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This is how he remembers Moscow winters: dove grey mornings with the sun glittering dangerously over crystal snow, blinding in its intensity. It hurt to look directly at such purity.
The first time Ilya put his hands on Shane Hollander, it took him back to that feeling. It was worse than staring into the sun because he could feel Hollander’s frenetic heartbeat beneath his palms, delicate power handed to him on a silver platter. The sun was untouchable and incorruptible; Hollander was neither of those things. He was like the first blanket of snow over the rolling hills, one callous step away from being crushed underfoot.
Hollander would bristle at what he’d perceive to be an accusation of fragility. But the point was never that he was breakable. A childhood in Russia made this much clear- the snow would always fall again.
No, the point was that he was too tempting to run into. Soft at first sight, painfully bright and cold upon impact. They’d come away, one frostbitten and the other tainted, and still Ilya couldn’t leave him alone.
This is how he remembers the hit: Hollander flying across the ice like an angel. The hard lines of his body, the soft slope of his smile.
And then the fall.
Now, as he walks down the hospital corridor, bright and white and sterile, it feels like yet another iteration of why this is a bad idea. No matter where he goes, he tarnishes what he touches.
His hands are clammy around the bouquet of cheerful yellow lilies he picked up on the way here. “Lily” had been on the precipice of deletion; Ilya had been steeling himself to end things between them that night. But the universe apparently has a sense of humour, because Shane Hollander is in hospital room 1410 and Ilya is once again about to knock.
He stops in front of the door. There’s a little glass window cut into it, and beyond it, he can see Hollander with a sling on his arm, bruised face turned to the side. He’s smiling at something, and suddenly Ilya can’t wait any longer. He raps on the door twice, perfunctory more than anything, and pushes it open without waiting for a response.
“Ilyaaa!”
There’s a scrape of chairs from beside the bed, and Ilya turns to see- oh, god, Yuna and David Hollander hastily rise with looks of matching bewilderment.
Ah. That was who Shane had been smiling at.
Yuna looks at him like she wishes she could strike him down with her glare alone. “Thank you for coming, Rozanov.”
“I, um, came to see if you were okay,” Ilya offers, more stiffly than he intended.
“Ilya,” Shane says again, delighted. Whatever medication they have him on must be strong. His eyes are glassy and unguarded in the way Ilya only gets to see when they-
He clears his throat. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Concussion and a fractured collarbone. Out for the playoffs, but…”
“Could’ve been worse,” Ilya finishes quietly. Relief so strong washes over him that his knees almost buckle.
“Could’ve been worse,” Shane echoes.
“Marleau feels terrible. He did not mean to hurt you.”
It’s a testament to the drugs that Shane doesn’t even flinch. “‘S okay. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”
Not you, Ilya wants to scream.
“Right,” he says instead, so softly that it’s barely audible even to himself.
Ilya’s distress must be palpable, because Shane reaches out for him with his uninjured hand. “Hey. Heeyyy.”
And Ilya is a weak, weak, man, because he takes the last few steps to Shane’s bedside, bouquet of lilies held like a flimsy shield over his heart, and interlaces their fingers. The stormstorm in his chest finally settles.
Shane lets out a happy little sigh and leans back against the pillows. “Bet-ter,” he says decisively.
His gaze drops to the lilies and he brightens even more. “Are those for me?”
“Um. Yes.” Ilya’s never felt so wrongfooted before. He can feel Shane’s parents’ eyes on him, and he studiously avoids looking in their direction as he practically thrusts the bouquet at him.
“Lilies. My favourite,” Shane beams. “Can’t believe it took a fucking concussion for you to finally buy me flowers.”
He laughs like it’s the funniest joke in the world, as though Ilya’s insides aren’t twisting at the thought of him being hurt.
“You scared me,” he blurts, and Shane’s laughter peters off.
“Oh.” An almost comically slow blink of brown eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No. No apology.” His free hand has crept up of its own volition to cradle the side of Shane’s face. Shane leans into the touch like a contented cat, turning his face to press a kiss to Ilya’s palm.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night. I’m mostly mad at Marleau for fucking that up, actually.”
Ilya chances a glance up at Shane’s parents, who look equally shellshocked. He swallows. “No, no. Is okay.”
“I was excited about last night. You know, I had a whole plan to ask you something,” Shane begins, and Ilya hastily shushes him.
“Maybe not now, yes, Hollander? Better if you just rest.” He caresses Shane’s freckles, softening the blow, and then abruptly realises they’ve probably, definitely given themselves away.
