Work Text:
“So?” Ilya Rozanov said, sitting on Scott Hunter’s couch like he owned it. “What are we doing?”
Scott stared at him.
They were in his own New York apartment. It was after three in the morning. His ribs still ached faintly from an old bruise that had never quite faded before he was slammed into the boards again; his eyes were red-rimmed and felt as dry as a desert in one of the exotic countries he visited in search of a summer hookup. He was tired, bone-deep tired, exhausted in a way that would not disappear after eight, twelve, or even 24 hours of sleep. He felt slightly nauseous, despite not drinking all that much. He sat in shame, guilt, self-hatred, and deep sorrow he had in himself since his parents' accident, but never allowed it to come so close to the surface.
And Ilya Rozanov- Boston Raiders captain, ruthless Russian machine, professional at hokey and ragebaiting- was sprawled against his throw pillows, elbows on his knees, watching him like this was a perfectly normal situation.
Scott wondered, not for the first time that night, how the hell he had ended up here.
—
It had started in Montreal.
The Admirals had lost to Montreal Voyaguers on Montreal home ice, the kind of loss that stuck under Scott’s skin and refused to budge. He could already picture the podcasters and sport analysts nodding their heads with the knowing look on their faces. Of course, Hunter couldn’t do it; of course, he would burn out halfway through. It wasn’t a question of if but when.
He was already wound tight when Shane Hollander skated past him near the benches afterwards, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, smirking just enough to be annoying. Or maybe he was simply smiling, happy after his win, and Scott, in his frustration, interpreted it as malicious?
“Hope next time we play, you decide to show up!” Shane said lightly.
Scott exhaled through his nose, irritation flaring. He was tired of polite chirps and smug smiles and everyone being on his fucking case, and people pretending they weren’t trying to needle him.
“You’re starting to sound like him,” Scott shot back without thinking.
Shane stopped, smile immediately dropping from his face, replaced by a frown.
“What?” Shane asked, voice flat.
Scott blinked. He hadn’t meant- Ah, fuck it. “You fucking heard me, Hollander,” he said, shrugging.
Something shifted in Shane.
Scott didn’t understand it at first. He saw it register in Shane’s eyes- something sharp and defensive and suddenly furious, but the type of anger that was there to hide deep panic, fight or flight mechanism kicking in. Shane, who barely ever fought. Shane, who called Scott Mister Hunter and acted like a fanstruck teenager around him for a good three years after joining the league. Shane, who awkwardly chirped with words when he had to, and walked away.
That very Shane dropped his gloves and swayed forward.
The first punch caught Scott completely off guard; it didn’t even register with him that he was in an active fight, and he had to protect himself.
By the time the linemen dragged them apart, Scott’s head was ringing, and his knuckles stung from maybe one decent hit he managed to land, and Shane looked like he’d just barely stopped himself from doing something much worse.
It wasn’t until later- sitting in the locker room with ice pressed to his face- that the pieces clicked together.
Fucking Rozanov. Of course.
The way Shane had reacted, like Scott had threatened him, like he had to fight for his life, like it was either Shane or Scott. The look full of hatred when Scott was dragged from the ice, the fury in his fists powered by panicked survival mode.
Scott sat there, staring at the floor, and thought: Oh.
Your boy Rozanov.
It’s always Hollander and Rozanov.
1221 at the All Stars.
Oh.
That kid has given him the lightest possible chirp, probably not even meaning it, and Scott basically told him the closet is glass and he should take Rozanov’s dick from his ass before the next game.
Oh, no.
—
The next night, Scott was finally back in New York.
Kip was in his apartment, curled up on the couch with his feet tucked under him, book on his lap and highlighter in his hand, soft music playing quietly while Scott reheated some leftovers. It was one of the rare nights Scott actually felt like he could breathe, could shed the C from his clothes, could just be.
Then someone banged on the door, hard and fast.
Scott frowned. “Probably one of the guys,” he said, already moving toward the hallway. “Someone got drunk, or is getting divorced, or got a girl pregnant. It will be a moment, stay here, yeah?”
