Archive of Our Own

He has always had nightmares on and off. They’ve always been the same: him moving towards that dark wooden door. Sometimes he’s running there, excited to show his mama the four leaf clover he found in a ditch on his way home from school. Other times he’s walking there slowly, dread deep inside his stomach, already knowing what he’s going to find. In his dreams he always stops outside the door for a second.

“Mama?” he shouts, whispers, begs. He always waits for an answer that never comes. His hand finds the doorknob, slowly opening the door. And she is there. Always. In every single one of his nightmares. She is there. On her back on the bed, head hanging off the footend, her long hair touching the floor. Sleeping. She is always sleeping. But in his dreams, no matter how much he tries, he can never wake her up.

He always wakes in cold sweat, panicked breath, feeling disoriented. Sometimes he is asking for her, voice shaking and raspy with sleep. But most often he knows that there is no point. She’s already gone. Has been gone for a long time.

Tears roll down his cheeks, but he pretends that they don’t exist. He doesn’t even acknowledge them for himself. Weak. That’s what his father had said the one time Ilya had come to him after a nightmare. Looking for support, some of the love his mother had always given him unconditionally. But his father had never been able to pretend for even a split second. That realization had hurt more than the fist.

Ilya knows that these dreams will never go away. The memories of him finding his mother after her accident will always haunt him, be at the center of his nightmares.

That’s why he’s surprised when he wakes up with a gasp, clawing at his chest as he tries to do something to be able to breathe. He sits up, the world slowly forming itself around him in blurred panic. He pulls his knees up, putting his head between them. Breath. Please for the love of God just please breathe. Stupid lungs. Stupid lungs and stupid fucking Shane Hollander.

He sits there for a few minutes and slowly, painfully so, he feels his heartrate drop again, nearing its normal rhythm. The world around him starts to make sense again. Left is the shock. Ice cold shock. Because for the first time in more than ten years, his nightmare had not been about his mother. Not about the single worst day of his entire life. It was about what had come to be possibly the second. Shane walking out of his door. Not looking back. Leaving him on the couch. Confused. Hurt. Having just lost everything.

Ilya had tried. He had tried so fucking hard to be good. To be perfect. To make everything perfect for Shane. Tuna melt. Ginger ale. Stay. And it had almost worked. Almost almost almost almost almost. But not quite. Not good enough. He had messed it up. He had done too much, taken it one step too far. It had been just a whisper. Something he had not planned for. One moment of losing his head. Shane. And at first, it didn’t seem like a mistake at all. Instead he had been rewarded with perhaps the most incredible thing he had heard.

“Ilya.” A small whisper. Whimper. His name on Shane's lips. His first name on Shane's lips. The name his mother had called him, given him. A few seconds of absolute bliss. Feeling safe. And then, Shane getting up from his lap.

“I- I can’t do this. Sorry.”

“Hollander.” He could fix this. Must fix this. He had been shocked then as well, shocked at how everything had suddenly been turned upside down. One single word.

He had held out his hand. Please don’t leave. You said you would say. I want you to stay. I fucking need you to stay. 

“Hollander.” Maybe saying his name, his normal name, the name Ilya had always called him, was going to help. Would erase his small slip-up. A plea. Please please please please please. But it hadn’t worked. Shane had left and all Ilya had was an empty can of ginger ale, an unmade bed and eyes stinging with burning tears.

And now he was leaving again. Leaving Ilya alone on that couch all over again. This time in Ilya's nightmare. Was it not enough that Shane - Hollander - had to haunt his every waking moment, now he had to take his sleep as well? Nowhere was he safe from those dark eyes piercing through him.

“I can’t do this.”

Three days since those words. Three days of silence. Not that they texted that often in between seeing each other anyway, but this time it seems more permanent. Shane, no Hollander, fuck, will not text. With his last words he had said as much. He was done, he couldn’t do this. He hadn’t specified what it was he couldn’t do, but Ilya understood. Him. He couldn’t be bothered to do Ilya anymore.

And that… They hadn’t made any promises to each other, nothing to confirm what was going on, what they had been. But fuck if this didn’t break Ilyas heart anyway. He had really thought that they… But that doesn’t matter anymore. He had clearly been wrong. So so wrong. He is angry with Shane, furious even, but he can’t really blame him. It was Ilya who had let himself fall too far into whatever had been happening. No promises.

Ilya lifts his head from his knees and looks at the alarm clock next to his bed. 06:24. Early still, still time before his alarm. He could lay back down, get another hour of sleep, but his mind is so awake. If he stays here he’ll just think more, and if he has learned anything these past few days, it’s that it’s better when he doesn’t think. Instead, he pushes himself off the bed, feet cold on the floor. He puts on his workout clothes and runs. Music blasting in his ears, making it impossible for him to hear any of his own thoughts. Good.

When he gets home his feet are bleeding. He hisses at the pain. Good.

—

Once again, the nightmares start to become something of a fixed point in Ilya's life. Now, more days than not, he is woken by them. Most of them are still about his mother, but sometimes he opens that door and it’s Shane's body on the bed instead. He is losing him the same way he lost his mother. Final. Definite. It breaks his heart every morning. Sometimes he reaches for his phone, hopeful that this will be the day he has a message waiting for him. But it never is.

That’s why he becomes so shocked that the phone slips though his fingers and falls with a thud onto the floor three weeks after I can’t do this. Because there it is. A notification from a number he has meant to block so many times. His thumb has hovered over the button, never quite strong enough to actually push it.

Quickly, Ilya bends down and picks the phone up, paying the new little scratch in the corner no mind. He half expects to find the noticebanner empty. Because why would Hollander text him now, completely out of the blue?

But no, it’s still there.

J: Since when do you lose to Scott Hunter? Seriously

Ilya stares at it. Stares and stares and stares, like he expects something to happen. For Jane to write something like sorry, wrong number. Or i hate you. But nothing else happens. No more messages, but the one sitting in his inbox doesn’t get deleted. And realistically, who else would Hollander be texting that to, unless someone else from Boston.

Because what Hollander texted was true. In yesterday's game, Boston lost to New York badly. Ilya had basically humiliated himself. It’d been so bad that not even Svetlana had had the heart to tease him about it.

He had missed two basically open goals, gotten a totally unnecessary penalty resulting in fucking Hunter scoring on them. His head had not been in the game. It rarely was nowadays if he was being honest with himself, which he rarely allowed himself to be. But hockey without Hollander was… It was just hockey. It was nothing of that fun, challenging, almost magical feeling he was used to associate it with.

What is he supposed to respond to that? Should he even respond? Six weeks just for Hollander to reach out and chirp at him. But chirping is safe. It is something they did, nothing at all like saying each other's first names. If this is what Hollander is willing to give him, he will take it. It won’t be enough, not by a long shot, but if this is the little part of him he is allowed to have, by God he will take it.

And Ilya will try to not scare him away again. He will restrain himself. He will take what Hollander gives him and never ask for more. Just please, he can’t see him walk out of his life again. Texts are safe. Chirping is safe. With shaky fingers he types out a messenger.

L: Hunter would not have scored without my penalty. One gift on deathbed for old old man. Was being nice.

He presses send before he can talk himself out of it. Stares down as the text under the message goes from sending to delivered. Should he say something more? Give Hollander something to respond to, make sure he can’t leave the conversation again? Yes.

