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Ilya is not expecting any kind of calls tonight.
Marly knows (or at least thinks he knows) that Ilya went back to the hotel with a tall, beautiful blonde. Everyone else on the team was likely notified of this soon after Marly decided this. And Hollander… Well, Hollander was out fucking Rose fucking Landry in his stupid, fancy fucking Montreal apartment.
Ilya was going to go to bed alone tonight, as he has been for nearly seven months now. Completely and utterly. He’ll wake up to a text from Marly tomorrow asking how the girl was. Maybe text from the coach. Maybe text from Alexei, asking for money. Tonight though; all alone. Alone in this shitty hotel room with shitty room service and shitty TV networks. Ilya flips through them absently, eyes barely focused, cigarette propped between his lips. He’s not really smoking it. Just letting the fumes float up into his nose and eyes, around the room. As always, he’d ignored the no smoking sign by the door. He tells himself it’s fine. He’d opened a window before lighting it.
The cigarette had been in hopes of distracting himself. Smoking usually does this for Ilya. Helps ease him into a place where his mind is just absent enough that thoughts are hard. Hard enough that he doesn’t want to try staying on them for too long.
It is not doing this for Ilya tonight.
He’s still thinking about what had happened hours ago, at some dumb fucking club he didn’t bother to remember the name of in this dumb city. Thinking about Shane Hollander and Rose Landry and the image of them dancing together without a care in the world, right out in front of everyone. Because this is something Shane can do with someone like Rose Landry.
Ilya wishes he could scrub his mind of this image. Of the mere idea that Shane is now with someone else. Someone who does not have to be hidden.
He wonders if Shane is fucking her right now. Not that he means to or wants to, but he does. Part of him, reveling in a fantasy, imagines Shane getting right up to the moment before they undress and telling Landry to leave and that he would never want beautiful movie star with perfect hair and a pretty face. The rest of Ilya, bitter, realistic, sours at the thought of Shane being inside Landry right at this moment. Of Shane being harder than he’d ever been with Ilya. Of kissing her. Holding her. Moaning into her ear.
And now, Ilya is wishing he could scrub his mind of everything else that reminds him of Shane too; which turns out to be a lot of things. Ginger ale. Freckles. Reebok tennis shoes. Gold watches. Vegas. Freshly made bedsheets. Red and blue. Tuna. The gym. Snow. No smoking signs. Montreal. Canada. Hockey. So much to scrub away. So much to get rid of. So many things Ilya thinks might hang over him his whole life—reminding him of Shane.
Fuck. What the fuck had Ilya done to get himself into this fucked up place where all he wants is this slow fucking hockey player who doesn’t even know how to properly chirp?
It’s too late to be thinking all these things, too. Ilya checks the alarm clock on the bedside table to confirm this. He didn’t check his phone for the time, and he knows why. Tells himself this is because it’s easier to look a little to his left than to flip his phone over, despite his phone lying next to him on the bed, and does not let himself be reminded of why he thought to sit it there, when he is not expecting any messages tonight. Tries to move on from the fact that he did not want to see the absence of notifications on his lock screen.
But then, his phone rings. Sudden. Like it wanted to apologize for being silent. Not a ping, like from a text, but a ring. Someone is calling him. Who the fuck would be calling him?
He flips it over, expecting Marly. Marly wouldn’t be completely unwelcome at the moment. Svetlana, maybe. She would be welcome. Maybe even Alexei, if Ilya is completely honest with himself.
Incoming Call: Jane
Ilya wants, immediately, to silence the call, fling his phone onto the floor, and go to bed. But he doesn’t. Cannot. It is three in-the-morning. Shane is calling him. He doesn’t like that combination. Dislikes it more than the idea of talking with Shane right now.
Answering and bringing the phone to his ear, Ilya tries to decide what he’s expecting to hear.
“Uhm, hello?” Feminine, soft-sounding, and concerned was not in any of the realms of possibilities he could’ve ever imagined.
“Uh, hi,” Rose Landry’s voice is soft and sweet and sickening. Ilya wants to throw up just at the few syllables he’s heard so far. “Hi, I’m sorry, I hope this isn’t weird.”
Ilya stays silent. He knows Landry is waiting for an answer. He doesn’t want to give it.
What the fuck is she doing with Shane’s phone, is all that’s going through his mind now.