Kip nodded and slipped into the bedroom without question. They were good at that, Scott thought bitterly. Good at being quiet, careful, and hiding.
Scott opened the door-
-and Ilya Rozanov practically launched himself inside.
“What the fuck do you think you were doing, Hunter?” Ilya shouted, slamming the door behind him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Before Scott could even process the words, a fist connected with his face, right where Shane had hit him the night before.
“Jesus-!” Scott stumbled back, stars bursting behind his eyes. “What the hell are you doing? Why are you here, what the fuck?”
“You almost fucking outed him in front of the whole fucking arena, with his fucking team and your fucking loser Admirals, with fucking cameras all around,” Ilya snarled, shoving Scott back again. “You think that’s a joke? You think this is a fucking bargaining chip?”
“I didn’t-” Scott groaned as another blow glanced off his shoulder. “I didn’t even know-”
“Bullshit,” Ilya spat. “You think calling him me doesn’t mean something? You think people don’t listen? Shane is the politest, most boring player on ice, and he respects you, for what I do not know, and you give him this shit for a slight jab? You have a problem with me, you take it with me. Leave him the fuck out of it, you deranged motherfucker!”
Scott barely had time to brace before hands grabbed them both and shoved hard between them.
“Stop!” Kip yelled, voice shaking. “Stop it!”
Ilya froze, suddenly as stiff as sculptures from Kip's textbooks.
He looked at Kip like he’d just seen a ghost.
The fury drained out of his face, replaced with something raw and panicked. “Who the fuck are you?”
Scott braced himself. He would have to defend both of them, apparently. It would be a tough fight, but they had some chances against Rozanov. Kip was fit and quick, and Scott would sacrifice himself. He had a good run, a bit of shame it had to end right there. Death from Rozanov’s hand didn’t sound particularly peaceful.
Kip swallowed, but held his ground. “No one who’s going to say anything,” he said quickly. “I swear. I’m no one, I wasn’t here, I know nothing. I didn’t- I didn’t hear anything specific. Just… yelling. I’m sure Scott is very sorry and will amend his mistakes immediately.”
Scott looked at Kip with awe in his eyes. Was it weird that he was falling even more in love with his boyfriend when watching him negotiate and tame the Russian bear? Probably it was. But Scott couldn’t help it. It was also a little hot, but that was not an appropriate time to get a boner.
Ilya stared at him for a long moment, chest heaving. Scott stopped breathing, waiting for the verdict. Kip held his hands in front of his body and didn’t move.
Then, Ilya sat down, or rather dropped hard to the floor.
Scott stood there, dizzy and aching, as Kip busied himself around, pressing ice into his hand, guiding him to a chair, and carefully passing a glass of water to Ilya, who nodded gratefully and downed the whole thing in one go. The apartment, despite its size, felt too small for the three of them.
After a moment, Ilya spoke again, quieter now, his accent heavy.
“Is he,” Ilya said, looking at Kip, carefully avoiding certain words for plausible deniability, “Is he to you what you think Hollander is to me?”
Scott’s pulse spiked painfully.
He nearly panicked right there- but Kip’s hand brushed his arm, grounding him. He had little choice in what to say. And he felt like he owed something to Hollander and Rozanov.
“Yes,” Scott said finally. “He is.”
Ilya exhaled shakily and nodded once. “Okay. That’s- Okay.”
After a moment of silence, Ilya turned to him once more. “So you destroy Shane with me, I destroy you with him, da?”
Scott just nodded, carefully not looking at Kip, pushing the panic rising at that reminder down.
They talked then. Scott explained that he hadn’t meant it, that he’d only realised afterwards, that he wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Ilya listened, arms folded, jaw tight, then finally scoffed.
“You’re still an incompetent old man,” he said. “But a decent one, yes?”
