Chapter Text
I don’t think this is a good idea.
Ilya sighs and takes a far too deep drink of his vodka, while a tabloid plastered with the face of Shane Hollander and his fucking fiancée on the cover sits in his trash can.
He has no idea why he bought it. Okay, well, he does, but it’s less fun to admit you’re pining in unhealthy ways than to live in denial. Sometimes, anyway.
Shane had told him that very first night that they were a bad idea. Ilya should have listened. He should have known the way the boy with the black hair and the freckles and the determined look in his eyes called to him like a goddamn siren from the moment they met would mean so much trouble.
But he didn’t listen, because thinking with his fucking dick was easier, and he just wanted Shane so much, there was no possibility in his mind that he wouldn’t have him.
Ilya often thinks about the last time they were together, here in his penthouse. He dissects it. Picks it apart. Wonders where he went wrong. Each time, hoping for a different outcome than he got. Because honestly, he knows exactly what went wrong.
He’d asked Shane to stay and cooked for him and stupidly said his first name when they were fucking. He knew it had freaked Shane out, could see it in the way he scrambled to get away with his lame excuses and the panic clearly written all over his face, but he hadn’t thought it had been enough to drive Shane straight into the arms of a woman.
One utterance of Shane’s name from his lips, and he’d run straight into a relationship. Straight into heteronormativity.
How boring, and utterly devastating. Classic Shane.
But not all that surprising, he supposes. He’s witnessed firsthand how much Shane struggles within what the world expects from him. He’d repeatedly made sure Ilya would keep them a secret. He’d bought an entire fucking building to avoid Ilya being seen at his home.
Shane has been clearly terrified the entire time Ilya has known him, constantly fighting against the constraints of who society thought he should be and who he really is.
And Ilya gets it. He really does. He’s been terrified of it himself for a long time. Not being able to return to Russia had been a huge contributor to his own closeted life. That’s only recently changed with the death of his father. There’s nothing that really ties him there now.
Plus, the culture of the sport they play can be brutal. There’s two molds to fit into: be married with kids by twenty-five or be a notorious womanizer. Ilya can at least hide behind one of them, and Shane has clearly chosen the other.
He leans against his kitchen counter, glancing at the trash can. He kind of wants to throw up just looking at the photo of Shane and Rose on the front announcing their engagement. Instead, he focuses on Shane’s face. He’s smiling, but it’s no different than the public-facing smile he gives all the time. Slightly strained, not reaching his eyes. It doesn’t read at all like a man who’s excited about getting married.
He’d never be so bold as to label Shane as anything. That’s for Shane Hollander and Shane Hollander alone to decide and tell, but Ilya is struggling so much to believe that he’s happy with this movie star woman. But not just with this particular woman; with any woman.
Ilya has seen Shane’s unguarded smile. Has felt what it’s like to be the recipient of it, and it’s…life-changing.
Why wouldn’t Shane be able to show that to someone he’s chosen to marry?
Ilya can admit now that he’s in love with Shane. It hadn’t been easy reaching the revelation, but losing Shane, even when he hadn’t ever really been Ilya’s to begin with, has forced him to face a lot of things.
He’s loved people before, sure –his mother, Svetlana, even some of his teammates across the years. But loving Shane is altogether different. An all-consuming, living, breathing thing that Ilya simultaneously wants never to have known and never forget.
It sits with him constantly, now, this being in love, and it’s changed everything. For better or worse, he’s not quite sure yet.
He misses Shane so much that it feels like a sickness inhabits his body. Hockey hasn’t been enjoyable. The hookups that used to satisfy him now only leave him feeling empty. He even finds himself irritable with people he’d never minded being around before.
Before he can stop himself, Ilya lights a cigarette, and collapses on the couch, taking a long drag and letting the nicotine settle the raging storm inside him, if only for a little while. But it ultimately just reminds him of shit Shane would always give him for smoking.
God, not even his vices are safe. There is nothing in Ilya Rozanov’s life that isn’t haunted by Shane Hollander. It’s exhausting, and he wants it to stop. And in his darkest moments, he wishes he could forget it all and go back to the way he was before.
Back to when he hadn’t known what real happiness was for a few moments before it was snatched away as quickly as it came.
His phone vibrates on the coffee table, and the name on the screen has his heart immediately hammering in his chest.
Jane.