L: But you, not even hattrick against Ottawa? Backhand to weak

That is a weak chirp, he knows. It’s really less of a chirp and more of a complement badly hidden. But it was also true, Hollander had scored two, honestly quite beautiful, goals against Ottawa just a few days ago. But when he had the opportunity to get the puck in a third time his backhand shot did not want to collaborate.

Ilya watches Hollanders games, or at least as many of them as he can when he’s not playing at the same time himself. He isn’t really sure why, because it stings every time. But it also stings to not see him. So most nights when he himself isn’t skating around an arena, he is home alone in this cold, empty, dark apartment in Boston, eagerly watching Hollanders every move. He has been playing great. As usual. His game-head obviously not being as affected by what happened, or what hadn’t happened, as Ilya’s.

After pressing send a second time Ilya puts the phone down. He must leave. The walls around him suddenly feel suffocating. Not here. Not here, where he will wait and wait and wait for a message from Hollander that will never come. Because he has gotten one text. It would be very greedy of him to ask for more after weeks or radiosilence.

He will take what Hollander gives him. A few words. Anything.

When he gets home, his feet are bleeding again. They have started a habit of doing that. Or maybe Ilya has formed a habit of running until they do. Maybe that’s why he’s been playing so shit that even Hollander felt the need to reach out to him. So bad. Lazy. I don’t know that side of you at all. Fuck. Fucking fuck. Shut up.

Ilya downs an entire glass of water, trying to not glance at the phone on the counter, the screen placed upside down. Like this, he can still pretend that when he flips it over, there will be a message waiting for him. A message from his Jane. Because Hollander is not Ilya’s, he never was. But Jane. Jane was Ilya’s. Before he flips that phone, the message is there. Once it’s unlocked it might not. He might be faced with another month of silence. Maybe even another life. What if that was the last he ever heard from him, both from Hollander and from his Jane?

His eyes burn holes in the phone before he can gather enough courage. He picks it up. Breathing hard. Steeling himself for the inevitable rock of disappointment in his stomach.

Ilya turns the phone over. But the disappointment does not come. Because there it is. A new message from Jane. His Jane.

J: More points in one game than you have done in, what is it now, five?

J: Maybe you are the one starting to get old

They had been sent two hours ago, shortly after Ilya sent his last one. Okay. This is good. This is amazing. He did good, and Hollander is rewarding him with another few seconds of his attention. Another few seconds. He can work with that. He’ll take everything he can get.

L: Boston still win all games. Unlike Montréal

For a brief moment he is wondering if the apostrophe is too much. If that shows that he tries too much. Cares too much. But still, Hollander might appreciate that. And that is more than he can ask for, for his words to be appreciated by him. He sends it. Tries to push down the wave of nausea that hits him. Stupid.

He looks up at the clock on the microwave. He has practice in an hour that he needs to get ready for. And he has to eat something. As he reaches for the fridge however, the phone vibrates on the counter and he nearly topples over in his eagerness to reach for it.

J: Fuck you

You wish. The response comes to him too quickly for him to stop it. Something he might have sent before. Before I can’t do this. Before he realized that they had never given any promises. While he chews on his thumb, trying to come up with another answer, anything honestly, another message comes though.

J: We’ll see about that in a few weeks. If you keep playing like now it won’t even be a challenge

A few weeks. Yes, there is a game again in a few weeks. A game in Montreal. Ilya has done his best to suppress this knowledge, but hasn’t done a very good job at it. In fact, he has spent quite a lot of time thinking about it, how he is going to react to seeing Hollander again. Is Hollander going to ignore him? Should he ignore Hollander? That last thought is laughable. Like he’ll be able to for even a second.

L: Will be easy for us, block you from anything other than backhand and we are safe

J: In your dreams

J: I have to go to practice

Of course. His time is up. A few seconds, that was all he knew Hollander was going to give him. It’s more than he thought he would ever get again. He is prepared for this. Still, it hurts. Just a few more. Please. And apparently, wherever he is, Hollander must hear him.

J: But I’ll talk to you soon?

Yes. Yes yes yes. Whenever. Always. Ilyas heart speeds up.

L: Sure

Ilya sees this for what it is. A second chance. He had been given, gifted, a second chance. By Shane of all people. And he would be damned if he screws this up again. He can’t. From now on, he has to be perfect.

Later that night when Ilya is trying to sleep he suddenly realizes something, something that makes him sit straight up. A pleasant, warm feeling spreads through his stomach. Hollander, Shane, had commented on his game. Did that mean that he had been watching? Had he been looking at Ilya, thinking about him? Maybe. Maybe Hollander does not only live in Ilya's head. Maybe, to some degree, he himself also lives in Hollander’s.

When he wakes up the next day, without having dreamt a nightmare, the first night this week, the first thing he does is reach for his phone. But there are no new messages waiting for him. He tries to convince himself that he wasn’t expecting any, that what he feels isn’t disappointment. There is another notification however, one from one of those so-called “news sites”. Is Rozanov losing his game? the title reads. And fuck, this won’t do. Lazy. He needs to do better.

—

Two days pass without anything. He plays another game, against Minnesota this time, and manages to score one goal, getting his first points in six games. The goal is not pretty, but that doesn’t matter. He can still play hockey. Surprisingly, when he gets back to the hotel room and crashes onto the bed, his phone pings with a message.

J: See? Knew you still had it in you. But you can do better.

Ilya can’t help from feeling a smile drag the corner of his mouth. The next second he is crying.

L: Boring. You need to learn real trashtalk

J: Who taught you that word?

L: You think I play hockey and not know that word?

J: Fair enough

J: Any other new words?

A question. An opening. Fast, he opens google and types “boring synonyms”.

L: Monotonous

J: Wow

Wow. A memory of a small smile. Genetic. Stop.

J: Who else out there are you calling boring Rozanov?

His name. From Hollander's fingers. Granted, his last name. The safe name. It shouldn’t feel as monumental as it does. But fuck if it doesn’t make Ilya’s stomach turn upside down.

No one, he wants to answer. Only you. You are my only boring. My safe. But he can’t write that. He has to control himself. Nothing is promised. No more messages are guaranteed. He can’t afford to mess this up again.

L: Canadian hockey players are boring. Need more words

Safe enough. Good enough. He is doing good.

—

They fall into a familiar pattern with the texting. Back and forth, like they have done before in the summers. At first, they only talk about hockey. It’s safe. Normal. Something they both know. But after a while it starts to be about other stuff. Not important, just opinions on different movies or foods. Ilya memorizes every single fact Hollander sends about himself. Stores it away in a special part in his brain named Hollander. It’s the most important part.

Still, neither of them mention them. What happened. What had almost been. Ilya doesn't because he is behaving. He will give Hollander absolutely no reason to pull away again. He is being safe. And Hollander because… Well, Ilya doesn’t know that. He really has no idea what Hollander is doing texting him. Last time they saw each other for real he had left without explanation. Or a true explanation at least.

Their game creeps closer and closer. Ilya is choosing to ignore it, but he can’t deny that his stomach flips every time he sees the “Montreal” on his calendar. Three weeks. Three weeks until… He has no idea. Hollander could ignore him, not even look in his direction, pretending as if they had not been texting again. And that would be fine. No promises have been made. But it would hurt. Damn, it would almost destroy him.

It’s late a Wednesday night. Boston is in Florida, playing an away game. Ilya has started to play better again, and he chooses not to see the correlation between his hockey stats and when Hollander started texting again. They have won the game, 5-3. Ilya scored two of those. His team had opted to go out and celebrate. Ilya had joined them for a little while. A woman in a short short pink dress had smiled at him from the other side of the bar. He had smiled back, but as soon as they had been on the dancefloor, her back pressed against his front. It just didn't feel right. He wasn’t enjoying himself. Instead, he had excused himself and left the bar. For a moment he was about to call a cab, but the fresh air had been nice, rain hanging in the air.