Ilya teased Scott mercilessly for his taste in men, calling him different variations of “cradle robber” (how did he even know so many English phrases for that?) until Scott threatened to break his jaw after “sugar da-” left Rozanov’s mouth. Then, Ilya teased Kip for his choice of partner. Much to Scott’s surprise (and delight), Kip teased him right back, shockingly fearless, quickly making friends with the Boston captain (much to Scott’s despair). Somehow, by the end of it, they were exchanging phone numbers like this was normal and not completely unhinged, and Scott was kind of excited that he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
—
Months later, in March, on the home ice, Scott played Florida like he’d forgotten how to skate.
His passes were off. His timing was worse. He tripped over his own skates. Halfway through the game, he was pulled and didn’t see the ice again, and he wasn’t even angry; he was just glad that the humiliation was over.
He didn’t stay for post-game interviews, delegating it to his A. He ignored his coach’s attempt to talk to him, and he ditched a physio who wanted to check him over. He didn’t give a customary speech to his team, he had barely said anything before slipping out of the locker room and into the backseat of his car service drive.
By the time he got home, he felt hollowed out. He felt so much anger, aimed at himself, of course. That self-hatred was like nothing he had ever felt before, so strong it knocked a breath out of him, cut him off at the knees, leaving him on his kitchen floor. The feelings were so strong he didn’t know what to do with them; they were all-consuming and overwhelming. He could just kneel and try to catch his breath.
It took him longer than it should have to pick himself up. He poured himself a glass of scotch and downed it immediately, then repeated the process two times, until he felt slight nausea at drinking so quickly on an empty stomach. He stared straight ahead for god knows how long, until a noise ripped him out of his dissociative state.
His phone rang.
It shouldn’t. Scott silenced it right after getting into the car; he wasn’t in the mood to explain himself to all interested parties.
Scott stared at the screen like it had personally offended him.
Ilya Rozanov.
Of course. Scott set up his phone in a way that when he hit silent mode, it still allowed a few people, like his agent (and Kip, his Kip…), to get through, in case of emergencies. He must have accidently add Rozanov to the list, too.
He shouldn’t answer. He knew that. He was sitting alone in his kitchen, still in half his Under Armour he wore during the game, sweat dried cold against his skin, replaying the moment the coach tapped his shoulder and told him he was done for the night. He didn’t need Rozanov’s voice on top of that, reminding him of all his faults, laughing at him. Insult to injury, that’s what that call would be like.
He grabbed his phone to decline the call.
And, naturally, his thumb had to slip. Why was his hand shaking so badly, and why hadn’t he noticed it sooner?
The call connected.
“What happened out there, Hunter?” Ilya asked without a beat, his tone light, careless on purpose. “You look like shit on TV. More than usual, I mean.”
Scott huffed out a laugh that didn’t feel like one. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Why was his voice so hoarse?
“Is that your new strategy?” Ilya continued. “Lull opponents into boredom? Wait for them to fall asleep on the ice, yes?”
“Sure,” Scott said automatically. He couldn’t even tell Rozanov to fuck off. That single word stuck in his throat. He stared at the dark window, at his own reflection looking small and tired and unfamiliar. “I just-”
He stopped. Scott didn’t know what to say, what he wanted to reveal, if he even wanted to. Silence stretched between them, and Ilya didn’t fill it, uncharacteristically patient.
Scott swallowed. “I got pulled,” he said finally, like it was a confession, even though Rozanov probably already knew. “Middle of the game. I don’t think- I don’t think I’ve ever been pulled like that before, not because of an injury, penalty, but because I was so fucking awful.”
“I watched. Is true, it was bad, even for a senior citizen,” Ilya agreed, but there was no cruelty in his voice, no amusement. It was an honest, calm assessment.
Scott squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah.”
Another pause. His phone felt too heavy in his hand, his head felt too heavy on his shoulders.
“And what, Hunter? First dementia attack on ice?” Ilya prompted gently, despite his classic jab.
Scott’s laugh came out wrong again. “And apparently that was just the cherry on top of my stellar fucking week.”
Ilya hummed, waiting for him to continue.
Scott took a breath that didn’t quite make it all the way into his lungs. “Kip and I-” He stopped, tongue tripping over the name. “We fought. Or… not fought, exactly. I’m not sure. We talked. And then it turned into-” He waved a hand pointlessly even though Ilya couldn’t see him. “Shit.”