They’ve never spoken on the phone before, and Ilya can’t think of a single reason why Shane would be calling him. The last and only time he’d reached out since starting his relationship with Rose was after Ilya’s father had died. A text that sent his condolences, and Ilya hadn’t responded.
What was there to say?
He momentarily debates whether he should answer before curiosity, a little fear, and a lot of masochism win out.
“Hollander?” he says, after he’s swiped the screen and put the phone to his ear. “What is wrong?”
Because something has to be wrong for him to call, doesn't it?
“Why does something have to be wrong for me to call?” Shane says, and Ilya isn’t ready for the reaction his body has to hearing that voice again.
It all rushes back. Everything he’s tried to suppress, the want, the longing, the love. It’s back with a vengeance, and he closes his eyes against the onslaught.
It’s not like he hasn’t seen Shane at all in the year or so since they last hooked up. He’d seen him plenty, but that was in small, controlled environments where Ilya could mask his feelings behind insults and hits and goals.
This? This purposeful act of reaching out? That is something else entirely.
“You have never called,” Ilya says, slightly proud that it only sounds mildly strangled.
“Mmm,” Shane hums, long and breathy. “Maybe I just wanted to call a friend.”
“I was not aware you had any of those,” Ilya replies, leaning on the jabs that so freely flow from his mouth in an attempt to hide the ocean’s worth of depth he’s feeling. Calling them ‘friends’ is such a stretch. They have been so much more, and so much less, all at the same time.
“Still an asshole,” Shane says, and Ilya finally registers the slur of his words.
“Are you drunk?” Ilya asks, so used to being called shitty names that it barely even registers.
“Maaaaybe,” Shane drawls out, the pitch of his voice rising as the word goes on, and under any other circumstance, Ilya might have found it adorable. Instead, he’s just concerned. “Not a lot. Just like…a teeny tiny little itty bitty bit.”
“You do not get drunk,” Ilya says, and then, a little more forcefully than before, “What is wrong?”
He listens to see if he can hear anything in the background of the call. There’s no music or people talking. It’s quiet. Which means Shane is probably drinking alone.
“I n-never call, I never get drunk, you just think you know me so well, don’t you?”
Ilya’s brow furrows at this. Because he does know Shane. He’s realized this in their time apart. How could he not, after years and years of meetups? Of building connection and intimacy that a lot of people spend their whole lives hoping to achieve.
And sure, it had been mostly through their bodies, but it was connection all the same, and through that he’d learned.
He knows how driven Shane is to the point of restriction. How he bites his lip when he’s nervous. How much he desperately wants to live up to everyone’s expectations of him. He knows about the absolutely beautiful person who lies underneath all the repression. Recognizes how deeply he feels under his mostly stoic facade. The way Shane’s face and eyes say everything his words can’t. He knows about the small gathering of freckles at the back of his neck. About the imprint he’s left on Ilya’s soul.
He knows how scared Shane is.
“I do know you,” he says. There’s really no point in hiding that now. “So what is wrong?”
“N-nothing,” Shane stumbles, and Ilya doesn’t believe him, but if Shane is not willing to talk, it’s not like he’s in a position to make him.
A long beat of silence stretches over the miles between them, and then, in a voice that sounds a little more sober, “I’m getting married.”
Ilya exhales a breath, trying his best to steady himself before he speaks again. “So I have heard.”
“A-are you happy for me?”
The absurdity of the question makes Ilya bark out a laugh. Hadn’t he suffered enough already? “Should I be?”
“I hopped…” A hiccup interrupts him. “I hoped you would be.”
“Then fine,” Ilya says, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “I am thrilled for you.”
“Rose is…is so, so great, you know?” Shane goes on.
“Wonderful.”
“She’s so beautiful, my parents love her so much, she’s so nice.”
“Is ‘so’ your new favorite word?” Ilya says, fighting the urge to grind his teeth. It’s one thing to hear about Rose Landry’s perfection from an article. Hearing it from Shane’s mouth feels like a slap to the face.
Shane snorts. “You’re funny.”
If only that mattered.
“Why are you calling me, Hollander?” Ilya asks more harshly than he means to. But he’s tired, and impatient, and strung out on a mixture of emotions and longing for the voice on the other end of the phone. “If nothing is wrong, why are you calling?”
“Will you come?” Shane asks, and Ilya’s heart sinks before he can even say the rest of it. He shouldn’t have asked. He should have just let Shane ramble. “To…to the wedding?”