She doesn’t wait much time before continuing. Ilya tells himself this is rude (ignores the more correct voice in his head telling him that he is the one being rude). “Okay, I’m not sure who this is. Or, I guess, who you are to Shane, but he’s… I’m just a bit worried about him. He’s had a lot to drink. I wasn’t sure who else to call. And, well, he has a lot of messages saved with this contact, so I thought maybe I should call it?”
She sounds too nice. Ilya does not like it. Does not like that she sounds exactly like the kind of girl Shane’s mother would probably smile brightly at and pull into tight, warm hugs and invite over for family dinners every Sunday. Does not like that she sounds so genuinely concerned about Shane, which only reminds Ilya that his own concern has been shoved out of the way by this stupid feeling he has for Landry.
But, at the very least, that brings the concern back. Something Ilya is oddly grateful for. He hesitates to answer though. Needs to ask what’s wrong enough to make her call, besides Shane being drunk at three in-the-morning, but is terrified of his own voice suddenly. Understands that most people would probably be taken aback when they call a contact labeled Lily and get a low, rough Russian accent on the other end. Ilya assumes this Rose Landry will be no different.
But Shane is drunk enough for concern, which separates Ilya from any fear he has about anything but finding out whether or not he is okay. He can worry about Rose Landry later.
“What is wrong with Shane?” he asks simply, nearly hears the stutter of Landry’s breath on the other line.
But an odd, questioning comment doesn’t come like Ilya is expecting it to. Instead, it’s a quiet tumble of, “I think—I don’t know, I think he might be having a panic attack? Something like that? He’s not really talking to me.”
Ilya imagines Shane: sitting, maybe, on the edge of his bed staring into a void no one else can see. He doesn’t like that thought.
“Are you with him?”
“Yes,” she says. “Well, sort of. I’m in the bathroom, he’s in the bedroom. I’m looking at him through the door?”
The quiet in her voice makes more sense now. Ilya doesn’t like that she’s being so conscientious of Shane and his nerves.
“He is awake?”
“Yes. I mean, he’s sitting up and his eyes are open.”
Somewhat good. Better than it could be. “He is, eh… responsive?”
Ilya had learned that word watching medical dramas in hotel rooms over the years. He’s pretty sure it means listening.
Ilya is still waiting for the question, but it doesn’t come. All Landry does is answer his. “Kind of.”
“What is kind of?”
Absently, Ilya thinks he should not be so snippy. But this is Rose Landry, so he does not care so much.
(He’s even almost able to be annoyed when she shows no signs of reacting to it.)
“He’s… I don’t know. He seems out of it. Not normal, drunk out of it, either. This is different than that.”
“You are at his apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I will come there,” Ilya says without thinking, standing. He knows this isn’t what he should’ve said, but his brain is not on straight. He’s not thinking about how this is a very bad idea and that he will probably regret it very soon. Shane is not good, and it’s probably Ilya’s fault, and that’s something that flips a switch. Tells Ilya he needs to fix it. Fix, fix, fix.
“Okay,” Landry says. It sounds like a relief. Ilya understands. Hates himself for understanding. “Okay, thank you. I’m sure Shane will appreciate this.”
Ilya is not sure this is true. Shane will probably hate him for it, actually. Hate him even more than he already does, after the display Ilya put on in the club.
But Ilya doesn’t care right now. He’s thinking too much about Shane’s distant face and glassy eyes and the lost air he sometimes gets when he’s too overwhelmed for the world. Can’t care about anything but getting there and fixing it. He wants so badly to fix it.
Maybe if he’s able to fix Shane, he will be able to fix himself.
“Probably not,” Ilya finds himself admitting. To Rose Landry. Ilya is admitting to Rose fucking Landry that he’s unsure of something. He does not even do this with Marlow. What the fuck is he doing, admitting things to Rose Landry?
But he is rushing and trying to get his shoes on while also keeping his phone to his ear, so he does not let himself linger on the thought. He will later, but now he has to get to Shane.
There’s a long pause on the other end as Ilya gets his things settled in his pockets. Then, hesitant, “Is… I mean, you’re not…”
“Yes.”
Ilya knows what he sounds like. Knows that anyone who knows anything about hockey beyond the players wearing ice skates knows what he sounds like.
More silence.
“Wow,” finally comes, much to Ilya’s dismay. He’d have been glad if Landry said nothing else until he hung up on her.
And yet, also, strangely, it doesn’t sound as he’d have thought. Not degrading or sarcastic. Not crude. Not mean. More so close to maybe being relief again. Ilya doesn’t know what would cause this to be the sound, but he can’t think of another way to describe Landry’s voice and hates that he can’t come up with another excuse to dislike her.