“Ah,” Ilya said softly. “This is about your Kip.”
“Yeah,” Scott said. “Kip. I don’t know if it’s my Kip, though.”
The words started coming faster then, tumbling over each other like they’d been waiting for an opening. They probably were. No one on Scott’s side knew about Kip, no one he could talk to, no one except Ilya fucking Rozanov. What a fucking joke, to have Rozanov as a therapist, as his only confidante. Scott was pathetic.
“It’s his birthday,” Scott said. “Or- it’s coming up. His birthday is coming up this Friday. He wanted me to come to this thing, a party, nothing big. Just his friends, but it’s at-” He hesitated. “It’s at a bar. The Kingfisher.”
Ilya was quiet, only breathing sounds coming from his side.
“It’s a gay sports bar,” Scott blurted, his heart hammering like he’d just said something dangerous out loud. “He works there sometimes, and he wanted- he wanted me there. And he wanted to introduce me to his friends. Wanted me to be there. And I just- I couldn’t. I don’t think I can.”
“You are a lighthead on a good day, and you move like you would lose a salsa competition at your nursing home, but it’s your boyfriend. He already knows that. Why not?” Ilya asked, voice neutral.
Scott let out a breath that sounded halfway to a sob. “Because someone might see me there. You know that someone always sees. They always see, and they always have their fucking phones out, and they always have their fucking twitters and their shitty investigating skills and their conspiracy theories, and- and I don’t get to just be a guy at a bar, I’m-” He broke off, jaw tight. “I’m me. I’m always fucking me.”
Ilya hummed, encouraging, nonjudgmental.
“He told me we could say I’m just a friend, just a guy he met in a smoothie shop, that I don’t have to come out,” Scott continued quickly, like he needed to put it all out before Ilya could decide he was awful and end the call. “But I can’t do that. What if one of them decides to talk, what if one of them sells me out for a few bucks from a newspaper? It would be fucking obvious who we are to each other, they would all know, and what if someone says something, what if they post a photo and someone decides to investigate, and they find- And I can’t do that, I feel raw panic just thinking about it, I’m so fucking terrified. And he- he said he’s tired of lying, hiding a relationship from his friends, his family. He said he feels isolated, locked away in my apartment, hidden.”
Scott rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “He’s not wrong, either.”
“I believe it, in any argument against Scott Hunter, I will automatically assume the other side is not wrong,” Ilya said dryly.
Scott snorted despite himself, then sagged. “He said I won’t even take one step out of the closet. He said that I won’t even try for him, I won’t compromise on anything. And I know that’s- I know how that sounds. But every time I think about it, about being seen, about someone taking a picture or asking questions or-” His chest tightened. “I freeze. It feels impossible, it is impossible.”
Ilya didn’t interrupt.
“He left,” Scott said quietly. “Said he needed space, or maybe that we needed space. Or maybe-” His voice wobbled. “Maybe that was just it.”
Silence again. Thicker this time. Scott had half a mind to hope it wasn’t Ilya figuring out the most devastating roast of all time.
Scott swallowed hard. “I don’t know who else knows about him. About us, I mean. One of his friends, I’m sure, maybe another one. No one on my side. Obviously, I don’t talk about it, ever. Only you know. And now I’m just-” He laughed weakly. “I’m alone in my kitchen, getting benched on home ice, but it was my fault, I fucked up with Kip, I disappointed my team, so I don’t even know if I’m still allowed to be upset about it.”
“You are allowed,” Ilya said immediately.
Scott blinked. “Yeah? You think that?”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “This is upsetting. This is a lot for an old, fragile, concussed many times hockey player. I would be upset if I were you. Fortunately, I will never be you, that is my worst nightmare. I will ask to be shot dead before I allow this.”
Something in Scott’s chest loosened, just a fraction. The corner of his lips curled up.