Ilya lets himself imagine for a moment he does go. He sees a lavish affair at some ranch in California with flowers everywhere and candles, and so many people that the faces blend into nothing recognizable.
It’s frustrating because it’s so the opposite of what he knows Shane would want. Shane doesn’t call attention to himself. Shane deserves something small and low-key, where he feels comfortable enough to express himself.
Not that he has any real idea what Shane’s wedding will be like. But if he and Shane ever…
Ilya closes his eyes and shakes his head. That line of thinking didn’t help anyone.
The lump in his throat feels insurmountable. But he manages to say, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Shane doesn’t acknowledge it. “I invited alllll these people, but the only one I actually care if they come or not is you.” He stops and giggles. “Isn’t that weird?
“Yes,” Ilya replies, because it is. You shouldn’t want your years-long situationship at your wedding. He doesn’t want the drunken musings of Shane Hollander to give him hope.
Shane laughs again, but it’s deeper this time, and the sound fills Ilya with a longing so intense he more than sort of wants to cry. “You were always an asshole,” Shane mentions again. “I love that about you.”
Ilya’s breath catches. He wants to be thrilled about the small confession, but it just makes him feel heavy with what could have been. “You don’t love anything about me, Hollander. We are rivals, remember? That’s all we are.”
Shane makes a noise that almost sounds hurt. “Do you ever…do you ever think about what we could have been?” Shane asks. “If things were different?”
Only every goddamn minute of every goddamn day.
He should hang up. It’s dangerous, and Shane is more than a little tipsy, and Ilya shouldn’t entertain this at all. But he’s weak, and there’s a part of him that would rather be tortured with whatever scraps Shane will throw him than have nothing at all.
So instead, he lies and says, “No. What good would that do?”
“I do,” Shane admits, voice quiet like he’s telling a secret. “All the time.”
“Don’t do that,” Ilya chokes out.
“Why not?” Shane sounds petulant, and Ilya can almost imagine the concentrated pout he’s wearing.
“You are getting married, Hollander,” and it’s as much a reminder to himself as it is to Shane. “You are not supposed to wonder when you are getting married.”
There’s a long pause where he can’t even pick up on Shane’s breathing, and Ilya looks at his phone to see if the call is still going.
But then, “Do you r-remember the last time we were…together?”
The way he emphasizes the last word like it’s forbidden, makes Ilya’s mouth turn up even though the memory makes him ache. “No,” he responds as if he hadn’t been thinking about that very night just before Shane called. Mostly, he just wants to be the asshole everyone thinks he is, but also, he really wants to hear what Shane has to say. “Remind me.”
“At…your penthouse? I think?” He pauses and groans. “My memory is shit right now.”
“Mmm,” Ilya hums. “The alcohol, maybe.”
“Shut up,” Shane says, but Ilya can hear the smile in his voice. “You were so sweet that day.”
He’s glad Shane isn’t there to see his cheeks flush at the compliment. “Can I direct quote you in my biography?”
“You made me food and asked me to stay.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“We had six…no, wait, sex. That’s the word,” Shane corrects himself.
“We usually did.”
“And you said my name. You called me Shane,” he says in a terrible impression of Ilya’s accent. “I freaked out so much.”
He tries to swallow down the regret he feels. “Ah, yes. I remember now.”
“I freaked out so much, I thought for sure you knew.”
“Knew what?” Ilya questions, but Shane just sighs in a miserable sort of way.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Ilya decides not to press him. Shane’s right. It doesn’t matter now.
“I…sorry. I’m sorry. That…that I ran,” Shane admits. “I wish I hadn’t.”
As much as Ilya is glad to hear it, it doesn’t change anything. “But you did.”
“I did, and now I…”
He finds himself prodding for the second time in a matter of minutes. “You…?”
Shane sucks in a breath, “I think I miss you, and I don’t know what to do about it.” The words come out in such a rush that it takes Ilya even longer to process the English than it normally would.
When he finally understands, Ilya puts his phone on the coffee table and cradles his head in his hands, his long fingers gripping painfully at his hair.
He’s not sure he’s ever felt more defeated than he does right now. It had been one thing knowing Shane was getting married. Ilya can eventually come to terms with that. Maybe. Someday. But this? The way Shane is talking like he wants things to be different?
It feels cruel in a way that he didn’t know was possible. And Ilya is no stranger to cruelty.
