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Shane didn't plan on approaching Ilya while at the games. He knew it was different here, in his home country. Whatever they were back home, they couldn't be anything here.
He would keep a respectful and professional distance, and they would both focus on what they really wanted: to play good hockey.
His plan fell apart at the table when he was surrounded by Carter Vaughn, going on about how it wasn't safe for “guys like that” and how fucking brave it was for his buddy Joe just to show up.
Shane always knew that the situation over here wasn't good, but he never let himself think about just how bad it could be. How terrifying it would be to have to be brave every day just by existing. The effort to just stay standing.
He wondered how alone Ilya had felt when he lived here. Did he ever feel safe in his homeland? Did he feel safe right now?
The pit in his stomach opened the chasm of anxiety he usually keeps on a much tighter leash, but today, tonight, he couldn't think properly until he got eyes on Rozanov. He just needed to see him. He wouldn't even say anything.
It wasn't the place for it. It wasn't the time for it; hell, if Shane had any of his common sense left, he would recognize this was actually the worst thing he could do. Yet his feet took him closer to the Olympian who was perched on the balcony, reminiscent of the rooftop after their first rookie of the year celebration.
He remembered that Ilya was upset then too; Shane didn't think he really understood the gravity of what coming home meant for the other man.
As soon as he opened his mouth, he could feel the tension in the room change; Ilya didn't want him here. Shane should go. But selfishly, he had to ask.
“Are you okay?”
…
Shane looked down at his phone as it rang, his brain trying to decide if this was real, or if he finally had the mental break that so many thought he was driving towards.
Incoming call:
Lily
He blinked and realized that it was going to go to voicemail if he didn't pick up soon. He should pick up, right? His own words echoed in his head, ‘you didn't answer my texts’ Ilya's immediate response back, ‘no I didn't answer your boring texts. now will you go?’
They didn't call. It just wasn't a thing they did. Shane knew personally he'd be too paranoid that someone would hear his voice on the other line and figure them out, that whatever thing this was that he tried to protect would be set loose into the world. They didn't call each other. Ilya wasn't even answering his texts.
But here he was, calling.
If he felt that something was off before, the moment that he heard the other man breathing through the receiver, Shane knew for certain that he was in trouble.
At first, wet breaths were all he heard, then a soft, “Hollander.”
“Roz-” Shane cleared his throat. “Lily. What's going on? Are you okay?”
Shifting on the other side of the phone, the pause in his answer told Shane everything he needed to know before he opened his mouth.
“Ah, hard to say. I think, probably not so good.”
Shane hazards a glance at his roommate from Team Canada, out like a light after celebrating their team's victory.
“Okay. Where are you?”
“Bridge, maybe? It's very dark. I'm surprised my phone is still working.”
A bridge? Shit. For the second time that night, Shane thought back to the rooftop of their rookie of the year awards. What had he said as he approached him? … “It's not worth jumping over.”
Had he missed it then? Has he missed it now?
“A bridge? Rozanov, you're not-” The words died in his mouth as he choked around the shape of them.
“No, Hollander.” Ilya sighed, sounding more defeated than Shane had ever heard him. “Just need help getting home. Someone who can be…discreet.”
Shane tried not to think about the implication that of everyone in the county, he was the one that Ilya Rozanov called when he needed help.
“You know I don't have a license to drive over here, right?”
He didn't know why he said it. What he really wanted to say was, I'm on my way, don't worry. And he was on his way, really. His winter coat zipped over his fleece, hat pulled snug around his ears. He wasn't even sure where he was going or how he was getting there, but he would get to him.
“Yes, but maybe you are important hockey player and could convince taxi to let you out of Olympic Village and break curfew?”
…
“Jesus, fuck. Rozanov?” Shane wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it sure as shit wasn't the 6ft Russian to be curled against himself, shaking like a leaf, leaning against the underside of a bridge.
The unrelenting wind kept pushing his hair in front of his face, and Shane cursed himself for how desperately he wanted to caress his jaw.
Now that he was close enough, he could see that his cheekbone glistened with a wet reflection, his curly hair holding the weight of water turned to ice in the air. What the fuck.
Shane bent down into a squat, his hand moving slowly towards the man to give him time to retreat if he needed.
It was then that Ilya finally made eye contact with him, and something in Shane broke.
His face was a mess of purple and blue bruising, a cut on the edge of his eyebrow streaming just steadily enough to stain the side of his hair red.
The worst was his eyes.
Bloodshot and tortured, they released something so primal in Shane, a need to protect that he'd never felt with anyone before. He wanted to kill whatever bastard did this.