“I keep thinking,” Scott went on, quieter now, “that if I were better, on the ice. If I were winning. Maybe it would all feel worth it. If I were successful, maybe that would justify my fear, fucking it up with Kip for the sake of hockey. But I’m not! I’m a fucking loser, I’m useless in everything. Hockey is literally the only thing I’m even remotely good at, and if I can’t even do that, then I’m just- I’m just-” He trailed off, exhausted. “I don’t know.”
There was a soft sound on the other end- fabric shifting, maybe Ilya moving.
“I am sorry,” Ilya said. “That sucks.”
Scott breathed out slowly. “Yeah.”
He couldn’t expect Ilya to lie to comfort him about his skills, no matter how much he would like that.
They sat in silence for a few seconds more. Despite everything, Scott felt lighter, calmer. He was no longer suffocated by his thoughts and feelings. It was easier to breathe now.
Fucking Rozanov, good at everything he tried, even comforting. Who would have thought? Not Scott, that's for sure.
Then Ilya spoke again. “I will talk to you in three hours. Hold on, try to not die before. I know at your age you can't promise anything, but try to live.”
Scott frowned, checking the time automatically. “What? It’s almost midnight.”
“I know, don’t go towards light if you see it,” Ilya said.
“Why three-”
The line went dead, and Scott was left staring at his phone.
“What the fuck,” he muttered to himself.
He set the phone down and poured himself another drink. The adrenaline faded, leaving him boneless. At some point, his forehead ended up resting against the cool stone of the kitchen island.
The buzzer dragged him back to consciousness. He lifted his head too fast and winced, his kitchen wobbly in his eyes.
For one stupid, hopeful second, he thought-
“Kip?”
He staggered to the door and opened it.
It wasn’t Kip. Obviously, he was stupid to let himself hope. Kip would let himself in; he had a key. More importantly, Kip wouldn’t come. Why would he?
Instead, Scott got Ilya Rozanov, exactly three hours later, just like he promised (threatened?).
And Scott realised dimly that if this was real, and not stress-induced hallucination, his life had officially gone off the rails.
—
“So?” Ilya Rozanov said again, settling back into the couch like he’d been the owner of the apartment. Even Kip didn’t feel this comfortable in Scott’s place. “What are we doing?”
Scott stared at him, blinking slowly, trying to make his brain catch up with reality. Was he going insane, hearing voices? Or has Ilya’s grasp of the English language suddenly declined, and he didn’t know what he was saying? Maybe he got hit in the head one too many times? From what Scott could recall, Ilya did suffer a semi-serious injury on the ice that week. Maybe it was hitting him now?
“I-” His voice cracked immediately, which pissed him off. He, absurdly, trusted Rozanov, but that was a bit too much vulnerability for one night. He cleared his throat. “What do you mean 'what are we doing'?”
Ilya tilted his head, studying him, eyes alert in a way that made Scott vaguely uncomfortable. Like Ilya had already decided something and was just waiting for Scott to catch up. Against the surface appearances, Rozanov was incredibly perceptive, both on and off ice.
Ilya’s hair was a mess, flat on one side, as if he recently got out of bed and didn’t have time to get himself together. Boston hoodie and pyjama bottoms still on supported this theory.
“We have to fix it, yes?” Ilya said simply. “We make Kip take you back. I know it is crazy that he, or anyone, took you in the first place, but if that was possible once, maybe he will do it again. Maybe he is like those people who adopt senior dogs from shelters to give them a family in their last few years before they are put down. Or it’s a fetish. Anyway, we are getting his ass back here.”
Scott barked out a laugh. It sounded hysterical even to his own ears. “You’re kidding.”
“About the fetish? Is real, is called gerontophilia. I learned it just for you,” Ilya answered with an easy smirk, wildly out of place, if Scott had anything to say about it.
“Fuck you, Rozanov. You drove to New York in the middle of the fucking night,” Scott said incredulously, gesturing vaguely, “because you think you can and should just- what- fix my personal life?”
Ilya shrugged. “Da.”
Scott dragged both hands down his face. “You cannot be serious about this. Are you insane?”
“I am insane sometimes, yes,” Ilya said. “But this is not one of those times. I am serious. As you Americans say, I’m as serious as a heart attack, something that will probably happen to you soon.”