He tries to shut it down. “You do not do anything about it. You get married and live your happy life, and live boringly ever after.”
But of course, Shane ignores him. “Please, come to the wedding. M-my wedding. Mine and…Rose’s wedding,” he says, like he’s having a hard time remembering.
Ilya’s angry now. At himself for picking up the phone. At Shane for not knowing he’s hurting. At the world for forcing them into this. “Why do you want me to come to your stupid wedding?”
“I…I just…I just want you there. It’ll make it easier.”
Something breaks inside him, shattering into something that feels irreversible.
“Oh, fuck that,” Ilya spits out. “You cannot use me to make yourself feel better because you do not like the choices you have made. Is not enough, Hollander. It will never be enough.”
“Please,” he begs again. “I–”
“No,” Ilya says, because as much as he wants to keep listening, he can’t. If he cannot choose Shane, he has to choose himself.
“But–”
“Goodbye, Hollander.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so final, but he knows it has to be. There is no fixing their situation. There’s nothing to fix because they never were anything that could be broken in the first place. And Shane can have all the regret he wants, Ilya certainly has his own, but Shane is still going to marry Rose Landry.
He has made his choice, and it isn’t Ilya.
There are so many more things he wants to say. Don’t get married. We can figure something else out. Don’t you want to be with me? Fucking fight for me. For us.
He wishes he were brave enough, but he knows it doesn’t matter.
He hangs up the phone. His breaths come fast, and he sinks to the floor. He tries to scream, but it comes out as a strangled sob, and the sound doesn’t stop for a long time.
oOo
Ilya watches as Scott Hunter kisses a man after he wins the Stanley Cup. There’s an initial reaction of shock and awe, and a little bit of pride. He can’t believe the ancient son of bitch had it in him.
But that’s quickly replaced by a mixture of jealousy and sadness that’s so potent, Ilya finds it hard to breathe. He sits under the spray of the shower until the water turns cold enough that his whole body is shivering so hard his teeth chatter.
That could have been them. He could have had that with Shane if either of them had been willing to admit they meant so much more to each other than just the need to fuck every few months.
But now Shane is getting married, and it’s too late.
And as he tries to fall asleep that night, his entire body aches with what he knows he’ll never have again.
oOo
Three days after Scott Hunter kissed his secret boyfriend on television for the world to see, Ilya is packing his things. He’s going home for the summer to Russia. It’s not that he really wants to, but with Shane’s upcoming wedding, he knows he needs to put about a million miles of space between the two of them.
A continent or two doesn’t seem like enough, but it’ll have to do.
He hopes going back to his own country will give him some clarity he so desperately needs. He’s not ready to move on; he’s fairly sure that will never happen, but he’s also sick and tired of feeling so empty. Maybe at least the distance will help a bit, and he’s decided he’s not telling anyone left in his family that he’ll be there.
He knows things are bad when Russia is his escape, but if there’s one thing all the trauma in his life has taught him, it’s expecting the unexpected. You just deal with it.
So Ilya is just going to take time by himself. Just like every other day of his fucking life, apparently.
He wants to be furious at Shane. That phone call had left him fucked up for days, but mostly, he just feels sad. Sad that Shane clearly wants something different than what he has, but will always be too afraid to take it.
It’s storming outside with rain so intense he can barely hear the television he has on for noise, so he doesn’t feel quite so lonely, and the lightning is so frequent, he doesn’t even really need the lights on.
The storm is fitting, he thinks, matching the inside of his mind for so many months now. If his situation isn’t going to change, the least the weather could do is match his brooding energy.
He’s beginning to zip up his first suitcase up when the knock starts.
He almost misses it as thunder rumbles through the Boston sky, but it’s insistent and sure, and keeps going, getting louder as the seconds pass, and Ilya makes his way to answer.
By the time he reaches the door, the knock has turned into a bang. Ilya curses in Russian before calling out, “For fuck’s sake, I am com-”
He flings the door open before he can finish his sentence, eyes growing wide at the sight in front of him.
An absolutely soaking wet Shane Hollander stands outside his door, breathless and wild-looking as he lets his hand drop to his side while a literal puddle forms at his feet from the water dripping off his clothes.
“Ilya,” Shane breathes, and Ilya feels the world tilt upside down, and then it starts to roll at the sound of his name coming from that mouth, tumbling and tumbling at a speed he can never hope to recover from. “Hi.”