Chapter Text
Ilya isn't sure how the argument even started. They were sat across from one another on his family's sofas, vodkas in hand, and the noise of whatever radio show had been chosen for the night droning on in the background. Just Ilya and Grigori. His father had been on the same rambling diatribe for what seemed like hours, and Ilya had long since given up trying to get him back on track. He had been ranting about Ilya's mother being late with dinner, again, despite the fact they had just eaten, and that she was long dead.
After a few drinks, the old man seemed to quieten, staring dead-eyed across the room, and Ilya breathed a sigh of relief. It was short lived. The radio buzzed with static, then burst back to life. A lucidity returned to him with it, his eyes scanned the room, more focused than they had been all night. "Why are you here?" he had rasped out, eyes narrowed at his son.
Ilya rubbed a hand over his face. "You asked me to come, father," he replied, as he had already done a dozen times in the past two days. It was the truth. Ilya had been on a few days break from his busy schedule. He had been more than ready to spend it playing video games on his couch, drinking more than was good for him, and desperately try not to think of Hollander and his new fucking perfect girlfriend. He'd seen paparazzi photos from only the day before, of Shane and his father at a coffee shop in Ottawa, shopping bags in hand. Ilya had wondered if Rose Landry was with them, flying home with Shane to meet his parents, her and Shane's mother picking out more decorative pillows for Shane's apartment. He hadn't been able to eat his dinner after, he felt so fucking sick.
Ilya's father had called in the early hours, agitated and rambling, asking where he was, why he was not back from school. After endless unanswered calls to Alexei, Ilya gave up and got on a plane. The decision wasn't an easy one. He'd paced his apartment for the better part of an hour.
For the slow hard years of his father's decline, Ilya could count on one hand the times he had been the one to answer his father's confused calls in person. And both times he had not been able to stay more than ten minutes, pushing him into Polina or Alexei's care while he hurried late to whatever obligation demanded his attention.
So he had texted Svetlana, who he knew was in Russia, that he was coming, and had got the first flight to Moscow.
When he had walked through the door, it was late, and Grigori Rozanov was sprawled still in his day clothes on the couch, asleep. Ilya had watched him startle awake at the crash of the door. His father's face had gone cold and angry. Why are you here? You do not have game to play? Lazy.
When his father had called, a part of him had been hopeful. A small part, but a part all the same. Though his brain wasn't right, the old man wanted to see his son. To see Ilya. He had noticed his absence, and cared enough to call. He asked when he would be home, he wanted them under the same roof.
Even later, Ilya couldn't exactly recall what it was that his father had said that set him off. Ilya had had a lifetime of mastering the art of tuning his father's rantings out. Even before the dementia, he had loved the sound of his own voice. The usual words bled through, lazy, disgrace, bad son, shameful. Then it had turned. The memory of his father's hard expression, the ugly twist of his mouth as he'd spat Irina's name lingered in his mind.
Ilya had felt his blood freeze in his veins. His fists closed tight around his drink.
Another angry spit from his father's mouth, and Ilya was on his feet before he knew it. "Shut the fuck up!" he had hissed. He felt light as he said it, as if a dam had broken.
"What the fuck did you say to me?"
He should apologise. He should sit back down. Pour his father another drink. Wait for this rage to simmer out.
The glass smacking him across the face was more of a suprise than it should have been. It took until later that night that he even registered the pain. For an old sick man it was a good shot, he'd give him that.
Ilya was on the floor, shards of glass digging into his palms, vodka burning as it seeped into the cuts. He blinked, vision swimming, red clouding his right eye. Fuck. When was his next game? Not for a while. He had practice though. He couldn't play like this.
No. He would have to. The allstars game wasn't far off. He needed to be there.
Even standing over him, Ilya thought his father looked small. He was frail in a way he had never been as a younger man. As a child, Ilya had often seen his father throw things. Glasses, vases, dishes and bowls had all gone flying across the room as he raged about whatever had caught his bad side. His mother had shoved at him and Alexei, a forced smile on her face, telling them to play outside, it was all fine, go outside now, good boys. He doesn't think anything ever hit his mother, not on purpose at least, but he couldn't be sure. He wished he could have been sure. He would never know, now.
When he was younger, Irina had always cleaned up the aftermath alone, and when they were called back in subdued and cautious, it would look as if nothing had happened. Only the absence of some items on the shelves were evidence of what had occured. Later, Ilya would be the one to do it while his mother laid down upstairs, her eyes fixed unseeing on the far wall, and his father marched out the door in a red haze. The edges of cut potatoes were the best for getting up little shards of glass, he remembered, bread for the really tiny ones.
Now laying on the ground, bleeding, he saw his mother in his place. He saw her pretty blonde hair soiled with red. He was so stupid. Of course she had been hit. How could she not have been? Some awful tight feeling crawled up his throat and he couldn't breathe.
"Is good she is dead," he choked out. A croaking humourless laugh burst from his throat. The words felt wrong, sour. But he saw his father's eyes widen and his mouth drop open. That was sweet. He had never been more grateful to see him lucid. "Is good she never spent another day married to you."
From there, only flashes. His father's hands twisted in his shirt, a pain in his back, a fist across his cheek. A choking gasp. Blood pooling in his mouth. His step-mother in the corner of his eye, a blurry figure hovering in the doorway. Ilya panting, staring down at his father sprawled back on the coffee table, drinks crashing to the ground around him.
"The fuck are you doing? Are you crazy!" Alexei shouted, bursting through the door. Their stepmother was crouching down to their father, hands hovering, afraid to touch. Gregori flailed, still ranting, as he tried to get up. He batted Polina away, hissing curses.
A thousand words to say flew through Ilya's mind. He chose none of them. He had nothing to say. Who were these people? Why was he even here? There were a million places he could be. He spat the blood in his mouth onto the floor.
Ilya turned his back on the shouting and marched for the door. He ripped his coat from the rack, shoved his boots on, and was out the door before they could catch him. Alexei was bellowing. His stepmother was wailing. His father yelling. The door swung shut behind him and they were silenced.