“God, we need to get you inside. What happened? Where else are you hurt?”
Ilya attempted a laugh, but it came out as a pathetic cough. “I'm fine. Just need, ah... assistance. To my apartment, maybe?”
“Okay. Shit. Yeah, I can do that. You live close by?”
He couldn't tell if the movement from Ilya's shoulders was a shrug or if it was still shaking from the cold.
“Jesus, you're freezing. When did it even rain?”
Ilya scoffed as he allowed Shane to get an arm under his shoulder to support some of his weight.
“I am Russian. We do not get cold.”
“Your teeth are literally chattering, asshole.”
Another maybe shrug, maybe shake.
They had left the privacy that the bridge had lent them, slowly shuffling down the road towards what Shane had to assume was Ilya's apartment. He had almost forgotten that he asked a second question when the other man responded.
“It didn't rain. Water is from river.”
The way he said it like a confession turned Shane's stomach. The river. The bridge. The bruises. The blood.
He stopped their movements long enough to catch Ilya's eyes, studying what he found there. Searching for answers that he knew he wouldn't find, and he wouldn't dare push- not at 3am in the middle of who-goddamn-knows-where, with the temperature only dropping.
“Let's just get you home.”
…
By the time they had reached his apartment, Shane was wondering if he should have called emergency services. The shaking wasn't as bad as earlier, but he was much more unsteady, and he didn't like the unfocused look in his eyes.
He tried desperately to recall the progression of hypothermia, the symptoms to look out for, what was dangerous. He knew for certain that staying in cold, wet clothes would only make things worse.
The most unsettling thing was how pliant Ilya was. He’d never seen him like this, no fight in him, just moving where Shane pushed, staying where he held him.
“Let's get you out of these, okay?” Shane tried to whisper gently as he helped Ilya out of his outer jacket, the material sticking to his skin.
As if realizing for the first time what was happening, Ilya whined and tried to push Shane away.
“No. We can't do this. Not here.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, Rozanov. I'm not trying to have sex with you. I'm trying to help you live to see tomorrow, and not, you know- die of hypothermia.”
“Hmm. Maybe is time.”
Shane's heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach. What the fuck was he talking about?
“Time to, what, die of hypothermia? I thought Russians didn't get cold.”
If Ilya picked up on the way his voice broke at ‘die’ he didn't say anything, just helped shift his body so Shane could peel off the remainder of the offending clothes.
Normally Shane would fold any discarded clothes, but tonight he left them in a sopping heap, trying not to think about the red that now stained the collar and continued to drip down his hairline.
His skin was still freezing, but the shaking had all but stopped, which only made Shane worry more. Didn't he read somewhere that it meant his body had lost the energy to produce heat? Goddamnit, why had he not studied more first aid?
He wrapped the man in another blanket, rubbing his own hand against Ilya's to try and warm them up.
Were you supposed to put someone with hypothermia in the bath or shower to warm up? Or was it to avoid those?
He couldn't be certain, so he continued to dry off any remaining dampness from Ilya, piling more blankets than probably necessary on the naked man.
Shane suddenly remembered a fact from a survival documentary he had watched with his dad a few Christmases ago.
Body heat.
Skin-to-skin contact.
“Rozanov. I know you're not totally with it right now; your body's in survival mode, but I have to ask…are you okay if I warm you up?”
The other man looked up at him in confusion, his eyes blinking slowly.
“You're here?”
Panic shot through Shane, and once again he considered how much hell would break loose if he took him to the hospital right now. Would he be exposing their secret? Would he be endangering Ilya and his life in Russia?
He sighed, wishing someone else were here to tell him what to do, to take the decision away from him. If he chose wrong and Ilya suffers or, fuck, dies… he knows he wouldn't be able to live with himself.
“Yeah. I'm here. Can I join you? I think it will help.”
Shane slipped out of his own jacket and pulled at the collar of his shirt, waiting for confirmation from the man in front of him.
“Mmmm, yes. Want you..” Ilya made a grabby motion with his hand, trying to orchestrate his face into something seductive.
“Hey- no sex. Just getting warm, okay?”
He had to admit, it felt weird stripping down in Ilya's apartment, knowing it wasn't for the purpose of sex. All they ever really did together was hook up; somehow this felt infinitely more intimate.
Shane slid underneath the pile of blankets and pulled Ilya towards him, shocked by the chill of the contact at first before relaxing as the other man melted into his hold. He was wrapped around Ilya's back, spooning him with his hands in front of Ilya's chest, feeling his heartbeat.