Ilya is walking back to his hotel when his phone vibrates.

J: Almost hattrick, told you you still have it

Hollander is always the one to text first, is the one to initiate the conversation, and he’s the one who most often than not decides when it ends. Ilya’s keeping the promise he had given himself: he is taking what Hollander is giving him. Nothing more. He gives him no reason to leave again. He is being good.

L: Well. Still an almost

J: Stop being so hard on yourself

J: You did good

And woah. This is new. Ilya stops walking. Hollander has sent him a complement. A real complement, not one wrapped in a sarcastic comment. This isn’t something they do.

L: You type wrong Hollander?

J: What do you mean?

L: You complementing. Finally realized I am better player after all?

J: You’re such an asshole

Ilya can’t help but laugh at the familiarity of it all. Hollander calling him an asshole. It’s so comfortable his eyes start to burn a little. He brushes his fingers over them and continues to walk.

J: I can be nice you know

L: You just called me asshole, asshole

J: Basically your name

J: Just realized, shouldn’t you be out celebrating?

I would rather talk to you. Always. And otherwise I would just be at the hotel room. Thinking of you. Of course, he can’t write any of that.

L: I was. Good vodka here

It wasn’t. The vodka here is awful.

J: You already drank so much you’re on your way back?

And that was also weird. Hollander was weird tonight. Asking questions. Why does he care?

L: Am on way back. Not that drunk

The three dots appear, disappear and reappear again a few times. Then they disappear for good. Ilya waits a few minutes, phone still in hand, before he realizes that Hollander has left their conversation. It squeezes his heart a bit, but it’s fine. Hollander decides.

Ilya is almost at the hotel when the phone finally pings again. That surprises him.

J: Alone?

What? Is Hollander asking him what he thinks he is? If it had been before, before the I can’t do this, Ilya would have said that Hollander sounds jealous. But surely, that’s not what’s happening now. Is it?

“What the fuck are you doing Hollander,” Ilya whispers and enters the hotel lobby. He stares at the message as he walks through it, into the waiting elevator and presses floor 4.

“Hold the door!” someone shouts. Instantly Ilya presses the button to hold the door open. A woman half-runs towards him, but halts for a second when she sees him. She recognizes him. He turns his phone off and hurries to hide it in his pocket.

“Thanks,” she says, a little breathlessly.

“Which floor?” Ilya asks.

“Ehhh. Second. Please. Thank you. Sir.” Ilya can see how she cringes at herself. If he wasn’t so on edge he would find it more amusing.

The doors slide close and they start to move up. Ilya can feel the woman, maybe in her late twenties, glance at him. He is grateful that she doesn’t say anything though. The elevator stops at the second floor and she gets off. Half a minute later Ilya taps his card against his own door and sits down on the bed. He pulls out the phone again.

What is the right answer here? What is the answer that won’t scare him away? But he has gotten a new message during the elevator ride, sent a few minutes after the first one. Hollander is not a double texter usually.

J: Are you taking someone home?

Those words. Almost dripping with jealousy. A pleasant warmth spreads through Ilya. Hollander cares.

L: Jealous?

He regrets it the second he sends it. Had temporarily forgotten the look on Shane's face when he realised Ilya had called him by his name, his first name. Fuck. Once again, Ilya loses his head for a second. Being too honest. Scaring Hollander away, because there is no way that he would… His phone pings.

J: Answer the question Rozanov

His name. Hollander has used it sometimes in their conversations, but rarely. It feels good. So good. But not good enough so that he doesn’t notice that Hollander doesn’t answer his question either.

L: No

J: No as in you are alone or no as in you are taking someone home?

L: No as in alone

J: Ok

Hollander doesn’t write something for a while. Everything in him tells him to stop now. Not overstep again. But, because he can’t stop himself. Ilya types.

L: Why?

This time it doesn’t matter how long he waits. Hollander does not answer. Ilya goes to sleep with his phone in his bed next to him.

—

A few days pass. Ilya flies home, plays another game, scores again. He goes to practice. Contemplates going out again, finding someone. But Hollander's words echo in his head, and he knows that he can’t. Another flight, this time to Detroit. And when he steps off the plane and gets service again Hollander has texted him.

J: Dad has started doing the daily crossword and keeps asking for help. Think you might have picked the wrong person in the family to call boring

Still ignoring Ilya's question, but a text is a text and Ilya's heart flutters. He had almost convinced himself that he had taken it too far last time. But this is safer, even though it is a little domestic. But boring and generic.

L: You can both be boring at same time

L: Genetic, remember?

J: Right

There is a pause. Is this Hollanders' way of ending their talking again? Five days, and this was all?

L: Don’t worry Hollander. You are still most boring

The next answer comes fast. Almost as if Hollander had it ready and typed it out, just hyping himself up to send it.

J: I haven’t

Ilya furrows his brows. That doesn’t make any sense. His English is not one hundred procent, but it has gotten a lot better, and even he knows that Hollander's answer is not correct.

L: What?

J: I haven’t taken anyone home

J: Or let anyone else take me home

Oh.

Oh.

Hollander has decided to answer his question after all. He had asked why and Hollander had, apparently, decided to be honest with him. Ilya can't stop himself from being honest as well.

L: Me neither

And it is true. No matter how much he had thought about it, he had not considered it for real. He knows that nothing will even come close to what had been before I can’t do this. But he hadn’t thought the same was true for Hollander.

J: Okay

Ilya usually never has a hard time reading Hollander, but that’s mostly true when they are face to face. When he can view the blush slowly creeping up Hollander's neck and cheeks. It’s harder though these texts. What does okay mean? He once again contemplates what to answer when Hollander sends a new message.

J: My dad is doing the crossword again. You don’t happen to know what a group of crows are called, do you?

Okay, they are leaving it at that. That’s fine, Ilya has no idea what to say to that anyway. But to his surprise, he does know what a group of crows are called.

L: Murder

J: Who are you murdering???

L: No

L: Group of crows. Called murder

J: No it’s not

L: Yes. Look it up

A few seconds pass and Ilya looks up just in time to grab his bag from the baggage carousel.

J: What the fuck

J: Why is it called a murder?

L: I keep tell you, English is stupid

“Who’s got you smiling like that, Roz?” Cliff comes up to him, bumping their shoulders together. Ilya hurries to turn off his phone.

“No one,” he says, maybe a bit too quick. He has totally lost all the cool he once had. One deep breath to calm himself, get back into his outside persona.

“You are smiling at your phone again.”

“Am not. I do not smile.” Cliff laughs.

“Tell that to your face.” Ilya makes a show of turning his lips as much downwards as possible.

“You know Roz, you are a funny guy.”

“No, not funny guy. Big, serious scary Russian hockey player.”

Cliff laughs before he asks. “Is it Jane?”

And with those words Ilyas blood freezes to ice.

“What?” he manages to get out.

“You’re smiling at your phone again. Was a while since last. Are things better with your Jane?”

“I don’t have a Jane.”

“Well… We’ve all seen her name on your phone.”

“It’s not my Jane. She is not my anything.”

“Oh,” Cliff says sympathetically. “I’m sorry. But maybe you can patch things up again? Just got to apologize, right? We play in Montreal soon enough. Perfect timing to make a grand gesture!”