He was on fire. The icy air pricked his cut skin but he didn't feel it. His heart was beating so fast he could barely catch his breath. He walked faster, and faster, until he was running through the snow into the Mosco night.
—
The taxi driver ignored his blood splattered face for only a small sum, and only nodded when Ilya managed to spit out 'airport' at him. Ilya clutched at his throbbing face. God, he was going to be sick. The taxi carried him away.
His suitcase was still at his apartment, but the thought of going there made his hands shake. The feeling that if he stepped back there, he would never leave again settled over him like fact. It would be the first place anyone would look for him. He didn't think anybody would, though. His phone, wallet, and passport were all in his coat. That was all he needed. There was nothing else.
He just wanted to go home.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Just keep going.
He pulled out his phone. Five missed calls from Alexei. Ilya stared. He blocked the number. Paused. Then deleted it as well.
His fingers left smears of blood on the screen. It took him a long minute to remember the glass stuck in his hands. He pulled a tissue from his pocket, wiped his phone clean, and tried to pull out the tiny shards out in the shuddering glow of the streetlights, dropping them on the seat beside him. He'd already overpaid the driver, the money should cover any damage.
Sveta, he types out next, in russian. i am leaving russia. Please get important things from apartment. take anything else for yourself. lock up. meet you in boston. i love you.
His stomach twisted. Cowardly, there was no other word for it. Getting your friend to clean up for you while you ran away with your tail between his legs, shameful. Svetlana would be getting a big christmas gift this year. It wouldn't be even nearly enough.
The reply came fast;
Svetlana
On the way now.
Then,
Svetlana
are you alright?
Ilya's fingers shook as he held them over the keys. He pressed back instead. His most messaged contacts popped up. There at the top, Jane.
Before he could even think, he pressed call.
It only rang once. "Ilya?" came his whispered voice. Ilya gasped, clutched his bleeding hands over his face. He would give anything to have Shane with him now. To press his face into his neck, smell that clean soap smell, feel his hand running through his hair, always so nice and gentle. He wondered if Rose Landry was with him. If she was lying beside him as Ilya had once done. "Are you there? Why did you call? I can't really talk right now. Is something wrong?"
Ilya hung up.
—-
The woman at the front desk stared at him, mouth agape, as he approached but quickly regained her composure, handed him another tissue, and asked how she could help.
There was not a flight to America for over twelve hours. Ilya took a breath, and asked for the first flight out of the country, wherever that was. He wasn't going to stay here a moment longer. The very ground he stood on was poisoning him. Leeching up through the soles of his shoes and into his very blood.
And so, an hour after running from his family, he would be boarding a flight to fucking Berlin. The agent booked him a connecting flight from there to Boston. Before she handed over the tickets, she paused, and asked if he needed to see a doctor first. He shook his head, thanked her, and made a b-line for his gate.
Because he was not completely stupid, Ilya held himself together enough to head into the toilets. He yanked down his hood, dropped his sunglasses to the sink, and stared. The man in the mirror was a wild thing. Wide crazy fucking eyes. He looked like he'd snorted half a dozen lines and ran through a window. Blood slicked down the right side of his hair, dripping from a scabbing over gash in his hairline. A ring of red bloomed around his left eye, already swelling. Ilya leaned close, pushing a finger into the inflamed skin. Had he been punched in the face? He didn't remember that. As he moved, the glass still embedded in his skin shimmered like glitter under the harsh fluorescent lights.
His vision split, shook, and he gripped the sink, panting. Don't faint. Don't faint. Breathe. It hurt. Why did breathing hurt?
His mind hazy, he scrubbed his face with overly-scented hand soap and watched pink suds and flakes of dried blood wash away. His hands shook so badly, he nearly couldn't grip the shards, he forced them still, tore out the glass, and dropped them down the sink. From the stalls he grabbed toilet paper, and wiped down the smears of his blood from the sink.
Security was easier than it should have been, looking the way he did. One of the agents recognised him, and Ilya somehow managed to grit his teeth, mumble some nonsense about a fight with his girlfriend that made the agent bark a laugh and clap him on the shoulder. The cost of letting him through was just an autograph and a promise to get him two tickets to the next game he played in Russia that Ilya had no intention to keep. At least he hadn't asked for a photo.
Before he knew it, he was seated in a half full plane, his head throbbing, listening to the attendants go through the safety briefing he had heard a hundred times. The call came to turn off mobile phones.
Svetlana
Ilya call me
Svetlana
I am leaving your apartment now, which airport are you at? Wait for me, we can fly together.
Ilya
am on plane
Ilya replied, and turned off his phone.
The plane took its sweet time taxing to the runway. When the engines finally rumbled to life, and they sped towards the sky, climbing higher and higher, he let out a long shuddering breath. The tension in his body melted into something cold and slow and painful.
—
In Berlin, he sat in his next gate, and tried to make his mind work. Every thought had to be dragged to the front of his brain. He was walking through mud. Had that hit caused more damage than he thought? Too slow. Stupid. Come on. He just wanted to go to sleep. He wanted to go home. He imagined pulling back warm bedsheets, climbing in clean and safe. A body waiting for him. Lips on his forehead. Soft words murmured into his hair. The thumping of a heart beneath his cheek.
There was no one waiting for him in Boston.
There were no direct flights from Moscow for hours, as the woman at the airport had told him, Svetlana would not make it back for a day, at least.
In his mind, he pictured his apartment, lights off, fireplace cold. He saw himself, sprawled in his bed. Alone. Only him and his full medicine cabinet.
Ilya shook himself. No. He shot up from his seat and towards a help desk. A young woman looked up with a smile that only faltered slightly at the sight of him.
"I need to change flight," he managed to get out in English. "Emergency."
The woman nodded. "Alright, Sir. Can I have your flight information, please? Thank you, and where is it you need to divert to?"
"Ottawa."
