felt Ok. Nothing hurt and his brain was pleasantly numb, no thoughts any more
“Ilya”. Almost a shout, brining Ilya’s focus back to the phone.
“M’home. Bathroom” he slurred out. Then a beat later. “Floor”.
And then he giggled at the absurdity of telling Shane Hollander that. As if it mattered.
As if he mattered.
He knew he didn’t matter. And Hollander knew that too. It’s why he left. Like everyone left. It’s why Ilya was now a drunk mess on his bathroom floor, pills in hand.
Ilya giggled again at the thought of Hollander knowing where he was. He could never know. Ilya couldn’t remember who he was on the phone with, but he needed to make sure they wouldn’t talk to Hollander.
“Can’t tell’im” Ilya managed. “Can’t tell m’Jane. S’gone. So shhhhhhh. S’a secret”.
And he giggled once more. Everything seemed so funny.
“Ilya, did… did you take something? Why are you on the floor?” Concern, now. So earnest.
Ilya thought about it. It was a very difficult question. Why was he on the floor?
“Legs. Too spinny for legs. Floor’still spinny. But s’flat. Can’t fall off it.”
There was suddenly background noise again on the other end of the call. Shouting. Different voices. Movement. Ilya couldn’t make it out. He found the hum comforting, somehow. Like life was out there somewhere.
Even if he wasn’t part of it.
He felt his thoughts drift and the world became more fuzzy.
His fingers found the pill bottle and it rattled again as he moved it.
Pills. He wanted to take the pills. But maybe that could wait. He was too tired. Too tired to open the bottle.
“Ilya. Rozanov!”
Ilya blinked and looked around the room before realising the voice was coming from his phone.
“Mmm?” was all he could manage.
“Stay with me Ilya. People are coming to help you”.
“Hmm”. People. Coming. To help. Didn’t sound right. No one came for Ilya. Everyone left.
“Noo” he sighed. “No one ev’r comes. S’always that they leave.”
There was a sound on the end of the phone that he didn’t understand. Almost like someone was crying.
“Ilya, what did you take?” Pleading now. “You have to tell me. You have to hold on”.
Oh. He knew that voice. It was Jane. His Shane. No. Not his Shane. Just Hollander.
“S’Ok, m’ok. Shouldn’t worry. Didn’t take anything. No pills. Not yet. Only vodka. So much vodka.”
“Not yet” the words were flat, repeated back to him. “Ilya…”
“Sssssshhhhh. Tired. Too much vodka. Sleep now, I think.”
“No. No, Ilya. You can’t sleep. You have to stay with me. Talk to me.”
Ilya blinked, trying to focus.
“Can’t talk t’you. You left. Ran from tuna. Gone.”
“No, I’m here. With you.” Another noise Ilya didn’t understand. “How… how much did you drink, Ilya? How much is too much?”
Another hard question. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feel of the empty bottle.”
“One”.
“One? One what?” Hollander sounded confused.
“Bottle. S’ok. M’Russian. Doesn’t affect us.”
“Dammit, Ilya. A whole bottle? Have you been sick?”
Ilya scoffed out a disbelieving noise.
“No. Course not. Russians do not do this.”
Ilya sighed.
“Going to sleep now, Shane. So tired... So fuzzy... All spinning…” His voice drifted away.
“Ilya. Ilya. Rozanov! God, stay with me. Come on”.
But Ilya didn’t say anything. The only sound was slow breathing. Very slow. Too slow.
“Please, Ilya”, Shane sobbed through the phone.
Ilya didn’t hear him. He’d fallen into unconsciousness.
So he didn’t hear Shane sobbing his name.
He didn’t hear the first responders break down his front door. He didn’t hear them thunder up the stairs, calling his name. He didn’t feel the hands on him.
He didn’t hear them hang up his phone.
Across the city, in the Boston Raiders arena, Shane Hollander sat and stared at the phone, now silent in his hands.
“Ilya” he breathed, voice wrecked. “What did you do?”