Ilya has to bite his tongue as to not say how not appreciated a grand gesture would be for not-his Jane. How he has tried that, and has had it blown up in his face. But apologize, yes. That will require acknowledging what has happened, but maybe that’s what he needs to do.

Because, despite his sometimes a little too honest text, Hollander has stayed. Even when Ilya has thought he has gone too far. Maybe the next step is for him to apologize, promise he can still keep things casual between them. That the ginger ale and the tuna melt and the stay doesn’t have to mean anything. Yes, if Hollander will let him talk to him while in Montreal he will apologize.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ilya says when he understands Cliff is waiting for an answer. Cliff pats him on the back.

“You’ll solve it, I’m sure you will. You are Ilya fucking Rozanov, any girl would be thrilled to have you.”

I don’t want any girl though, he thinks to himself as Cliff walks away. I just want this slow, freckled fucking hockey player.

—

Ilya is drunk. That’s what he’ll blame this on later. And it is true, he is, but he’s not drunk enough to warrant him starting a conversation with Hollander. He knows that he’s greedy and not following his own promise of not taking more than he is given. But he wants to talk to Hollander. Always. And he is a bit drunk, and he is alone in his hotel room and before he can stop himself he has already pressed send.

L: That’s how you do it

It was a good game. An amazing game. The first in quite a while where hockey had felt fun again. And he, Ilya Rozanov, first over-all pick and best player in the whole fucking league, had not only scored a hattrick, but had scored four goals.

Hollander had also played today, he knows. Despite his better judgement he has Montreal's playing schedule pulled up on his phone at all times. Hollander has also scored, but only one goal, and the Metros had lost. So maybe, in hindsight, his text is a little cocky. But before Ilya has the chance to spiral again, he gets a reply.

J: Not bad

J: But if it is against Ottawa, does it really count?

And sure, Ottawa is in the bottom of the league at the moment. But four goals in one game is still four goals in one game.

L: You are just bitter. Montreal not winning now

Montreal has been on a bad streak lately. Hollander is brilliant as always, but the rest of the team are not stepping up.

L: How you like playing for team that suck?

J: I remember you liking my sucking

Ilya freezes. Because.

what.

the.

fuck.

Hollander does not do this, not anymore. This is the first time he has acknowledged the something they were, before. And even then, he was not the one to start these types of conversations. Ilya was the one to start, even though Hollander had seldom not followed him.

Ilya feels himself gape, at a total loss for words.

J: Sorry

J: Shouldn’t have written that

And of course. Or course he doesn’t mean it. Because he doesn’t care? Isn’t that what had led them here in the first place? Ican’tdothis. But at the same time, looking back at the last couple of weeks, Hollander has cared, hasn’t he? Ilya has been taking hardly any initiative to talk, and still they have talked almost everyday, albeit over text. But still. He has learned new stuff about Hollander. Boring stuff. Stuff you don’t tell people you aren’t at least feeling somewhat comfortable with. And he has asked questions while Ilya has not, not wanting to push him more. Hollander has cared.

J: Say something

J: Please

And there it is again. Hollander cares. Ilya swallows.

L: Yes I did. You very good at that trick

J: Can I call you?

Ilya’s heart stops beating. Can he call him? Does Hollander want to call him?

And suddenly Ilya is fifteen again, scared of what his father will say as he tries to stand up on the ice again after a particularly nasty hit. Not good enough. Because that is what happened, right? He is not good enough for his father to love. Not good enough to make his mother stay. Not good enough to make Hollander stay.

But Ilya is a very, very weak man when it comes to Shane Hollander. He will take what he is given. Gladly. Even though it will probably kill him, when Hollander once again realizes that being with him is a mistake. But it’s been weeks since he has heard his voice. And fuck him, he misses him so goddamn much it scares him.

L: Yes

Barely a second pass before Jane’s name fills his screen. Sitting up on the bed, taking a deep breath, Ilya presses on the green button. He doesn’t say anything, only presses the phone to his ear. Hollander is not saying anything either. But Ilya can still hear him, breathing on the other side of the line. A few seconds pass. Probably enough for them to form a minute, Ilya thinks, but he is not sure. He doesn’t want to be the one to speak first. So so afraid of saying something wrong. Making another stupid mistake. Hearing Hollander breath is enough. But then…

“Hi.” It’s no more than a whisper. Just a timid word, so much like that first time in Saskatchewan. Ilya shuts his eyes, presses them tight together. Tears start to form. One of them slowly runs down his cheek.

“Hello,” he says, just as quietly. He hears Hollander draw a sharp breath.

“I had forgotten… I-I didn’t,” Hollander mumbles, and it’s unclear if he’s talking to himself or to Ilya. He is breathing fast, Ilya notices. Fast and shallow.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I don’t…” Hollande's voice wavers off. Ilya hears shuffling. Hollander sounds stressed. He sounds like he does sometimes, when he gets overwhelmed. Cold panic starts to squeeze at Ilya's heart.

“Where are you?”

“I’m - I’m at the hotel.” It sounds like he struggles to get the words out.

“In your room?”

“Yes,” Hollander breathes.

“Alone?” Ilya pushes on.

“Yes. I-I told you…”

“No. I meant. Is Pike there? You usually share, yes?”

“No he’s out. Somewhere. I don’t know. I don’t…”

“Is okay. Hollander.” Another sharp breath at the sound of his name. “Hollander breath. Is okay. Just follow me, yes?”

Ilya focuses himself on taking deep, loud breaths. Drawing in. Holding. Pushing out. He feels absolutely ridiculous. But he can feel his own heartbeat slow down, and though the phone he can hear Shane - no fuck not now - Hollanders breath becoming more stable as well. Slowly it becomes less shaky. Deeper.

“You are doing great.” It’s a close call, avoiding slipping a nickname in there. Something in Russian. Something familiar. But that would give way too much away. He has Hollander's voice in his ears again and he cannot lose this. He will die if he does.

A few minutes pass. Nothing is being said, just deep breaths. Matching breaths.

“Thanks,” Hollander mutters after a while. “I don’t know why I get like that.”

“Is okay. No need to explain. You feel better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Good.” The silence that follows isn’t exactly comfortable, but not exactly tense either. Ilya has no idea what to say. He is afraid that if he starts to speak, he will not be able to stop. The words will just fall out of him. Damming words. Words that will make someone run again.

“I miss you.” The words are small. Silent. Barely audible. And at first Ilya thinks it’s himself who says them, that he has let himself slip up again. But, no, it’s Ilya who hears them. It feels like he is outside of his body. He is not the one sitting on a bed hearing Hollander saying that he misses him. “Fuck, I miss you so much.”

“I-I…” Can he say it back? Is it okay for him to actually say it back? Fuck it. Barely more than a whisper. “I miss you too.”

Hollander hiccups, he must be crying.

“You do?”

“Yes. I miss you.”

“I want to talk to you.” And those words should be scary. Should once again leave Ilya petrified. But they don’t. Instead, they fill him with something that is dangerously close to hope. And fuck if that isn’t almost worse.

“I thought we are talking now?”

“Yeah, but… I wanna talk to you for real,” Hollander sniffles. “Please.”

This is what Hollander gives him. An outstretched hand. A plea. Please. But at the same time I can’t do this. It’s no promise. But it is a plea. And that is more than enough.

“I want that too.”

“Fuck. Rozanov,” Hollander whispers and Ilya presses the phone incredibly even closer to his ear. Hearing his name in that voice again feels like coming home. Ilya that voice had said. Once. But Rozanov is enough. More than. He isn’t greedy.