A hundred questions later, did he know there would be a cancellation fee? Yes that is fine. And what class did he want? He did not care, whatever was available. And does he know his bags will be delayed? He had not checked any bags. Is not problem. He was barrelling down endless corridors past bumbling tourists and tired eyed businessmen to his new gate, arriving just in time to be ushered aboard by annoyed cabin crew.
Ilya thinks he might have slept on flight, he wasn't sure. Time seemed to pass so slowly, then all at once. A flight attendant put a plate of dry breakfast food in front of him, but he could not eat. He forced down a bottle of water though, as his throat was getting so dry it was hard to speak, and everytime the plane jerked his vision swam.
It was only when Ilya arrived in Ottawa that he realised he had no idea where he was going. It was a stupid thing to do. He should turn around, go back into the airport, and get on a flight to Boston. Hell, he could go anywhere. He had a hefty bank account just sitting there.
He hailed a taxi.
"Where you heading?" the driver asked as Ilya collapsed into the backseat.
"I do not know, yet. Drive. Please."
The man met his eyes in the mirror, blanched, and swung around in his seat. He was as old as Ilya's father, but had none of his meanness about the eyes.
"Fuck, pal, you alright? You been in a fight?"
"Hockey player," he croaked out as he pulled out his phone. "We go now, yes?"
The man stared, and he could tell he was debating whether to push it, but decided against it, shrugged and started the car. "The meters running, whether you know where we're going or not."
Ilya pulled up Shane's number. Stared at the digits. What the fuck was he supposed to say? I've travelled half a day to see you uninvited, please tell me where you live? Forget about beautiful actress in your bed and let me in. His fingers hovered over the call button. Why hadn't he asked for his address before? He could have played it off like he wanted to send him some sexy little gifts. Shane would blush and protest so prettily, but he would give in. Ilya would even actually do it.
He called.
"Ilya?" Ilya's eyes dropped closed. He imagined him here, imagined how it would feel to pull him into his arms, rest his head atop of Shane's, and let the car gently rock them as they went home together. "Did you butt dial me again? Hello?" In the background, Ilya could hear clattering of plates, the sound of a sink running, and the distant noise of espn playing. He pictured Rose Landry sprawled on his couch, sipping wine as Shane cleared away their meal.
Ilya opened his mouth. Words clogged in his throat.
Shane, he would say, I am in Ottawa. Tell me your address, I will come over and ravish you.
What the fuck? Shane would reply. His voice would be angry and clipped. No, you can't just invite yourself! I have a girlfriend. You can't come here.
If he said that, Ilya didn't think he could go against it. And Ilya wouldn't get to see him. Wouldn't get to look at those pretty eyes, or see just one more time how the sun cast a golden glow over those freckles. Just one look, that was all he needed. And if Shane told him to fuck off, he'd go right back to the airport, get on a plane, and hope Svetlana was at his apartment when he returned. He should text her and tell her to flush his medicine cabinet down the sink.
Ilya hung up.
"No luck?" the driver asked over his shoulder.
"Not yet."
The man huffed. "There's a rest stop nearby, mind if I stop for a smoke?"
"Is fine."
The driver pulled aside and got out, lighting up a cigarette. Ilya took a deep breath, letting the familiar smell wash over him. Only now he realised he'd been craving a smoke for hours.
"Want one?" The man called through the open car window.
Ilya paused. "No." he said. Then, "my boyfriend does not like it."
His stomach twisted, he's not sure why he said it, but he forced himself to look up at the man, who just shrugged and moved on. Tears pricked at his eyes. He sniffed, wiped the back of his hand across his sore face, and tried to pull it together.
In truth, his first attempt made him feel a bit sleazy. He typed shane hollander montreal cottage address into google. Then, after the first few clicks, added reddit to the end. No luck. None of those internet stalker weirdos have managed to find out from that tour video. Not from lack of trying. They've analysed dozens of screenshots, looking for clues. Creeps. He saved the links. He'll send them to Shane later. Or send an anonymous email to his mother, she seemed like the sort to get them taken down with a few well-placed calls.
His next attempt, he texted a few contacts in the NHL, asking for Hayden Pike's number. Someone from PR replied within a few minutes. He would send them flowers. Very efficient.
Pike, he texts, this is Shane's friend Lily. I want to send early Birthday present. Can you give his address
Immediately, Pike starts typing. Ilya tenses. This is such a stupid fucking idea, he thinks as he grinds his teeth. It would only take Pike giving him a call and Ilya answering to confirm he was Shane's Boston Lily. Or someone else recognising it as Rosanov's number. He was being careless. Shane would never forgive him if he was the one who outed him to his best friend.
Hayden
lily?
how did you get this number?
Ilya
from shane
Hayden
i think you should ask him? you guys aren't seeing each other any more, are you? I'm not sure i should be giving it to you
Ilya
I had address. Lost it.
Ok. I lie. Not present. i have some of his things he left at my place. i need to mail back.
please, i am at post office.
i am holding up line
lady at desk is very mad at me
Hayden
fuck
ok
fine
don't tell him i told you
That final ding made him sigh in relief. There. His address. Ilya knew where he lived. Good dependable, gullible Pike. Ilya would have to send a warning in that anonymous email too, telling Mrs Hollander to tell Pike not to give personal information to random people claiming to be Shane's secret girlfriend, lover, fuckbuddy, whatever they thought she was.
Ilya called the driver back, and showed him the address. He raised an eyebrow.
"Gonna be a two hour drive, give or take. You got enough for that?"
"Yes. Lots of money. So much wallet does not close. We go now."
The man snorted, stubbed out his cigarette, and got them back on the road.
—
Much like the plane ride, Ilya found time passing strangely. He stared out the window and the scenery seemed to shift and change with each blink, his head lolling back as his body tried desperately to fall asleep. One second they were under a bridge, then through woodland, then past houses. The light was too bright. He covered his eyes, let the motion of the car soothe him.
The car slowed. Stopped. Ilya pulled his hands away. He blinked. Fuck. There it was. The cottage from that fucking video. Nausea rose so sharply he was sure he was going to vomit. He gasped, trying to slow his breathing.