Scott shook his head, ignoring yet another jab at his age. “You don’t understand. There’s nothing to fix. I fucked it up, okay? No solution, nothing I can do. Kip doesn’t want to see me, and even if he did, I can’t- I can’t do what he wants. I can’t be what he needs.”
Ilya leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Explain.”
“I already did,” Scott snapped, frustration bubbling over. “Did you even listen to anything I said on the phone?”
“I listened to your boring life story,” Ilya said calmly. “That is why I am here, Hunter. Keep up! Or are you slow off ice, too?”
Scott scoffed. “Then you should know this is impossible!”
“How?” Ilya asked, annoyingly calm, simply looking at Scott curiously.
Scott opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Took a deep breath. Repeated the process again.
“I-” He huffed. “I can’t go to that party. I can’t walk into a gay bar with people who know him and expect me and know exactly why I am there, and pretend everything’s fine. I’ll panic. I feel sick just thinking about it. I’ll fuck it up, surely I will. And then someone will see me, or take a picture, or say something, and then it’s not just Kip that’s gone, it’s everything.”
Ilya watched him for a long moment, expression unreadable.
Then he said, “I know what you have to do, Hunter. You need to stop being such a fucking pussy.”
Scott recoiled like he’d been slapped. He was shocked. Sure, that was a typical Rozanov for you; that was to be expected. Scott was stupidly lulled into a false sense of security. He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Excuse me?”
“You will be excused when you grow some balls. I am being serious,” Ilya said, unflinching. “You are too much in your head. So busy protecting this perfect version of your career that doesn’t exist, that you are fucking up the real one. You sacrifice the one person you love, and you still lose. Maybe the sacrifice is not worth it, then.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Rozanov,” Scott snapped. “You don’t have to worry about-”
“I have to worry all the fucking time,” Ilya cut in sharply. “You do not know how many things I have to worry about. My family is fucked up, my shitty father is dying in Moscow with my shitty brother as his nurse, my cokehead fucking brother who asks for more and more fucking money every day and they hate me anyway, and if it fucking gets out that I sleep with men I am fucked because it would be a fucking crime in Russia for me to do that. My father is police, my brother is police. I can not ever go home again. At least your fucking boyfriend doesn’t lounge around with a stupid movie star golden globes perfect babe because you dared to say his fucking name. I am a captain of the MHL team, just like you; I have the same responsibilities as you, I have the same fears. The difference between us is that I am not a pussy, I pull myself together, and I still do things.”
Scott stared at him, stunned. He could not believe what he was hearing. Did Rozanov, fucking Russian machine, playboy extraordinary, carefree dickhead just vent to him? What the fuck? What was going on? Was Rozanov seriously this troubled? Was his life this fucking fucked? Suddenly, Scott felt a wave of sympathy towards the man. He felt a little ridiculous; his problems didn’t look so impossible in comparison. Fuck, at least Kip wasn’t a hockey player on an opposing team, and at least he didn’t have to look at him in every gossip magazine with the hottest girl available. He was American, and he could even get married if he wanted. Scott was settled for life, if the worst scenario came true and he was kicked out of the league. He had shit load of money, not only from his contracts, but from brand deals and investments. He would be able to live comfortably. He could get a job somewhere as a couch, or commentator. He would be able to fund scholarships for a good few years. He would just have to figure it out, with Kip by his side. It did not sound so terrible, did it?
Ilya continued, tone blunt but not cruel. “You are not being asked to come out on national television on your stupid American Super Bowl halftime show. You are not even being asked to kiss him in that bar and confess your love. You are just being asked to show up. For one night. With people Kip trusts.”
Scott shook his head weakly. “I don’t know them.”
“And?” Ilya said. “You trust Kip, yes?”
“Yes,” Scott rushed to assure. He did trust Kip; he trusted him from the first time they met.
“Then trust his friends,” Ilya said. “It is not a crime to exist in a gay bar, even as a hockey player. I have done it, with way more people, strangers, and I am still alive and well.”
“That’s different-” Scott tried to argue, but he wasn’t even sure. Was it different?