“Can you come over? When you are in Montreal?" Come over. An invitation. Yes.

“Yes. I will.”

“I hate this,” Hollander says in a rushed voice, the words barely distinguishable from each other. Ihatethis. I hate this.

“What?”

“I don’t know. This. Everything. I…” Then, in the background, there is the sound of a door opening and Pike’s voice, although sounding from far away, is picked up.

“There you are Shane! What… Are you crying?” And suddenly Ilya is jealous of Pike. To get to be in the same room as him. Be the one to comfort him. Calling him Shane without being terrified of the consequences.

“No I just… Give me a moment.” Hollander’s voice is further away as well, as if he has pulled the phone from his face. There’s movement on the other side again, and another door that opens and closes.

“I have to go,” Hollander murmurs, quietly.

“Shane, are you okay?” Pike is faster than Ilya to speak. His voice is even more muffled. Ilya wonders if Hollander has locked himself in the bathroom.

“But I mean it,” he continues, without answering Pike. And that sends a spark though Ilya. Right now at least, he is more important than a worried Pike. “I want to see you as soon as you get to Montreal. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya breathes.

“You promise?” And there they are. Those words. A promise. They don’t give each other promises. Never have. But here, Hollander is asking for one from Ilya. Something real. Ilya has to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I promise. I will come.”

“Good.” He is once again interrupted by Pike's voice, but this time Hollander speaks over it so he can’t hear what is being said. “I’ll go. But I’ll text you. And then we’ll see each other?”

He poses the last sentence as a question. He is asking for reassurance. That Ilya will take this promise seriously. And Ilya can’t really remember the most important promise he has ever made to someone, but this has to be near the top of the list.

“Yes. Bye Hollander.” And before Hollander has the time to say something else, to pull away from his promise, take the one sliver of hope away from Ilya, he ends the call. He falls back on the bed, not caring that he is crying.

That night, he dreams of opening that dark wooden door, just so see Shane look at him with angry, burning eyes, before jumping out of the window.

—

They continue to text the following days. Nothing real, but they still text.

J: I fear I may have to agree with you about my father being boring

L: No! He is exciting! He is reading New Yorker and does crosspuzzles

J: Crosswords

J: But now he has also started doing puzzles, so you are not so far off

They mention nothing about that phone call. About the promise. Ilya has almost convinced himself that he made it up if not for it being right there in his call-log. Incoming call from Jane: 14 minutes. 7 seconds.

With each day that passes he knows it’s getting closer. Soon he will be on a plane. He will land, go to the hotel and then try to sneak out to Hollander. Maybe he won’t even go to the hotel at all. Or did Hollander want for them to meet up after the game? He had sounded urgent on the phone, as if he wanted to see Ilya as soon as possible. But maybe he is missing him in the sense of sex. And he wants to hear Ilya talk, say all those things he knows makes Hollander's knees give out.

Whatever he is given, he will take.

Four days away from The Day Ilya is stepping out from the shower in his apartment. The towel is wrapped securely around his waist. He can’t see himself in the mirror with all the fog. Two unread text messages from Jane are waiting for him.

J: Just, if you see something in the tabloids soon

J: It’s not true

That doesn’t sound good.

L: What would I be seeing?

J: It’s not true

L: What?

J: None of it. I promise

Ilya. stops. breathing.

Because there it is. A promise. A promise from Hollander to him. They don’t give promises to each other, isn’t that what Ilya has tried to remind himself off every single fucking day since he walked out. Shane hadn’t broken anything, because no promises had been made. No promises, no commitments.

But here, in black and white, on Ilya's screen it is. A promise. Hollander has given him a promise. It’s not true. He still doesn’t know what, but that doesn’t really matter. Because Shane has given him a promise.

Ilya understands the next day. The headlines are everywhere, inescapable. They make Ilya feel like he’s going to throw up.

USAs new Royal couple? Rose Landry caught looking cozy with hockey player Shane Hollander.

Hockey player. They have narrowed all of Hollander down to just hockey player. Not second one in the drafts. Not the best player on the ice, one of the best of all times.

But that is not what makes Ilya's stomach turn. He has been replaced. All this time, and Hollander gets himself a girlfriend only a few weeks later. When they have finally talked. When Hollander has made Ilya give him a promise. But… It’s not true. None of it. I promise.

And maybe he shouldn’t, it has burned him before, but Ilya trusts him. Afterall, he too had made a promise, and if Ilya intends to keep his, Hollander must do the same. Right? Yes. He must.

The news seems to follow Ilya. He can’t open his phone without seeing the headlines or the gossip. But the worst is the pictures. Because there, in every article and every instagram post, is a picture of Shane and this fucking Rose looking cozy together. They seem to be leaving some sort of restaurant, Hollanders arm around Roses shoulders.

They do make a beautiful couple. Rose is the exact type of movie-star-pretty she is supposed to be, and Hollander is… Well. He’s Hollander. He’s not really smiling in the pictures, it’s more of a content smirk, but still. He looks happy. It makes Ilya want to break his phone against a wall.

He almost caves and texts Hollander first, ask what the fuck this is about. If it’s real, more real than things ever were between them. But every time he sees something, he opens his chat with Jane. And there it is. The promise that whatever he sees, it’s not real.

But he doesn’t need to wait in agony for more than a few hours before Hollander texts him.

J: I guess you’ve seen?

No I live under a fucking rock. What the fuck do you think Hollander?

L: Yes

J: Fuck I thought this wouldn’t become such a big deal

L: What exactly?

J: My dinner with my FRIEND Rose

L: Just friend?

Ilya holds his breath as Hollander types. The three bubbles taunting him. Then there is a ping and a new message appears.

J: Yes. Just friend

Ilya's head is swirling.

J: I meant what I wrote. None if it is real

J: I have finally gotten you to talk to me again

J: It’s not like I’m gonna risk that

That makes all the thoughts in Ilya's head stop abruptly. What. Have gotten Ilya to talk to him again? Like that was a challenge to do? Like Ilya hasn’t been breathing only to wait for a text from Jane?

And suddenly, something starts to build in Ilya's chest. Something is wrong. Somewhere along the way there has been a terrible misunderstanding. A misunderstanding so big that Hollander apparently thinks that Ilya wouldn’t want to speak with him again. He has been so certain it’s the other way around, that he would take the attention Hollander would give him.

Had he been the same, waiting for Ilya to reach out? Be the one to text first? Because, fuck. That hurts. The image of Hollander sitting with his phone in his hand, waiting for something that never came. And still texting first, still being so very brave and vulnerable.

His silence seems to make Hollander spiral again, because when he looks down at his phone, the screen a little blurry, there are a new couple of messages.

J: Didn’t mean to scare you off

J: Please don’t leave

J: Just. I really fucking miss you

J: And I’ve tried to give you space but I can’t fucking to it anymore

The three typing bubbles show that Hollander is digging himself even deeper when Ilya finally answers. If Hollander is being brave, Ilya needs to be brave too.

L: I do not want space

The dots disappear. A few seconds of nothing. Then.

J: No?

L: No. Not from you

Never from Hollander. If he could, he would want to crawl in under Hollander's skin. Live with him. Inside him. Close and close and close. Ilya’s fingers shake as he types.

L: I do not want to do this over text

L: I land day after tomorrow at noon, will come as soon as I can leave hotel

J: No. Come here straight from the airport

L: You know I can not do that, team will be curious

J: I don’t care. Tell them whatever you want honestly. Just get here as soon as possible

J: Okay?