An ugly jeep sat alone in front. No other cars. It had to be Shane's, it was sensible and boring.
"Look, pal," said the driver. "Want me to take you to a hospital instead? No extra change. No offense, buddy, but you look fucking rough."
"No," he choked out. "No."
The man sighed. He handed over the card machine. Ilya scrambled with his wallet. His shaking hands couldn't get a proper grasp on his debit card. Payment accepted. He had to get out of the car now. He was going to see Shane. Just a look, he told himself, no matter how bad it is, he'll get to look at him.
"You got someone in there? Don't know if I could sleep tonight if I knew you were passed out on the floor all night."
"I have someone."
"Your boyfriend?"
Ilya wanted to cry. He smiled instead. The driver winced. Yeah, he probably looked fucking nuts.
"Yes, boyfriend."
"Alright, then."
Ilya nodded, and clambered out onto the street. Let him pretend for just a moment. He is an injured hockey player going home to his rich handsome boyfriend who will stroke his hair and kiss his lips. It would all come crashing down soon, but the thought was enough to keep him putting one step in front of the other.
He leaned into the open driver's side window. "Please leave. He is shy."
The man gave a chuckle, but did as he asked, and Ilya was left standing along outside Shane Hollander's massive fucking cottage with nothing but his phone, passport, wallet, and his bloodstained fucking coat.
Every breath was a struggle. His head throbbed violently. He was on the verge of vomiting watery bile all over Shane's ugly fucking car. He could recall how he felt before every game, every interview, every meeting with boring bosses. Never once had he been nervous like this. He was arrogant Russian asshole. He did not get scared.
Ilya stumbled up to the front door, and knocked.
He leaned close. A man's voice, faint and distant, but familiar. Shane. He smiled. Footsteps.
The door swung open.
Time stood still.
Oh, his Shane was very shocked. How wide his eyes could be. Ilya had not seen them like that before, so big and brown and baffled. Ilya wanted to squeeze his cheeks like a babushka. Or maybe climb inside his skin and make a home there. Not like a babushka.
"Hello," Ilya said. "Did you hire a stripper?"
The words tumble out without his permission.
Shane stared. His mouth had dropped open. Ilya wanted to reach out with a finger, feel the stretch of his lips with the pad of his fingertip.
"Oh, fuck! What? Ilya?" Shane gasped out. His eyes darted all over Ilya's face, lingering on the dried blood, his swollen eye. "What the fuck? Ilya? Fuck! Are you ok? What happened?"
Shane's hand closed on his wrist and tugged him inside. The grip was so very gentle, but Ilya followed it easily, letting himself be pulled into the warm cottage.
"Oh my God, oh my God, fuck, Ilya! Should I call an ambulance? How are you even here?" Shane's fingers hovered over his cheeks, eyes scanning him over and over. He stepped back, looking over his entire body. Fingers plucked at Ilya's clothes, tugging them away from his body to check beneath them. When their gaze met again, Shane's eyes were full of tears. Oh, Shane. "Were you in an accident? Where are you hurt? Did someone do this to you?"
Ilya smiled. Shane wasn't making him leave. He wasn't angry.
Ilya burst into tears.
He had not cried in years. Not like that. Ugly violent sobs racked his body. He swayed, his vision spinning.
Arms closed tight around his chest, and Ilya collapsed. Shane held him close, one arm wrapping around his back, another around his head, Shane's fingers sinking into his hair, and pulling Ilya's face into his neck. Ilya clutched at him. So tight it must have been painful. He would never be able to get close enough.
"Ilya," Shane murmured into his ear, and oh, he was being rocked. When was the last time anyone held him like this? He knew, but he couldn't think of it, or he'd never put himself back together.
Ilya let himself go. Ilya sobbed and sniffed, let himself be comforted by Shane's nice normal soap smell. The feel of the fancy cotton shirt his mother probably bought him beneath his hands. He wanted to live in that moment forever. There was no better place than in Shane Hollander's arms. He had been so stupid. Years of not letting himself have this. For what?
"S-sorry," he managed to whisper out into Shane's neck. "Sorry. So sorry."
"Shh," Shane replied. "Nothing to be sorry for." Shane gave a laugh, wet and choked.
Ilya pulled back. He needed to see that face.
Shane was crying, his eyebrows drawn in that nervous little frown he always seemed to get. Ilya reached out, his thumb brushing away the tears that clung to his lashes.
"Ilya, what happened?"
Ilya opened his mouth. He hadn't planned what to say. All that time in cars and on planes and he'd not spent a minute thinking about what to tell Shane.
Before he could answer, footsteps sounded. Oh, so Rose Landry was here then. Ilya did not think he could make himself leave now that he was here. She would have to force him out.
But two middle-aged people came around the corner instead. Ilya knew them instantly. Shane's parents.
Their eyes seemed to bulge out of their heads when they saw who was at their son's door. If he had the energy, Ilya would laugh. Or not. Shane would be mad if he laughed. Shane and Mrs Hollander had the exact same expression of shock.
"Fuck," Shane gasped out. "Right, ok," he whispered to himself, seeming to shake himself.
"Rozanov? Ilya Rozanov?" Mrs Hollander asked, wide eyes shooting back and forth between Ilya and Shane. "Is that-is he bleeding?"
"H-hello," Ilya said. His vision swayed again. He stumbled. Was the floor in perfect Shane Hollander's perfect cottage slanted? Not very Mr. Business Real Estate of him.
Those strong arms closed around him again.
"Ok, let's get you sat down, alright?"
Shane was so warm around him. Ilya wasn't sure he could nod without being sick, so he just let his body follow Shane's around a corridor, past the Hollanders, and into an open living area.
"Later, sorry, I'll tell you later." Ilya heard Shane whisper to them as they passed them.
Ilya leant forward, let his head fall back onto Shane's shoulder, and closed his eyes as Shane lowered him down onto the very plush sofa.