“No,” Ilya said flatly. “It is not.”
Okay, so maybe it is not different.
Scott’s chest tightened. “You don’t get how scared I am.”
Ilya softened, just a fraction. “I do, it is very difficult. It is not fair to us. It is normal to be scared,” he said. “I just think you are letting fear run your life.”
Scott swallowed hard.
“You think you are protecting your hockey career, yes?” Ilya went on. “But look at you. You are miserable. You are playing like shit. You are alone. It looks to me that without Kip, your career is already going to hell.”
That one landed, and it landed hard. Ilya Rozanov was known for harsh chirps and triggering jabs, but that wasn’t it. He didn’t say it to be mean, to hurt Scott. He only voiced his observations, something Scott already knew in the back of his head, but maybe needed to hear.
Scott’s eyes burned. He turned his head away, jaw clenched tight, throat tingling uncomfortably, breathing shallow. He scrubbed at his face quickly, hoping Ilya wouldn’t notice.
Of course, Ilya noticed immediately.
“Oh,” he said quietly, soft surprise in his voice.
Scott laughed wetly. “Don’t. Spare me some dignity, please.”
“Too late,” Ilya said, shifting closer. “You are crying.”
“I am not,” Scott muttered, furiously wiping at his eyes.
“You are,” Ilya insisted. “Is okay. You look less ugly when you cry than when you play like the Florida game. Old people crying is popular on the internet, people think it is cute.”
Scott let out a broken sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him completely.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “I don’t know, it’s all a fucking nightmare.”
Ilya sat beside him, close enough that Scott could feel the warmth of him. Awkwardly, he patted Scott’s shoulder once, then again, like he wasn’t sure of the protocol. Scott hesitated for a moment, but eventually carefully leaned towards the touch. He already embarrassed himself beyond belief; what is one more?
“Then maybe it is time to wake up, Hunter. I know this is fucking difficult, but you can be brave. You are brave, you have already been brave. Not just with Kip. It is brave of you to be in this condition and age and to put your skates on and go on ice with many young, athletic stallions. Besides, you don’t need to be brave forever,” Ilya said. “Just brave enough to go to one stupid birthday party. You can go from there. Just as your physio would say: “Mr Hunter, we can start with a walker and a diaper after the hit you got from Florida’s defensman, and we will go from there later.”
Scott sniffed and giggled. “You’re insane.” God, had he really giggled? There is no recovering from this night. He can never do a face-off with Rozanov ever again.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed easily. “But I am right.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“…You really think I should go?” Scott asked quietly.
“Yes, Hunter. I already told you, yes? Is this dementia or hearing loss?”
Scott ignored the sarcastic reply. “And you think he’ll even want to see me?”
Ilya tilted his head. “You hurt him by not wanting to go. You go, he is not hurt. It is pretty simple, Hunter.”
Scott exhaled shakily. “I’m going to panic. I’ll bail at the door.”
Ilya smiled then- sharp and decisive, his eyes getting the telltale glow they always had before he played a game-winning move. “No, you won’t.”
Scott frowned. “Why not? How can you know that?”
“Because,” Ilya said, “I will escort you. Personally. I will push your wheelchair right through the door if I have to.”
Scott stared, jaw dropping so low he could taste the floor. “You’re not serious.”
“I am very serious,” Ilya said. “I will trick you, if that’s what it takes. I will bring a puck, and I will throw it the other way, so that you run right into that bar. You know, because on ice, when you see a puck, you run in the opposite direction. ”
“That’s- Firstly, fuck you- but that’s- just crazy.”
“If Kip doesn’t come back, I will fuck you, since you are begging for it, but let’s try getting him back first. I’m not gentle enough for your hips,” Rozanov responded in his famous seductive voice.
Scott just facepalmed and huffed, because how else could he respond?
“We are doing it, Hunter.”
Scott hesitated, then nodded slowly. “…Okay.”
Ilya clapped his hands once. “Good. Progress.”
Then he squinted at Scott. “What gift did you buy?”
Scott froze.
“Oh.”