There is no way that Ilya can sneak out of the airport and skip the bus trip to the hotel with the rest of the team without getting suspicious questions. As captain, disappearing like that is not something that he can just do.

But this is Hollander. This is Shane asking him, almost begging, to come over. Because he wants to talk. Because he misses him. Because he told Ilya that none of what is going on with Rose is real, promised it. And even if Ilya could ever deny Hollander anything, he is a selfish selfish man.

L: Okay

—

In this dream Ilya hesitates outside the heavy door. He knows he needs to open it, but is so scared of what is going to be on the other side. He wakes up before he can find out.

The next day is silent. No new messages. Nothing. For a short moment Ilya contemplates sending one himself, but he has no idea what to say. His fingers hovers over the keys until the phone goes black in his hands. He goes to practise feeling more on edge than he ever has.

“Roz! Have you seen?” someone ambushes him as soon as he steps foot into the locker room. A phone is shoved in his face and there it is again. That picture. Hollander, not quite smiling, but looking content with his arm around a girl. The picture that is burned on the inside of Ilya's eyelids, burns his heart in his chest.

“Yes,” he says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the bitterness in his voice. “Good for him.”

None of it is real. I promise. Please don’t leave. I really fucking miss you. Please dear god, let this be the promise that he keeps. He didn’t stay the night. But this, this needs to be true.

“What crawled into your ass and died?” Ilya furrows his eyebrows.

“What? New stupid English expression?” He feels stupid. Doesn't know English. Doesn’t know how to quit Hollander.

“Yeah man. Means you sound angry.”

“I am not angry.” He really isn’t. Just tired. So, so tired. One day and then he will finally see Hollander again. And they will talk, and their conversation will either be the thing that finally breaks him, or… Or, a small voice in his head tells him, or it’ll be the thing that brings him back to life.

“Whatever man.” The person leaves him alone, realising that Ilya isn't in good company today. Ilya gets on a training bike and pedal til his legs are cramping. The stupid TV in the gym is showing more of the gossip, Hollander and what's her face. Rose. He knows perfectly well who she is. Someone good. Good enough for Hollander to face the world with. He tries to tune it out. I really fucking miss you. Soon.

He limps home, tries to hide it to not get a scolding about training too hard so close to a game. Maybe he is successful, but more likely he looks just the right side of miserable for no one to bother him.

That night Ilya packs his bags with more care than he usually does, if only to distract himself. He puts on a game, not even noticing which teams are playing, and lays on the couch. The next morning he wakes up with a twitch in his neck. And suddenly he is on a plane to Montreal and feels like he’s about to throw up.

L: Taking off

He puts the phone in airplane mode, puts in his earphones and closes his eyes, silently forcing the time to move faster while at the same time being terrified of what will happen if it does. Around him people are laughing. He tries to breath in through the nose, holding it, and out from the mouth. It doesn’t really help.

The wheels touch down on the runway. There is a swoop in his stomach, both from the way the plane jerks, and from the knowledge that he is close. In just an hour, maybe not even that, he will knock on the door. It won’t be a big wooden door. But what’s inside might as well break him the same as then.

J: I meant it. Get straight here

The message pops up as soon as Ilya dares to turn off airplane mode. Ilya doesn’t even have a real plan here. He follows the team to the baggage carousel.

“Cliff!” he says, falling into step next to him.

"Wassup!”

“I need to leave.”

“Leave? Where?” Cliff glances over at him confused. Ilya looks around them. No one else seems to be listening.

“Jane.” He really emphasizes the name, raises his eyebrows slightly in hopes that Cliff will understand. That he will remember their conversation in the locker room. That he needs to apologize.

Understanding dawns on Cliff's face before it splits up into a wide grin. “Oh! Yes, of course. Good on you! What do you need?”

Ilya could kiss him out of gratitude.

“I will get my bag and rent car, drive straight there. You can fight coaches questions?”

“I mean, probably not. But it doesn’t matter. She is worth it, yeah? Even if management gets upset?”

Ilya pictures it. Hollander standing in his doorway. Hood up, waiting.

“Yes. Very worth it.”

“You really are in love with her, aren’t you?” The question is genuine. The great Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov who sleeps with dozens of women. Rozanov who starts fights and draws blood on the ice. Ilya can’t help the small smile on his face.

“Yes. I probably am.” Cliff whistles.

“Never thought I’d see the day.” Neither did Ilya. Time to find out if those feelings are reciprocated or if next time Cliff sees him, he will be a shell of himself. I just fucking miss you.

“I’ll try my best to draw attention away from it,” Cliff says.

“Thank you. You are good friend.”

Cliff just nods at him, both of them grabbing their bags before Ilya sneaks away, trying to not look like the heavy and big hockey player he is. He goes to the first car rental he sees. Lucky for him there is no line. Apparently people don’t want to rent a car in Montreal at noon on a Thursday.

“How can I help you sir?” The older man behind the counter doesn’t look twice at him. He doesn’t recognise him. Perfect.

“I want to rent car,” Ilya says. “For three days.”

“Absolutely sir. Any kind of vehicle?”

This rental place will not have any cool or good cars. And honestly, Ilya doesn’t even mind.

“Something normal,” he says, before adding as an afterthought. “Not stand out.”

The man nods, types stuff into his computer. Ilya presents his passport and signs the paper before being handed an envelope.

“Key is in here, the car is in the garage in spot B5. Just take the elevator over there all the way down and you’ll find it.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem at all sir. Hope you have a lovely time in Montreal!” Ilya wishes the same thing.

He can’t help himself from stopping and staring at the car when he gets down into the garage. It’s a Toyota. Black. So painfully boring. Normally, Ilya would rather be shot dead than be seen in this car. But desperate times, isn’t that what one says?

He puts his bag into the backseat and jumps into the front seat. It’s just then he realizes that he has no idea where to go. Hollander has two apartments here, he knows that much. One he has been to so many times. But that is the secret place, the place where Hollander hides. It’s not his real home. Is there where he is supposed to go?

And as if reading his mind, Hollander chooses that moment to send a new text. With an address. Not the sex-appartment then. That’s good. Right? Ilya types the address into the car's GPS.

L: Will drive from airport now

J: See you soon

The drive takes a little less than an hour. Ilya has no problem finding the right address as he parks on the street. Hollander had not given him any instructions for what to do now.

L: Here

He opens the car door and looks around. Jumps out. At the same time, the door to the apartment building opens with force.

The world stops spinning. Everything stops. Ilya’s mind zeros in on the person in the doorway. Because there he is. Hollander. Wearing a grey hoodie with the hood over his hair, but Ilya can still see some of his dark hair sticking out, seemingly longer than the last time he saw him. Except for the hood, Hollander has done nothing to hide himself, which is unusual.

Ilya takes a deep breath, prepares himself, and pushes his sunglasses higher up on his nose. It’s still mid-day and bright outside. People are moving on the street. He does his best to relax and look as unsuspicious as he can, but knowing himself he’s probably not doing a very good job at it. Every part of him is telling him to run. Run to Hollander. Run as far away as possible. Just run. His feet have not bled in some time now, and suddenly he aches for it.

But he doesn’t run. Instead he closes the door to the car and walks towards Hollander. Hollander who is following his every movement with a sharp gaze, not even looking to see if any of the many people around them are paying attention. And fuck, it feels so good to have Hollanders undivided attention.

Ilya has kept his promise. Soon he will know if Hollander kept his as well. God he hopes so.