"Hm," he said, keeping his eyes closed. "Very nice cottage, Mr Real Estate."
Shane let out a huff, not a laugh, but enough to make Ilya's heart flutter. God, he was embarrassing. Like a teenage girl.
"I'll get him some water," Mr Hollander said from somewhere else in the room. Ilya felt so very heavy. He let himself sink into the cushions. They smelt like fabric softener and Shane.
"I'm going to call a doctor." Mrs Hollander said.
"No," Ilya croaked out.
Shane's hand was in his hair, brushing the dried blood encrusted ringlets out of his face. No, he wanted to say, Shane should not touch that. Nice clean boys would get dirty touching him.
"Ilya, please, I think you need some help." His hands cupped Ilya's jaw. This was going better than he had hoped. God, his whole body felt so odd. "Open your eyes. Come on, open them, you've hit your head, haven't you? I don't think you should sleep now."
"It was glass." Ilya said. He peeled his eyes open. Fuck the championship, give him a medal for that, it was hard. Why had Shane built his house of all windows? So bright.
Shane was frowning. Ilya realised he had spoken in Russian. God, he was so tired. "I was hit with glass."
"Like a window?"
Ilya shook his head. Winced. He should not have done that. "My father, he threw glass at head."
A long silence stretched out.
Mrs Hollander appeared in his line of sight. Ah, she had that same frown too. Ilya smiled.
"Your father?" Another pause. "Is that where your other bruises came from? Your eye?"
"Is it very bad?" he asked, then looked at Shane. "Am I still pretty?"
"Shut up!" Shane snapped. Ilya grinned. The anger in Shane sparked and fizzled in seconds, and then he was kneeling before him, hands brushing his shoulder. Golden sunlight cast across his face. Yes. That was what he wanted to see. "Mom, call the doctor please." Ilya scowled. Shane shot him a truly venomous look. "Quiet, you! You're lucky I'm not calling you an ambulance."
Shane took a cup from his father, and held it to Ilya's lips. He tried to hold it, but Shane slapped his fingers away, tipped the water into his mouth himself, one hand cupping the back of his head. "Careful, slowly," he said, as Ilya sipped. It was perhaps the nicest thing he had ever drunk.
When Ilya glanced up, both Hollanders were staring, something more like curiosity on their faces. Guilt sprung up in his stomach. It was selfish of him to come here. He had known it the whole time, but seeing it play out was different.
"I'll make the call," Mrs Hollander said, and a professional facade fell over her features. Her husband reached around her shoulders, rubbed a hand over her arm. "We'll give you a moment." Her eyes slid to Ilya's. "Tell me the truth though, Rosanov, you aren't about to drop dead on me are you?"
"No, ma'am."
"You've not been stabbed, shot, maimed? You aren't about to bleed out on my son's sofa?"
"Mom!"
"No, is good question. I do not think so."
With a nod, they retreated into another room. Ilya stared down at his hand in Shane's, and tried to breathe.
"Did-did you fly here from Russia?" Shane asked, eventually, after a long moment of silence.
"Yes."
"God! Like that! With your face all fucked up!"
Ilya sniffed. "Is not fucked up. Is nice face. Magazine say is NHL's fifth hottest face."
"Mine's first."
Ilya laughed, then groaned as his ribs twinged painfully. Instantly Shane was hovering above him.
"Your ribs? Take your shirt off."
"Buy me drink first, Hollander."
"Shut up."
There was no fighting Shane when he got like this, and Ilya did not want to. He thinks he'd do anything he asked. Shane shoved off his coat, his jumper, and his undershirt. They both glanced down at his chest. Blooms of dark purple had sprung up over his chest. Ilya frowned. He wasn't quite sure what had caused them. He vaguely remembered his father's fists flying towards him, but he didn't remember them connecting. In his chest hair, faint shards of glass still clung, shimmering like glitter. How had he not noticed them? They had scratched him, smears of blood staining his skin.
Shane pulled a blanket off the back of the sofa, tucking it firmly around Ilya's bare shoulders.
Their eyes met. Shane's expression cracked. The dam broke. Tears flooded down Shane's worried pretty face.
"Oh, sweetheart," he whispered in Russian. Ilya tugged at his hands, pulling him closer. In english; "Come here, I am alright. Do not cry."
Shane fell forward, his head dropping onto Ilya's lap, his arms wrapping around his waist. Ilya folded himself over, letting his hands run through Shane's hair, watching as he shivered from his touch. He rocked them both gently, though in his state any movement was risky.
Big wet eyes looked up at him. "You came straight here? From Russia? You came to me."
Ilya suddenly could not meet his gaze. "I was going to go back to Boston."
"Why didn't you?"
Ilya swallowed around the lump in his throat. "You were not there." He took a deep breath. "Empty apartment with only alcohol, and very full medicine cabinet. I did not think it was safe. For me."
The words took a moment to land. Shane gasped out a wet breath. He leaned forward. "Ilya." He said, and his voice was shaky. Shane's lips pressed so gently against the corner of his mouth. Ilya closed his eyes and let himself savour it, just for a moment.
He pulled back. "You should not."
Shane frowned. "Oh."
"Is only, you have girlfriend." He couldn't bear to utter her name.
Shane stared, frowning, then huffed a laugh. "Rose? We broke up weeks ago."
Ilya gaped.
Then, the heavy weight on his chest lifted so fast he nearly floated off the sofa. "She broke up with you? Shane Hollander? Cosmopolitan's number one hottest hockey player? Is she stupid?"
Shane laughed, though tears were still falling from his eyes. He wiped at them with his sleeve. "No, she's great. We just, weren't compatible."
Ilya gave a questioning grunt.
Shane glanced about the room, checking for his parents. "I'm gay, Ilya. I'm not attracted to women. Rose had to kinda spell it out for me. But I, er, needed to hear it."
A smile so wide broke out on his face that his dry lips cracked.
"Ok."
God, Ilya couldn't stop grinning. Couldn't stop looking at Shane's perfect face.