“Thank you,” she then repeats, softer than the first time.
“Is for Shane. Not you.”
“I know. I’m still saying thank you.”
Ilya pauses halfway through his jacket sleeve. Only for a second. Then he’s shoving his arm through it swiftly and managing to get the other through without dropping his phone.
“I am coming to the apartment, now,” he says. “Do not tell Shane, he will not let me in. And if—"
“My lips are sealed.” Ilya can almost hear her shoulders relax. “And there won’t be an if. I’m not saying anything. To anyone.”
Ilya hangs up, because he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that and he needs both hands to… whatever. He shoves his phone into his pocket and checks one last time for his wallet, then he’s gone. Out the door, down the hall, in an Uber, and on his way to the apartment. To Shane.
The driver says nothing once he realizes Ilya is not interested in conversation, so the drive is silent besides the muffled sounds of the city filtering in through the closed windows. He tries not to imagine what will happen when the drive is over and he gets to the apartment. Tries to skip over the interlude between that and finally being able to draw Shane up from wherever place he’s fallen into and drop him back down into somewhere soft and safe. Make up for his trick in the club. Ilya knows that is a reason for this. For Shane being in this place. He had done something mean and cold and this was his punishment for being so selfishly vicious towards Shane: a humiliation ritual looked over by none other than Rose Landry.
Ilya could die. That might be a better option to whatever it is he’s planning to do once he makes it to the apartment.
But, no. Shane needs him. Does not probably want him, but needs him. It makes Ilya a bit sad—that Shane has no one else who understands this about him. That Shane cannot tell these things about himself to anyone. That Shane’s needs are ignored and overlooked by what seems like everyone else in his life.
But is Ilya even in Shane’s life anymore? The mean thought bounces it’s way into his mind with the rock of the car on the road. It’s been so long since they’ve spoken, since they’ve touched, that Ilya is now worrying he won’t know what to do anymore. That Shane’s needs have changed and that Ilya will arrive there to save him and fix him but there will be nothing he can do.
That’s nearly scarier than the thought of Shane dealing with this on his own.
Nearly.
He tips the driver. Notably doesn’t slam the door like he wants to. His eyes remain focused forward all the way around the building to the back entry, up the stairs, and to the door of Shane’s apartment. All of the sudden, Ilya’s fingers are shaking. Unconsciously, his thumb and forefinger come up to pull at his ear.
Now, he knew that Shane would most likely not be the one to open the door. Rationally, realistically, he knew this. The chance of it being Shane was low to none.
And yet still, when the door carefully pulls open and Rose Landry is looking at him through the doorway, Ilya realizes he did not properly prepare for it to be anyone but Shane.
She looks, maybe, surprised that it’s actually him. Maybe not. The expression on her face is hard to read, and if Ilya is being very honest, he does not care. Shane. Need to get to Shane.
“Where is he?”
“Still in the bedroom,” she says, nodding her head inside and moving away from the doorway.
Ilya walks inside. He doesn’t wait for her to show him the way, doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t know exactly where he’s going. Rose says nothing, just follows him through the apartment.
Just as she had said, Shane is there. Alone in the bedroom. He’s barely sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, eyes distant. His head is tilted a bit to one side. He’s looking at something. Ilya guesses it’s that scary, dark abyss only Shane seems to be able to see.
But then his eyes are snapping away from it at the sound at the door. Over to Ilya, hard and lost and scared. Immediate panic in his expression as his eyes flit between Ilya and Rose, back and forth a few times, the panic growing with every switch. He goes to shoot up from his perch on the bed, but Ilya is already moving towards him, catching him midway through a stumble. He can smell the alcohol lingering on Shane’s tongue when he grabs his face and steadies it close to his own.
“Hollander,” he says softly, thumbs stroking Shane’s perfect, freckled cheeks despite the resistance against his hold. “Hollander.”
Centering. Or, trying to at least. Hollander will be easier for Shane right now, Ilya thinks.
“Ilya… w’the fuck…?”
“No thinking about why I am here right now, hm?”
Shane doesn’t listen. His hands come up, pressing hard on Ilya’s chest. Trying to escape. To disappear. “No. You can’t. N’you can’t be here.”
“Hollander, is okay.” He wants to glance back at Rose, curious to see how she’s reacting to the sight, but he doesn’t. Keeps his eyes on Shane and refuses to look away. “No thinking right now. Right now you breathe.”
A whine, still fighting. Shane’s eyes are glossy. His cheeks are too pink.