He steps past him into the colder hallway of the apartment building. Their bodies almost touching, but not quite. Still, Ilya feels as though he’s on fire. He doesn’t let himself look at Hollander's face. Not yet. Not here. The heavy door falls close behind them. The hallway’s much nicer than Hollander's other, secret, apartment. Neither man says anything, but both are breathing a bit harder than usual. It feels like the phone call.

Ilya's gaze is stubbornly fixed on a point just right of Hollander's shoulder. He doesn’t know what to say now that they are finally together again. I can’t do this echoes in his mind. But there is hope in his chest, that Hollander really meant what he wrote.

“I…” Hollander starts before his voice cracks, but all Ilya hears is I can’t do this. I miss you. “It’s good to see you. What…”

“Not here,” Ilya interrupts him. He’s still not looking at him. Just hearing Hollander's voice has his heart beating faster and something dangerously close to tears start to burn in his eyes. Not here.

“What?”

“Not in hallway.” He doesn’t want to talk about this here. Ilya’s a bit surprised that Hollander has not already grabbed him and dragged him inside. Behind a private door. That he would even talk to him out here, where anyone can see them, is surprising him. Here, they are Rozanov and Hollander, one of the world's most known rivals. But Hollander doesn’t seem to care, and that throws Ilya off.

“Oh. Yeah sure.” Hollander starts moving, quite slowly, towards an elevator. Ilya rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath and follows him.

The ride up is quiet. Ilya stares straight ahead, but he can feel Hollander's gaze burn his cheek. The knowledge makes him tense his jaw. It’s something he always does. To prepare himself for something. To stop himself from saying something stupid. Something honest. Something that will scare him away again.

Hollander leads him to an apartment door. It’s a white door. Modern. Nothing like the dark wooden door in Ilya's nightmares. Still, he feels as he does every time he reaches the door, completely terrified of what is on the other side. There will be no body behind it, but it might still be a conversation that ends up shattering his heart.

Hollander reaches out, fumbles with a key for a moment before holding the door open for Ilya, waiting for him to enter first. A moment of hesitation, and then Ilya does.

Hollander starts talking the moment the door closes behind them.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” He sounds so sincere, raw and vulnerable, in a way Ilya doesn’t think he has ever heard him before. I’ve tried to give you space but I can’t fucking do it anymore. That gives Ilya the courage to finally look up, look at Hollander's face, meet his eyes.

As he does, Hollander exhales. His eyes are wide, but not scared in a way they usually are when they look like this. He looks determined. That gives Ilya the courage to be brave as well.

“I am too,” Ilya says. Hollander's arm twitches, as if he’s about to reach out. To finally touch him again. Ilya craves it, the feeling of Hollander's hands on him. But he abruptly stops the motion, letting his arm fall back down. A complicated expression flashes across his face. Ilya wants to scream. He wants to grab the arm. Bring it to his face. Put it around his throat. He doesn’t. Obviously.

Hollander nods to himself, tense his shoulders as if he is going into battle. Gather courage. Then. “Did you mean it?”

That throws Ilya off. Hollander is asking a question from a different conversation again. Despite trying to think back, Ilya has no idea which. Ilya has said many things.

“Meant what?”

“You don’t want space?” Hollander’s voice is small, but purposeful.

He stares straight at Ilya, once again brave in a way he has seldom seen him. His jaw is set, but he meets Ilya's gaze full on. He has practised this, Ilya realized.  Which means…

Hollander had meant it. All of it. He has missed him. He has thought about Ilya too. This means something to him as well. That realization hits Ilya like a train.

Weeks of back and forth. Weeks of being so so scared of doing the wrong thing again, so sure that this was only in his head and that Hollander would leave again at his next slip-up. Weeks of trying, and failing, to deny himself anything more than Hollander gave him. And somewhere, in another city far away from him, Hollander had thought of him too.

And suddenly it doesn’t feel enough to take what Hollander gives him. Not even close. Instead, he wants to give him everything.

“Not from you,” Ilya repeats what he wrote. “Never from you.”

Hollander's eyes are glazy and he blinks angrily, trying to force the tears away. His voice shakes as he continues. “But you never wrote. I tried to get something but-”

“I thought is what you wanted,” Ilya cuts off, the urge to get it off his chest unresistable. “I was so scared to scare you away again. I could not watch you walk away again. I take what you gave me.”

“Oh Ilya.” It’s said like a whisper but it still makes Ilya's heart stop in his chest. Because Hollander is saying his first name. His first name spills from his lips with such care and adoration. Like it's precious. Hollander says it as if his name belongs in his mouth. And that makes Ilya shatter. He looks away, closes his eyes, unable to stop the burning sensations in his eyes this time.

He flinches when arms suddenly wraps around him. Hollander doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he presses Ilya into his chest. The embrace is firm. Tight. Safe. Everything around him fades away. Everything except the heat from Hollanders body and his smell in his nose. One arm is placed around his waist, holding him firmly in place. The other hand cradles the back of his head, fingers tangled in his hair, carefully pushing it down until Ilya’s face is in the crook between Hollander’s neck and shoulder.

“I’m so so sorry,” Hollander whispers. “Walking out of that door is the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Ilya can’t stop the sob that forces its way out of his mouth. Hollander lets his hand trail up and down his back in a soothing pattern. “You have no fucking idea how much I’ve regretted it.”

“You have?” Ilya's sniffling voice is muffled against Hollander's warm skin. To believe that he had convinced himself that he could live without this.

“Yeah,” Hollander laughs dryly. “It has killed me.”

It has killed me too, god you’ve no idea. But he doesn’t say it. “Why did you leave?” What did I do wrong?

“I got so scared. You said my name and it felt so good and… I didn’t know what I was feeling. Didn’t know what you were feeling and it got too big.”

“What changed?” Hollander sighs, and buries his finger deeper into his hair, pulling slightly.

“I missed you.” He states it like it’s simple, like that was all it took. Maybe it did. And fuck if Ilya hasn’t missed him as well. He sniffles again.

“And Rose?” He says into Hollander's shoulder, partly hoping that his voice will sink into his skin and not be heard. He feels like a child, needing reassurance, but he feels like he will die not knowing if Hollander kept his promise as well. Suddenly that feels like the most important thing. He needs to know.

“What about Rose?” He sounds confused, as if Ilya hasn’t died thinking of them two together, praying to anything that could possibly hear them that it wouldn’t be true. That Rose wasn’t the thing that had taken his Hollander from him for good.

“Did you..?” He is not even finished asking the question before he feels Hollander shakes his head against him, still not pulling away. Their bodies still firmly pressed against each other.

“No. No of course not. I promised you.” I promised you. He promised. He knows that a promise is something that is holy. Something that’s not meant to be broken. And he hasn’t. Hollander - Shane - has kept his promise, just like Ilya.

Ilya’s knees give out from under him. Weeks of tension suddenly bleeding out of him. His body is heavy and he slumps forward, not caring what happens with him. He is so tired. So so tired. But Shane catches him. His strong arms hold him upright as Ilya for the first time in many many years let’s the tears fall freely.

“I’ve got you,” Shane whispers. “Fuck, Ilya. I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.”

“I am.. Is…” No words form. Shane shushes him.

“It’s okay. Come, let’s sit down.” Shane's arms slowly unwraps themself from him, but his hands don't stop touching him. Ilya gets his balance back slightly, but still leans on Shane as he leads him forward, though the hallway and into a living room with large windows.

