Chapter Text
After International Prospect Cup - December 2008 - Moscow
There were two words that would ring true for Ilya Rosanov after the Russian team won the International Prospect Cup. The first was sbezhat'. He feared that this would always remain true, too. Winning or losing didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, but escape did. Escape from being twelve years old and too young to understand anything except the loss of his mother. Escape from his father, who beat the same loss and all that came with it into his skin. Escape from a brother who hated him. Escape from Russia. For more than he’d ever admit to himself. Ilya Rosanov was good at escaping.
The second word should have been neschastnyy. It had been for as long as he could remember. There had been happy moments, mostly with his mother, but time and longing were slowly erasing what he could remember. The gold cross on his chest would always remain and a picture tucked away to keep it safe. But now, standing at the window and staring out at nothing, a different word echoed in the back of his mind.
Vesnushki. It didn’t make Ilya happy, but it didn’t make him unhappy either. Indifference would have been preferable to the small ache in his chest. The earnest introduction, the honest compliment, even the hesitant correction. Brown, doe eyes, and the vesnushki. He’d barely registered the smile that came with the returned chirp. Ilya swallowed, willing whatever this feeling was to leave. Ne zdes', he thought. Not here.
-
Ilya was on the rink. He skated laps, pushing the muscles in his legs to carry him faster and faster. He could feel eyes on him, but he refused to acknowledge the hairs that stood up on the back of his neck. The only thing that mattered was the speed, taking corners at the last second, letting his heart rise into his throat as his fingertips brushed the boards.
As he made another lap, the count Ilya had going in his head stuttered and slipped away. Someone else was on the ice with him. He didn’t know it so much as felt it, their presence so calming and familiar. He wanted to ignore it, wanted to keep skating until his legs screamed to stop, but then he bent and shifted his weight, ice flying as he stopped and turned, arms wild and eyes searching. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound pulsing in his ears.
The brush of fingers on his bare shoulders had him flailing around, but no one was there with him. Ilya clenched his eyes shut, curling his hands into fists. He tried to focus on his breathing as he stood still on the ice; it came shallow at first, then evened into something calmer. A sound began around him, but Ilya didn’t open his eyes. The steady slide of skates echoed softly around him, the familiar presence returning, less intense and no longer overwhelming. Ilya still didn’t open his eyes.
Instead, he began to skate. It was different from before. His need to escape into the speed and thrill of trying to outrun his own mind was gone. All that was left now was movement. His legs pushed, becoming more accurate, more intentional. Then, he turned around, skating backwards, his arms held open from his sides. It was easier than breathing, and Ilya opened his eyes.
Ilya knew who was skating with him now, and, together, they both danced across the ice.
Vernis’, mama! He bolted upright, the words on his lips, sheets clinging to the cold sweat on his skin.
-
MLH Draft - June 2009 - Los Angeles, California
Ilya let himself smile – a big one, full of teeth – as he held up the Boston Raiders jersey. Anyone looking would be satisfied; no one cared if the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes the way it should have. Number one draft pick for the NHL. It flashed bright like an exit sign.
The man on his right was the only person worth looking at, even if his smile was also fake. His freckles stood out in the flashing camera lights. Ilya couldn’t help himself and kept glancing over at him. Then, his eyes kept finding him, even while his father spoke to Boston’s representative. A chuckle came and he turned his attention back.
“We’re not passing on a kid this strong with those hands, not in Boston, Mr. Rosanov.” Ilya felt a small preen at the praise. He could do this; he could make it. Ilya was hyperaware of his father next to him. “He’s a very natural number one pick.”
“He is strong, but he needs discipline. He can be, how you say, lazy.” His father’s words drowned out everything. Lenivyy, lenivyy, lenivyy. How many times had he heard it? Ilya could do everything perfectly – did everything perfectly – and his father would still find fault and more ways to tear him down. His face fell flat, the words nestling into the space between his heart and ribs along with years of abuse. The rest of the conversation was lost on him, even the words that left his own mouth. He glanced down again at Shane Hollander.