Maybe he was crazy, but he could swear that he felt his body heat transferring over to the other man, morphing them into one singular beat of the universe. His heart ached as he realized that he couldn't kid himself anymore; he wanted this.
Not just the sex, but the holding, and the phone calls, and the entirety of what made up the man lying next to him. It should terrify him. It does terrify him, naming a thing he had been avoiding for over half his life. But somehow it was also liberating, even just admitting it to himself.
With his hands resting over Ilya's heart, and the comforting sounds of steady breathing filling the room, Shane let himself slip away.
…
Morning light streaming through unfamiliar windows woke Shane, who had a moment of panic as he tried to recall why he was naked in bed with Ilya after the Olympics. In Russia.
The phone call. The river. The bridge. The bruises. The blood.
The rest of the night filled in quickly as he reached for Ilya, just to make sure he was still there.
His body was warmer now, radiating some of its own heat back to him as he gently felt for the heartbeat that he was beginning to get far too attached to.
Shane couldn't tell what time it was, or how long they slept. He only hoped that he wouldn't get in too much trouble for not staying in the village. Even if he did… he looked down at Ilya's sleeping form, still curled towards him …it would be worth it.
As if sensing that he was thinking of him, the other man stirred in his sleep before he violently shot up, awake and on guard in half a second.
“What is…?” Ilya looked around, cataloging Shane's state of undress, his own apartment.
Before the panic could truly reach his eyes, Shane sat up and lifted his hands, gently.
“We didn't do anything, I swear.” He waited for a response, seeing that Ilya wasn't giving it he continued. “I'm sorry, I know you didn't want to see me while we were here but when you called last night, and you were in trouble… I just wanted to make sure you were okay. What do you remember?”
Recognition formed in Ilya's eyes as the events from the previous night played out for him.
“Hmm. I remember being cold. Calling you, maybe. Not much after that.”
Shane ignored the satisfaction of Ilya admitting he, a Russian, had been cold. “You were in a pretty bad way. At least mild to severe hypothermia. How are you feeling now?”
Ilya sat back down on the bed, pulling the blanket over his exposed half. “Kind of like shit, but not too bad. I, uh…” he paused, for once at a loss for words. “Thank you.”
Shane could tell there was more he wanted to say, and silently ran his hand along the length of Ilya's forearm, giving him the space to find the words himself.
“Some people were not very happy with my performance in the games. Losing to Latvia. Bringing shame to my country.”
Shane's stomach curdled at the confession. “Wait- fans did this to you?”
Ilya’s mouth turned up into a smile, unable to control the laugh that escaped as he shook his head.
“Ah, no. I wouldn't consider my father a fan.”
What. What? Shane was going to throw up. What the actual fuck.
“Your dad did this to you?”
The humor was gone from his face as he shrugged. “Not the first time he disciplines after a loss. The river…that was new.”
Shane was still stuck on ‘not the first time’ He had said it so casually, like it was normal. Horror spread through him as he recontextualized everything he knew about Ilya Rozanov. How many of the bruises that he shows up with when they meet are actually from hockey? How many times has his own father made him bleed?
“That was… he could have killed you. Shit, he almost did kill you! What the fuck?!”
Ilya wouldn't meet his gaze, fighting his own battle in his mind, no doubt.
“He is complicated man.”
“Nothing goddamn complicated about attempted murder.”
“He, has, what is English word… amnesia? Memory issues?”
“Dementia?”
“Da. He has this. Sometimes forgets things. Forgets people. What he's doing. Mixes reality.”
What Ilya didn't say is that he wasn't sure if his father was in an episode, or just got carried away last night. What he didn't say was that he wasn't sure most of the time, but having the excuse to hold onto… the reason or explanation behind why things happened- he could find shelter there.
“God. I'm sorry.” Shane was at a loss for words. He didn't know how to make this right; he wasn't sure anyone had the power to.
The silence stretched on, and Shane knew if he didn't say anything now, he would lose his nerve. He had to ask.
“Uhm... you don't have to answer right now, just think about it, but this summer, for break.. you should come to my cottage. In Ottawa. Don't come back to Russia. You deserve to be treated well and I…”
Ilya raised his eyebrow, a flirtatious smile dancing across his lips. “You would treat me well?”
“Like you wouldn't believe.” Shane laughed, the fact that Ilya hadn't shot him down immediately sending relief down through his spine.
Maybe he felt it too, the shift. Last night changed things; it was different now. Shane couldn't deny that this wasn't just a ‘convenient hookup ’; he didn't know what it was exactly, but damn if he didn't want to find out.