"Look, I've been meaning to say sorry about last time, at your place. I just -"
A knock, and Mrs Hollander appeared in the room again, her phone in her hand. Whatever Shane had to say would have to wait. "Dr Roberts is on her way."
Ilya watched Yuna's eyes drop to his bruised chest, to the broken glass now littering the sofa, to their joined hands, and back up to their matching tear-stained faces. Ilya jerked his hands away. The smile dropped from his face.
"I-" he started, but all the joy of a minute ago had turned to dust in his mouth and he couldn't speak.
"Shane, honey," she said softly to her son. "We'll wait on the porch for Dr. Roberts, ok?"
And they were alone once more.
Ilya squirmed. The shame was overwhelming. "I am sorry." He couldn't even meet Shane's eyes as he said it, staring at his hands instead. "I do not know what I was thinking. I just - I have put you in bad position."
"Yeah," Shane said. Ilya flinched. "No, shit, I didn't mean it like that. Well, you have. But, I'm glad you did." Ilya's eyes flicked up to Shane's. Watery, and honey brown in the sunlight, and not angry.
"We say I am drunken, drug-addled mess. Got into fight. Very sad. But good boy Shane Hollander has helped before. I was in town, I need help, I turn up. You do not have to say anything about what we have, erm, had."
Shane laughed, that little panicked one he did when he was spiralling. "I think that's not gonna work. I think the hand-holding, and the, well, all of it, has already tipped them off. And they already heard you say it was your father."
Ilya stared down at their hands. "I am sorry."
"No, Ilya, stop that." Shane took Ilya's head into his hands, tilting it so their eyes met. Shane was crying again, tears rolling down his cheeks, his mouth quirking in that almost smile that made Ilya's stomach flutter. "I'm glad you came. Look, I'm not gonna pretend your timing was great, and I wish you'd actually talked to me those times you called, but, God, Ilya, the thought of you injured and alone," Shane's voice wavered. "It kills me."
Ilya couldn't help it. "I love you," he whispered in Russian. He leaned forward, and pressed his lips against Shane's. His hands slipped around his shoulders without his permission, pulling his warm body close to his. Ilya sobbed, and pushed his face back into his shoulder.
With a sigh, Shane let himself be pulled into Ilya's lap where he settled warm and solid. Ilya closed his eyes and clung tight.
–
A knock on the front door broke them apart, Shane climbing carefully off Ilya's lap as he called out for them to come in. Ilya wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
Dr Roberts was led inside by Yuna Hollander, both of them wearing similar professional demeanors Ilya was used to from most of the medical professionals he had seen.
"Good afternoon, Mr Rozanov," Dr Roberts said. A tiny woman with dark skin and greying black hair tied into a tight bun, her hand was dwarfed by his as he shook it. "I hear you've been in a bit of trouble." The doctor looked around, and back to Ilya. "Would you like to move somewhere more private for an examination?"
"No, don't move, we'll wait in the other room," Yuna interjected, already pulling her husband and son along. Shane's face froze. He cast a panicked look to Ilya, as he began to stammer an excuse.
"Wait," Ilya croaked out, his voice hoarse. "Stay?" He asked Shane.
"Oh, um, sure," he said. Yuna and David shared a look, but let go of Shane, and left them alone.
Dr Roberts put down her bag, washed her hands in the kitchen, then sat herself opposite Ilya on the coffee table. Shane hovered by the windows, shifting from leg to leg.
Ilya patted the sofa beside him. "Sit," he said. Shane did.
"Right, Mr Rozanov, can you tell me what happened? Where are you hurt?"
"Was fight."
"You said it was your father," Shane said.
Ilya shrugged. It hurt. He watched the doctor take a mental note of his wince.
"It was fight with my father. We argued. He threw glass. It hit me here," he gestured to the very obvious cut on his forehead. "I fell, my hands are cut I think, but not bad, already healing."
"Not bad," Shane scoffed.
"I think I was punched, in my face maybe, and my chest, I do not remember. It is blurry. I am very tired."
Beside him, he heard Shane sniffle and did not need to look to know he was crying again.
Dr Roberts was a professional, and checked him over quickly and unobtrusively, checking his pupils with a penlight, and pressing gently at the bruised areas of his body.
"Has this happened before?" she asked, in a calm low voice, her eyes on her work. "With your father."
"Mm, no." He paused, turning the words in his head. "Not with glass."
"But he has hit you?"
"Yes. Only when I was needing to be punished. As child. You know."
In the corner of his eye, he could see Shane's hand gripping at his jean leg, spasming. Ilya pried it off, held it safe in his own.
Dr Roberts sat back, her eyes kind in a way that made him squirm. "I can help, if you would like to press charges."
Ilya barked a laugh, jarring in the quiet room. "No, no, this is not necessary. He is sick old man. I should not have said the things I did. I angered him. Is my fault."
"Ilya," Shane whispered.
"Besides," he continued. "This happened in Russia."
Dr Roberts took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright. Well, as far as I can tell, I don't think you have a concussion, but I think it's best you go and get checked out at the hospital just in case. Head injuries are tricky and it's best to be sure. I'll clean up the cuts before you go, but I think the laceration on your head will be needing stitches."
"No," said Ilya, immediately. He wasn't sure he could get up off the couch if he tried. For the first time since he arrived, true panic began to rise in his chest. If he left, he'd have to find a hotel after, he wouldn't get to come back here to Shane.
Shane stood up, knocking the coffee table, which shook ominously. "You're going," he said.
Ilya wanted to argue, but when he looked up, the sight of Shane tearful and furious all at once, and the protests died on his lips.
"I don't," he whispered, "I don't want to go."
Shane wilted, falling back to his side. "Ilya, please."
Dr Roberts chose that moment to interject. "I have a colleague at the local urgent care. I can drive you there myself, get you seen quickly. You'll arrive, be checked over, your head will be stitched, you'll be scanned, and then if all is well, you'll be back here by the evening."