-
Ilya sat at the end of the hotel bed, his tie loose at his neck and several of the buttons of his shirt undone. His suit jacket had been discarded on the desk immediately when he’d come in. His jaw clenched whenever he stopped focusing on it. Ilya’s emotions were violently rotating between resignation and anger. He should be high on being drafted number one, but instead, here he sat, fists on his knees in a hotel in Las Vegas. Almost six thousand miles away, yet Russia still loomed over him. Ilya told himself to calm down, to wait. He’d soon leave Russia and everything it meant when he moved to Boston. He could handle the bit in his mouth a little longer.
“Blyat!” Ilya snarled into the silence. He couldn’t sit here and spiral. Tearing the shirt off over his head and shucking his dress pants and shoes, he stood and dug through his bag. He pulled on a shirt and a pair of shorts and laced up his tennis shoes. It was the middle of the night, but he couldn’t just sit in the quiet and let his thoughts spiral. Ilya couldn’t afford to let that happen; he had a track record of making questionable and impulsive decisions during those moments. For now, he made his way down to the hotel gym.
Ilya isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Shane Hollander on a stationary bike, head tucked between his shoulders. He stood in the doorway for much longer than he’d admit, but Ilya couldn’t help but dare to watch. The shirt that Shane wore clung to him in ways that made Ilya’s mouth water, his back muscles flexing, sweat prominent down his spine.
This was an impulsive decision he allowed himself, walking over and getting on the stationary bike next to Shane, turning it into a small competition even though Shane had been going longer. Ilya fought through the fire in his thighs, but even he ended up collapsing on the floor across from Shane, chest heaving. Shane was squeezing water from his bottle into his mouth and Ilya tried not to stare, though he didn’t know if it was because he was thirsty or because Shane’s lips formed a perfect bow. He forced his eyes down and his head back against the wall.
“What a fucking day, huh?” Ilya asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Yeah, totally.” Shane replied. His cheeks were a shade of pink that made his freckles stand out.
“Is everything you dreamed of?” Ilya grinned. He probably shouldn’t be baiting this beautiful boy, but he honestly couldn’t resist.
“Almost.” Now, Shane was grinning. He leaned forward and offered Ilya his water bottle, shaking it slightly. Ilya leaned forward, shifting forward a little, and he reached up to take it. Later, he would think of it in slow motion, how Shane’s fingers had lifted slightly and waited for Ilya’s to settle around the bottle; Shane’s then settled briefly over his, brushing them slightly as Ilya leaned back. The pink on his cheeks deepened. Ilya felt the tips of his ears heating.
“Montreal is… it’s nice, yes?” Ilya asked, trying to have some measure of control, but he knew he was staring now.
“Yeah, it’s awesome.”
“Boston is nice, too?” Ilya didn’t give a shit about whether or not Boston was nice. It wasn’t Russia. It wasn’t Moscow. It was already better.
“I think so. People like it there.”
Ilya liked that Shane was humoring him, or he thought he was. Ilya really couldn’t tell, but he wasn’t sure if it was a cultural barrier or not. Shane’s affect was flatter than most people he’d come across in America, but his eyes were everywhere, as if he were memorizing the room. Ilya could relate a little, except he was always looking for the exits.
Ilya lifted the water bottle and squeezed the water into his mouth, never taking his eyes off of Shane. Shane stared back, and Ilya winked. When Shane smiled, Ilya felt that ache in his chest, as if it were rare and precious and he wanted it only for himself.
“We will, uh… we will be seeing each other a lot.” Ilya said, holding out the water bottle. This time, Shane shifted forward, the space between them smaller, and Ilya let his own fingers brush over Shane’s this time.