Shane’s eyes close in bliss. “Mm, okay.” A moment later, he cracks one eye open. “Aren’t you gonna get in with me?” He shuffles over on the bed as if to make space for Ilya.
“Shane, honey, I think you might be a little confused,” Yuna Hollander cuts in suddenly, and Ilya feels like a bucket of ice water has been doused over him.
“No ‘m not. Ilya always takes the left side of the bed,” Shane says, a furrow between his brows.
“Shane,” Ilya says helplessly.
He looks up at Yuna and David. “We are, um, friends.”
It’s the least convincing lie he’s ever told. Yuna’s raised eyebrows tell him as much.
“I should go,” he blurts.
Shane practically shoots upright. “What? No! No, Ilya, don’t go.” His grip on Ilya’s hand tightens until it’s almost painful.
The heart monitor starts beeping alarmingly. Frantic, Ilya rubs circles over the back of Shane’s hand in what he hopes is a soothing way. “Hollander, you need to rest.”
“Don’t go," Shane pleads. “I need you.”
And then the final nail in the coffin- “Pozhaluysta.”
Well, this is his comeuppance for teaching Shane how to say please in Russian. He might as well have handed him the remote control to Ilya’s limbs.
“Okay, okay,” he says, placating. “I stay.”
He looks up at Yuna and David. “If that is okay with you?”
That’s a lie. Nothing they say could possibly compel him to leave. Thankfully, they don’t seem inclined to; David looks past him at the heart monitor, stable now, and something complicated crosses his face.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says, looking at Ilya as if for the first time, although he must know who he is, must have known since Ilya stood next to Shane on the podium at the draft pick aged nineteen. How many times has the name Rozanov been cursed in the Hollander household, Ilya wonders? How many times have Shane’s parents fanned the flames of a rivalry that was heated for all the wrong reasons?
Ilya exhales. Still, it’s a relief not to have to fight. “Thank you.”
“We’ll give you boys a moment,” David says. Yuna looks like she’s about to protest, but he gives her hand a squeeze and she sighs and nods.
Shane blinks, looking more befuddled than ever. “Where’re you guys going?”
Yuna immediately softens. “We’re stepping outside for a second so that you and– uh, Rozanov can chat.”
She searches Ilya’s eyes for a long, terrifying moment, and he’s not sure what she sees but her lips curve up in a rueful half-smile. Then the door is closing behind her and David and he and Shane are alone.
“I think your parents know,” Ilya says pointlessly. Oh God, he’s just outed Shane. He’s going to have the panic attack of his life when the drugs wear off. That can’t be good with a concussion.
Shane hums, blissfully unaware of Ilya’s internal turmoil. “No they don’t. I haven’t asked you yet.”
Ilya simultaneously does and doesn't want to know. He’d feared a rejection, at first, but now he’s beginning to suspect it’s the opposite. They’ve been inhabiting the grey area of plausible deniability for so long that he doesn’t know what will happen to them when they finally emerge on one side or the other.
It’s Schrödinger’s relationship: both real and not. Shane is about to open the box.
“I was gonna ask you-”
“Hollander.”
“Willyoucometomycottagethissummer?” Shane says, all in one breath.
The cottage? It’s his sanctuary, if the ESPN feature film is to be believed. He’s finally inviting Ilya to his real home. And this is the man who bought an entire condo for them to hook up in. Ilya’s honoured and terrified in equal measure.
“Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house, we’ll have so much fun. It’ll be so private, no one will know. We could have a week or even two. We’d be completely alone.” Then the clincher: “Together.”
There are a thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea, and Ilya opens his mouth to tell Shane so. But the words die in his throat because he can see it all already– Shane’s dark hair fanned out against snow-white sheets, his tanned skin glowing golden in the light of dawn, his constellation of freckles finally bursting into full bloom.
“Haven’t you ever wanted more time?” Shane continues. Oh, he’s rehearsed this little speech, Ilya is certain, and only finds himself impossibly more endeared.
Shane makes grabby hands for him again, and Ilya immediately threads their fingers together. “‘Cause I have. I do. All the time,” Shane says, voice turning dreamy. “You’ll like the cottage, I promise. Did you know I have my own well?”
Ilya did, in fact, know that. All those nights watching Shane through a screen, wishing he could step through it into that brilliant summer sunshine himself. Fix them lemonade while Shane does his yoga on the patio.
Now that tantalising fantasy is suddenly in the realm of reality, each scene unfolding one by one with perfect clarity before him. The egg-yolk sun will sparkle on the lake, and the summer will melt the last of their hesitation, and Ilya will finally pull Shane close without fear, and–
Shane squeezes his hand. “So. Will you come?”
“Yes,” he breathes.