Ilya glanced at Shane. He was giving him an encouraging smile, a hand rubbing his shoulder. He had not corrected her when she said Ilya would come back here.
"Ok."
—
They decided Ilya would go with Dr Roberts in her car to urgent care, and David would follow in Shane's car so he could take him back to the cottage after. Shane had wavered for a moment, clearly wanting to say he would go with Ilya but scared by what that would entail. His parents had suggested David go, and while he agreed, Shane seemed just as worried about being left alone with his mother.
Shane helped Ilya into a clean pale blue t-shirt, a little snug on him, and a large soft grey hoodie that was folded over a chair. It smelt of Shane. Ilya brought the fabric up to his nose every time no one was looking his way.
In the doorway, they lingered as the doctor and David got into their respective cars.
"G-good luck," Shane said, then winced, rubbing at his eyes. Ilya managed a huff.
"Talk to your mother," Ilya said, instead of replying to that. He rubbed a thumb over Shane's cheek. "She loves you, yes, it will be fine."
Shane nodded, "I wasn't expecting to do this today."
Ilya would apologise again, but Shane had told him not to.
"You are brave. Be brave."
Shane gave a watery smile. "You too. Call me if you need to."
With that, Ilya got into Dr Robert's sensible little car, and let himself be driven away. He turned as he left, and watched Shane watch him go from the cottage doorway.
—
The exhaustion really caught up to him then. On the way, he could barely keep his eyes open. Dr Roberts repeatedly woke him up, telling him things in English his brain was beginning to refuse to translate. He must have replied right though, as she didn't seem too worried.
True to her word, he was ushered through a staff door and into an Urgent Care room quickly. David waited outside.
A bearded older doctor asked him question after boring question, while a nurse dabbed at his cuts with antiseptic. He couldn't stop nodding off to sleep, and it seemed to worry them, until he let it slip he had been up for well over a day, and been on two flights, one of them intercontinental.
He slept through whatever scan they put him through, only flashes of a sterile white room and cold hospital blankets. He even slept through his stitches, though he was awake to feel the scratch of the local anesthetic.
Only a couple hours after he arrived, a nurse was dismissing him into David's care with some antibiotics, mild painkillers, and a strict instruction to keep his stitches clean.
"Alright, Rozanov?" David asked him.
"Ilya," he mumbled, and nodded.
"Of course, Ilya. Are you ready to go?"
Ilya nodded. David pulled off his coat and placed it over Ilya's shoulders, and put an arm around him. Ilya inhaled, a lump forming in his throat. Slowly, the two of them made their way out of the building.
"Good, let's go home then. I've texted Shane, he knows you're ok and that you're coming home. Yuna's ordering some dinner, so hopefully it'll have arrived before we do."
"T-thank you," he rasped out.
David hummed, and didn't push it.
—
Shane had the front door to the cottage open before the car had even pulled up, and was bounding down to meet them.
"You're good?" Shane asked, pulling the door open. Even half-asleep, Ilya couldn't resist a grin at the sight of him.
"Good, all good, everything is good."
Ilya let himself be pulled up and into the house. Yuna Hollander was in the kitchen, dishing up pasta onto plates. Ilya immediately noticed the redness of her eyes, the remains of tear staining the makeup on her cheeks.
"You and your mother, is good?"
Shane gave him a watery smile. "Yeah. I told her everything."
Even staggering and half-asleep, Ilya couldn't help waggling his eyebrows. "Everything?"
Shane laughed. "Only the PG stuff."
"Good, you're home, food's here!" Yuna called, not turning from her spot to greet them. She fussed with cutlery, wiping a spot over and over with a cloth.
Garlic hit his nose. Ilya's stomach churned. He stumbled. After a moment of intense breathing, he clutched at Shane's arm. "I need to lie down."
Shane rubbed his back, and whispered an 'ok' to him. Then, to his parents. "I think maybe, we'll eat later, if that's alright? Ilya's kind of had a long day."
"Oh, of course!" Yuna replied, fumbling with the cutlery. "I'll put yours in the fridge." David appeared at her side, a hand on her back in a mirror of his son and Ilya.
"I've called us a cab," David said. "Should be here any minute."
"Thanks."
Shane thanked his parents again, and slowly walked Ilya up some steps and towards a bedroom. Ilya could hear the two of them talking in hushed tones as they packed away the food.
"Make sure you eat," Yuna called after them. "Both of you. We'll talk more tomorrow."
With that promise made, the door clicked shut behind them. Ilya stumbled forwards, a puppet with his strings cut.
"How about a shower?" Shane asked, as he held him steady. "Then we can get you into bed?"
"Mm, I do not think I can stand."
"I'll hold you up."
Shane had a beautiful ensuite bathroom, all shiny white tiles and wooden accents. Pristine dual sinks in an oak cabinet lined one wall, on another a walk-in shower with multiple heads, and under the large window a long porcelain bathtub that even as out of it as he was, Ilya couldn't help but imagine sharing with Shane; the two of them entwined in the hot water, hands roaming beneath the suds.
Ilya was seated on the toilet lid while Shane gently pulled off his clothes, lifting his arms for him, letting him lean on him while he slid off his bottoms. Resting his head on the sink, Ilya watched Shane's lip catch in between his teeth as he concentrated. He really was very beautiful.
The water was perfectly warm when Ilya was maneuvered beneath the spray, Shane's naked body pressed up behind his. They had been there before, but not like that. It shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, when Shane lathered up a washcloth with his regular soap, the smell intense in the steamy air. Ilya would smell just like him.
"I can do it," Ilya said, half-heartedly reaching out as if to take the cloth from him.
"Stop it," Shane said, softly smacking hsi hand away, his voice a gentle rumble in his ear.
Ilya closed his eyes and leaned back. Shane washed his hair, scrubbing his fingertips into the matted curls, gently dislodging the dried dirt and antiseptic. Was he allowed to get the stitches wet? Oh well. It was worth it. When he was rinsed, Shane put his hand over Ilya's forehead so the water trailed over his hands and not into Ilya's eyes.