“Yeah, Boston and Montreal play each other often.” Shane took another quick drink, and he was not subtle about staring at Ilya’s mouth. Ilya tried not to smile, but mouthed the word more not sure again what he was expecting. There was a brief pause before Shane lifted the bottle again and took another drink. Now, they openly stared at each other, their gazes roaming and lingering. Perhaps it was not just Ilya who felt the attraction between them.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Shane asked, his voice softer than before. Ilya swallowed a breath and nodded.
“No. I have early flight back to Moscow.” Ilya replied, biting the side of his tongue after. He knew he could have normal conversations with other people where he didn’t have to hide or deflect, but the habit of swallowing words and hiding behind humor was too deeply ingrained in him as a matter of safety. He saw Shane’s face shift, one corner of his mouth going down and the crease between his eyes deepening.
“Is that a good thing?” He asked. Ilya tried to control his breathing. The urge to be honest with this boy, the best prospect alongside himself, was too strong. Being drafted meant a fresh start, maybe this could be, too.
“No, not really.” Ilya shook out his sweaty curls and ran a hand through them. He looked back at Shane and found that his expression hadn’t changed. “But is fine. Will be in Boston soon, yes?” He wanted the smile back, but Shane didn’t humor him, his nose scrunching up now.
“But that’s a year away.” The question in Shane’s voice made Ilya look away. He needed to go back to his room; he’d already shared too much. Ilya shifted into a crouch, his feet flat on the floor and elbows resting on his knees.
“What’s one more year?” Ilya asked. He reached out and squeezed Shane’s knee. “Both need sleep, yeah. Sweet dreams, number two draft pick.” Then, he stood and sauntered off.
“Fuck you!” Shane called out behind him, but there was no venom in it. Ilya almost laughed, a smile cracking his face.
-
International Prospect Cup - December 2009 - Ottawa, Canada
Of course, Russia couldn’t win a second year in a row. As soon as the buzzer sounded, Ilya could feel the dread settling in his gut. It would be more than a phone call this time telling him he was a disappointment for losing to the Czechs. This time, it would be in person. He lost to Canada, to Shane Hollander, his rival that the MLH would be promoting heavily. Ilya was tired already, the MLH quickly becoming another cloud over his life, though it was to a lesser degree than his family. Ilya could admit to himself that he liked Shane. Standing in the line after, he waited for one hand to shake his.
“See you in October.” The grin on that boy’s face was catching, and Ilya could feel himself smiling, too.
-
Returning to Russia meant returning to his father. Returning to his father, especially after a loss like the International Prospect Cup, was returning to a fear that only an ocean between them could ease. Ilya could still hear the words from the phone calls. Lazy. Disappointment. Waste. Faggot. It was that last one that Ilya feared more than anything - a slur that he didn’t know if they knew was true.
Ilya had known for many years that he was attracted to both men and women, but he knew Russia. He knew his father and his brother. If they knew his sexuality, he wondered if he’d already be in prison. Or if they’d see him as a bank playing for the MLH. It would be easy to do the latter while tearing him down at every chance they got.
“Ilyusha…” Sveta gasped as she let herself into his apartment. Ilya winced. He’d forgotten to put on a shirt before she got there, but she’d have known anyway. She dropped her bag and coat onto the floor next to them and sat down on the couch. Reaching out, she took the ointment from his hands and took over rubbing the vaseline over the welted skin. The bruises were bad this time, wrapping around his ribs, but the broken skin on his back was a less common occurrence now that he was older. The scars from when he was a teenager were still there for anyone to see, but these new ones… He winced as Svetlana dabbed at one at least an inch long on his left bicep.
“Did he use a fucking belt?” Sveta asked. Ilya could only nod. The broken skin was from the buckle.
-
CCM Photoshoot - June 2010 - Toronto
Ilya didn’t expect the laughter. From either of them, if he was being honest. Skating in over and over and hitting a mark, trying to stare down Shane Hollander with his pretty face. They both ended up cracking into smiles and laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. For once, he felt like a nineteen year old, all teenage awkwardness and young energy.