Ilya is pushed down onto the couch, Shane beside him, pressing Ilya’s head down onto his chest. It’s almost exactly the same way they were sitting that day, just before I can’t do this. But this time the roles are reversed.

He can hear Shane's heart beat underneath him. Alive. Here. With his arms around him, holding him close.

“I did not think you wanted this,” he says after a while. The material of Shane's shirt is smooth under his cheek, warmth seeping through it. “I thought I destroyed everything last time. Fuck.”

“You didn’t. Ilya, you didn’t.” He says Ilya's name with force and purpose, as to show that he is very conscious that he is doing it.

“You left, and I did not…”

“You did nothing wrong. I messed up by running and then not texting. Or calling.”

“But you did text, after a while. And call. And you did not think I wanted you to?”

“You barely answered. I tried to get anything from you, some acknowledgement of what happened, what you actually meant when you asked me to stay.”

Ilya snorts. “Thought it was obvious, no?”

“Shut up.” Shane shoves him lightly, but still makes sure that Ilya doesn’t do anything to actually move from their position. “Yes, but if it was a ‘stay the night’ like you actually said, or if it was a ‘stay in…” He swallows, hesitates, but once again decides to be brave. “If it was a ‘stay and be in my life for real’.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” The silence stretches between them.

“So?” Shane says after a short while. “Which one was it?”

“You don’t know?”

“I mean. Not really. I know what I wanted, want, it to be. And if I’m reading you right I know. But Ilya, I really need you to say it.”

So brave. Ilya has no idea if he would’ve been as brave if their roles were reversed. And what Shane asks is fair. He needs to be brave now too. Ilya leans back, just long enough to be able to look at that face he loves so much. The wonderful freckles and those dark eyes cloudy with emotion.

“I meant ‘please stay the night. And then stay the next day and the next’. I never want you to go Hollander. Ever.” Shane lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes.

“Thats not my name.” Ilya’s forehead scrunches in confusion.

“What you mean?”

“Almost. But that’s not my name. Before you said… You called me… Please, Ilya. Say my name.”

His name. Not Hollander. Shane. Shane. A name so precious to Ilya that it makes his heart hurt in the best possible way. A name he has tried to forget, all thoughts instead being replaced by Hollander. Safe. Not something to make him run away. Can he really say it, or will history prove to always repeat itself if it does?

Shane has opened his eyes again, looking straight though Ilya as if he’s reading his mind.

“I won’t run. I promise. Just, please say it again.” Another promise. Ilya swallows. Nods. Jumps.

“Shane. My Shane. I do not want you to go.” Ilya lets one of his hands run up to cup Shane's cheek and Shane leans into the touch. His eyes are wide, but a small, timid smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Ever?”

“Ever,” Ilya confirms firmly. Shane laughs breathlessly and throws one leg over both of Ilyas, straddling him. He leans forward and desperately presses their lips together. So warm. So wonderful. The taste of Shane, the best thing that Ilya has ever felt.

“Thank god. I don’t know how I would’ve survived otherwise,” Shane murmurs against his mouth.

“You do not need to know. I will not disapear.” Both of Ilya's arms wrap around Shane's warm body. Close. All of the stress and anxiety from the last weeks has completely evaporated. Only calm and total euphoria is left. That, and the feeling of Shane's limp body pressing into him as close as he can get.

“Good.” Never again will he walk away from this. Never again will he just be happy and take what Shane gives him. He will instead spend the rest of his time to make sure Shane has everything he deserves. He promises himself that, there on the couch. He promises Shane everything.

They have to get up eventually, after what feels like minutes, or an entire eternity. Shane whines in protest when Ilya starts to loosen his arms.

“Noooo. You said you’d stay.” The words are muffled against Ilya's collarbone.

“Am not leaving, not like I can get up anyway.” Ilya wiggles under Shane to prove his point, Shane's legs are trapping him in place on the couch. “I do really need to pee, so unless…”

He doesn’t even finish the sentence before Shane groans and pushes himself off Ilya. “So gross.”

“Ah, now I am gross?”

“Shut up.” Ilya smiles wildly at him, and Shane’s grin is just as glowing. They just look at each other for a moment and Ilya’s heart beats faster knowing that he gets to have this. That he gets to have Shane. And that Shane, for some reason, wants this just as much as he does.

Before he can do something mushy, like say any of that out loud, he forces himself off the couch and looks awkwardly around him.

“Where…” he asks hesitantly. Shane’s real apartment is nice, beats the other creepy one, by a mile. While the walls there were empty and impersonal, in this room there are signs of the life that is being lived. Photographs in frames, books laying tidily on the coffeetable, too many pillows on the couch. Signs of Shane that pulls at something inside of Ilya.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Shane says. “Just down there, and to your left.”

“Thank you.” Ilya starts walking, slowly to get a good look at the pictures as he passes them. A small Shane with braces holding a diploma, a somewhat older Shane with a hockey stick. He turns around before he reaches the hallway. Shane is still on the couch, hasn’t moved an inch, and watches him with a fond expression.

“Do not…” He tries to find the word. “Freak out while I am gone.”

“I won’t,” Shane says quickly, sounding so sure. Ilya still lifts an eyebrow at him.

“I mean it. Do not even think of running again.”

“From my own house?”

“Shane…”

“I promise. No more running.” Another promise. Given freely, as if second nature. Ilya nods as he tries to hide the warmth on his cheeks. He turns back and finds the right door.

The first thing he sees is how organized it is and it’s so much Shane that he wants to scream. Toothpaste standing in the corner of the sink. Toothbrushes in a cup next to it. Toothbrushes. Plural. One seems to be used, some of the brushes sticking out a little. The other one, completely new, still sporting that new-toothbrush-glow. Did Shane get him his own toothbrush?

The second thing he sees is himself, his own reflection in the large mirror. He looks a bit insane. Glowing. Happy. He doesn’t think he has ever seen himself so happy. The smile won’t leave his face even as he tries to push it down. His cheeks are red, Russians do not blush my ass. Ilya turns on the tap and splashes water on his face, willing himself to calm down. It doesn’t work.

When he exits the toilet he half expects the apartment to be empty. For a camera team to approach him saying “it’s all a prank”. What he finds instead is Shane standing in the living room, thumbs in his front pockets, nervously staring out through the windows. As he hears Ilya approaching he hurries to turn back. Ilya doesn’t miss the small flash of relief as he sees him.

It’s going to take a while, he thinks, to get used to Shane wanting him this much, after weeks of trying to deny himself anything.

“You look good here,” Shane says with a soft smile.

“I think you know I look good anywhere.”

“I mean, you do, but I mean here. In my home. I like seeing you here.” Ilya tries to not let it show how much hearing that means to him. Based on Shane's expression, he fails miserably. Ilya huffs.

“Since when you get so sweet Hollan - Shane? Saying all of this. Very bad for my image.”

"Your image?” Shane takes a few steps towards him.

“Like stone-cold Russian who do not care.” Ilya takes a few steps as well.

“Well. I think you’re a stone-cold Russian who do care.” They are almost within touching distance again.

“Care for you? Always,” Ilya breathes and Shane basically throws himself at him, kissing him hard.

“Bedroom,” he says against his lips. Ilya kisses him back, before letting his lips feverishly trail over Shane's freckles, down his throat. Shane whines.

“You will not be good host and give me the tour?”

“Later.”

And what can Ilya do but agree. There are still so many things he wants to tell Shane. Three little words that he is dying to say to him. But that can wait.

Later. They have later. It even seems like they might have a lot of time later. They might even have forever.