The memory flashed, intense and fleeting. Ilya, a little child. Perhaps five, or six. Sitting in a warm bath while his mother leaned over, placing a hand over his forehead while she tipped a plastic jug of water over his hair.
He shivered.
Once he was clean and dry, Ilya was finally in bed, watching with heavy eyes as Shane pottered about the room. Now everything was done, he seemed alive with nervous energy.
"Things are ok?" he asked. It felt like the same sentiment had left his lips a hundred times already.
Shane turned to him, nodded, and climbed into bed beside him. Ilya slipped his arms around him, pulling him close and nuzzling his head into his shoulder.
"Mom wasn't that surprised at the gay thing," he murmured into Ilya's hair. "The you thing, though, and the whole, turning up all bloody-sorry-" his voice broke. Ilya held him tighter. Through cries, he said; "You really scared me."
"I am fine."
"You're not, Ilya," Shane whispered, voice low and firm. "I think you should, like, see someone?"
"I already saw doctor."
"No, like a professional. A therapist or something."
Ilya huffed. "Tomorrow, not tonight."
There was a long moment where his stomach tensed and he waited to see if Shane would push the issue. He didn't. Instead, he shuffled further down the bed, and closed his eyes.
"Before we sleep, can you get phone? I should text Svetlana, let her know I am safe. She will worry."
"I'll do it," Shane replied, leaning half out of the bed to fetch Ilya's phone where he'd left it on the bedside table. "You shouldn't be looking at screens."
"I do not have concussion." Ilya said, but his eyes were already closed. He wasn't sure he could open them again tonight. "Code is 1410."
All was quiet, only their breathing. "Jesus, she's blowing up your phone."
"She is ok?"
"I mean, it's in Russian, I can't read it, but I'll - uh - text her, from Jane, I guess. She knows you see someone, right? Like, she won't think you've been kidnapped." Ilya just hummed. "Ok, I've said it's Jane, Ilya's fine, he's with me in Canada." As he typed, one of his hands rubbed through Ilya's damp hair. Ilya wanted to live in that moment forever.
"She says you're a dick, you should have called her." Shane said, and Ilya grunted. He would bet money Shane was downplaying whatever words Svetlana had used. Very descriptive, his Sveta. "She says to tell you she's taken the important stuff from your apartment, and she's left it at yours in Boston. Also, your father isn't injured, only bruised, he's already forgotten what happened. Alexei - that's your brother right? - he's furious. She thinks he got into your Moscow place after she left, trashed it - fucking hell, what a dick."
Ilya closed his eyes tighter, let the tears sink into Shane's t-shirt. His brother throwing a tantrum, that was expected, and he didn't feel much of anything about it. But his father, a storm of emotions lit in his chest. Relief, that Ilya hadn't hurt him. Anger, white-hot and painful, that he didn't even remember hitting him. And finally, a soul-smashing sadness. It was over. The lifetime of living under his thumb. He would never see him again, he knew.
"Does not matter, I will not return."
"Oh. Won't you miss it?"
Yes. Maybe. "No."
Shane put the phone down, turned off the light, and pulled the covers tighter up around them. With how many times they'd fucked, they had only actually slept together once before. Ilya had missed it every day since. He remembered how he had barely gotten any sleep, choosing to lay tucked up behind Shane instead, staring down at the hair at the nape of his neck, the high bridge of his nose, the freckles speckled across his cheeks. He had been desperate for him to wake, and also desperate for him to stay there safe asleep in his arms.
"You know, I was going to ask you to come here this Summer. At the all-stars game. Spend the summer here with me."
Ilya peeled his eyes open, peeked at Shane's moonlit face. "You were?"
"Mm."
Ilya smiled. "Ok. I accept."
Shane laughed. Ilya wanted to record that sound, play it over and over again.
"I haven't actually asked you, yet."
"Well, do it then."
Shane shuffled, turning so they lay face to face on their sides. He schooled his smile off of his face, a faux seriousness settling over.
"Ilya Rozanov, will you come to my cottage this summer?"
He sniffed. "Hmm, if I must."
"Oh, fuck you!" Shane said, but grinning, pressed a kiss to Ilya's mouth. He chased it, took another.
As they settled back down, Ilya found the smile falling off, his stomach churning again. The fight with his father that had lingered in the back of his head since it happened, shoved its way to the front. The things that spat from Grigori Rosanov's mouth, and the ones that returned it. They pounded at his skull.
"I said awful thing," he whispered. Shane opened his eyes again. Ilya's flickered to the ceiling. "Is why my father did this," he gestured to his head.
"'S no excuse."
"I said it was good my mother was dead, that it was better she never spent another day with him." Suddenly, Ilya had to see his face. He searched it. Shane was all concern, no judgement anywhere on his features. "I did not mean it." His voice cracked. In a whisper, "Or maybe I did."
"Oh, Ilya," Shane said, gathering him close. "You loved her. Of course you didn't want her to be gone, you just wanted her to not be hurting. I get that."
"She killed herself." He had never told anyone that. Not even the coroners who took the body away; they understood, there was no use in stating the obvious. "If she had held on, I could have got her out. Five years and I start to make money. I would have brought her here with me. To America. Buy her her own place. Or she could have lived with me. She could have met you." He was sobbing. "Why couldn't she have kept going? Why didn't she want to stay with me?" It was like a dam had been opened. The words appeared on his tongue without ever forming in his head first. His whole body was shaking. "She would have loved you."
Shane was sobbing too, pressing kisses to Ilya's brow, the tear-streaked tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. "I would have loved her. I do love her, for giving me this, for giving me you."
Ilya shifted, crawling atop Shane, wrapping his legs around his hips, pressing his face into his. He would never be able to get close enough. Shane clutched at his back, shushing and rocking them. "I love you." he said in Russian. Then again, in English; "I love you."
Ilya leant back, and watched a smile spread on Shane's face under his tears. There was a softness in his eyes that matched his own. Ilya felt the words before he heard them. "I love you too."