“When they tell you you do commercial with me and not just alone?” Ilya asked, trying to remain nonchalant.
“I don’t know, like, two days ago?” Shane answered, his nose scrunching in thought. Ilya fought a smile. “Why? When did they tell you?”
“No, they told me nothing. It was my idea.” Ilya glanced up at Shane, his eyes briefly meeting his before skating across those damn freckles and back down to his feet.
“Shane!” Someone yelled from behind him, but Shane didn’t move.
“One sec!” He yelled over his shoulder and turned back to Ilya. “You came up with this?” He looked confused. Ilya grimaced, but looked up again, meeting Shane’s eyes fully this time.
“Couldn’t wait for October.” He said, letting the weight of it settle between them. One corner of Shane’s mouth curled in a manner than he would’ve missed if he hadn’t been paying attention.
“But you’ll wait a year to get to Boston?” Shane said lightly after a moment. The question wasn’t quite a gut punch, but he couldn’t deny the thrill that Shane remembered.
“Mm, yes. Boston is escape. You…pretty freckles.” Ilya answered as honestly as he could, gesturing vaguely to his own face.
“Wait, what?” Shane huffed out a laugh, but another shout for him came from behind on the rink. He began to back away, but pointed at Ilya. “To be continued!” He huffed out as he skated off. Ilya laughed.
-
Ilya was not looking forward to taking a shower, especially with it being Shane who would most likely be taking one, too. His Russian teammates knew better than to say anything about what they saw on his skin, for a few reasons, one of which was that Ilya would make them regret it. Regardless of whether they were on the ice or not.
But Shane was different. He was both a fellow player since they would be starting their careers in the MLH, and he was Ilya’s supposed rival. More than that, Shane was the only person he really knew outside of Russia, the only person he’d spoken any amount of words to. It was already bad enough that he knew Ilya just wanted away from Russia. What would he think or say if he saw one of the reasons why?
Ilya worried at his lip as he walked into the locker room. Shane was already there, taking his gear off, and, fuck, Shane in just his compression layer was enough to rush Ilya’s blood to both heads. He stared, unabashedly, as he opened his locker and mechanically began stripping his gear off as well.
Shane looked at him and met his eyes. One of his eyebrows arched up, but Ilya saw his eyes trail down over his body. Once Shane’s eyes met his again, Ilya smiled softly and wiggled his eyebrows at him mischievously.
“Don’t be a dick.” Shane said with a huff, turning back to his locker. Ilya tried - he really did - to turn his eyes away from Shane as he peeled his compression shirt and pants off. As soon as Shane’s ass came into view, Ilya inhaled deeply and promptly turned around. The racing thoughts weren’t helping him, because his next steps should be to do the same. Strip off the rest of his layers and walk unashamed into the shower, maybe look at Shane in a way that suggested they take this somewhere else. “You okay, Ilya?”
Ilya turned and froze. He could feel his ears turning red. Shane stood in just a towel, his chest smooth. Ilya couldn’t help it as his eyes landed on the strip of skin above where the towel rested. He wanted to bite him. But instead, he took a breath and met his gaze.
“Yes, just… I… I can wait until you are done?” He’s not sure why he framed it as a question. Shane didn’t need his fucked up brain to intrude on his life, as much as he’d like to intrude his way into several things. New beginnings were starting to suck. Shane’s cheeks had turned a soft shade of pink, his freckles popping. His nose scrunched.
“Yeah, that’s fine. Um, I wanted to ask… Do you wanna hang out later? I brought my playstation…”
“Da. Yes.” Ilya internally berated himself for answering so quickly, but he really couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to think about it too deeply, but he felt almost normal with Shane.
“Cool. My room 1410 whenever you wanna, ya know… knock.” Shane’s eyes had receded somewhere else, and a hand now gripped the hair at the base of his skull. Ilya nodded and watched him walk into the hallway toward the showers.
He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.
-