“Hollander,” Ilya repeats. Harder now. Trying to be firm and stable. Trying to demand. “You breathe.”
Shane finally, finally meets his eyes. He looks so sad. So distant. Ilya thinks a part of him shatters inside. He tries not to let it show on his face.
“You breathe.”
Shane’s hands have inched up to his shoulders, gripping them hard, digging his fingers into Ilya’s bones. But Ilya doesn’t care. He just needs to get Shane’s chest to slow down.
“Breathe, Hollander.”
And he does. Finally, he does. Closes his eyes and tightens his hands around Ilya’s shoulders and breathes. Ilya feels the relief of the oxygen in his own lungs.
“Good,” Ilya coos. Shane’s expression crinkles, like he’s fighting against himself, but his shoulders relax ever so slightly and he keeps breathing, so Ilya keeps going.
“Is okay. You are okay, Hollander. You keep breathing.”
Now, and only now that Shane’s eyes are sealed shut and seem to be staying that way, does Ilya glance back at Rose Landry. But she’s not there. At least not in the bedroom doorway. Ilya hadn’t heard the front door opening, so he knows she is still there, but not there. Not with them. Not watching.
He wishes this did not make him dislike her less.
“You are here,” he continues, petting his thumb along Shane’s cheekbone, along his freckles. “You are breathing.”
Ilya is sure that calming Shane would be much harder if the other man was not very drunk. He’s not happy about being glad that Shane is.
“You can’t…”
“What I said? No thinking. Breathing, only.”
Ilya’s English is going bad. He wishes he could just speak in Russian now. Russian would be easier on his brain. But Shane needs English, so Ilya translates his speeding thoughts as best he can.
“You are breathing, Hollander. So good. Doing good. Still breathing.”
He can tell Shane wants to tell him to shut up in that voice he always tells Ilya to shut up in; also knows this is helping as Shane’s grip on him loosens and his chest slows and the tightness in his face relaxes.
“Okay?”
Shane, hesitant, nods shortly. Ilya nods back even though Shane won’t see it.
“Okay,” he echoes, going to stand. He’ll tell Landry to go so that he can take care of Shane without worrying about the woman sitting, waiting, in the living room. Maybe. Maybe instead he’ll ask her to stay with Shane, now that he’s hopefully calmed enough to be coaxed into sleep for the night. Ilya doesn’t know how Shane would react to Ilya being there when he wakes up tomorrow. Doesn’t know if it would help or hurt. He can’t believe himself for thinking that Rose Landry might be better for Shane at the moment.
But Shane holds onto him tightly, won’t let him move away, so Ilya stops. Waits.
“Don’t.” A whisper. Shane sounds the most sober he has since Ilya arrived. “Jus’… don’t, yet.”
“Okay.”
Shane nods, seemingly to himself. His fingers dig. His breath stutters.
“Is Rose—”
“Out in living room, yes.”
Shane exhales heavy from his mouth. His eyelids squeeze down tighter. “Fuck.”
“No,” Ilya tries, and can’t hardly believe he’s saying it. “No, she is okay. She is good. Will not say anything.”
“Are you sure?”
Ilya thinks. Thinks back to Rose’s words over the phone. To the look she’d given him when she opened the front door. The lack of judgment Ilya had been so certain would be painted across her face; in place of it, almost… comfort.
“Yes.”
Eyes slipping open, Shane looks up at him. He looks terrified; like Ilya feels. Ilya strokes his cheek again.
“I trust her,” he doubles down, nodding, watching Shane for his reaction.
He seems to think for a moment, eyes drifting. Then he nods. Then his eyebrows knit together, obviously confused. His eyes drift back.
“You… how’d you…”
“Was called. Girlfriend sounded very concerned.”
“She’s n’ my girlfr’nd,” Shane slurs, shaking his head as his eyes close again. “She’s nice though.”
“Yes, she is very nice. And she likes you very much.” Ilya wants to die.
“Mm, I like her too.” Shane drops his chin a bit, swiveling his head. Ilya doesn’t like that he frowns when Shane says this. “But. I like you m’re, I think.”
“Hm.” Ilya taps his thumb against Shane’s undereye, gently commanding him.
Shane obeys, looking back up into his eyes. His lids are low, cheeks pink. “Yes, hm.”
So odd. Shane is like a rubber bouncing ball between emotions sometimes.
“You are sloppy drunk,” Ilya finds himself saying.
Somehow, by the graces of all things in the universe, this gets Shane to smile shyly. Like he’s forgetting, for a moment, where he is and what is happening. He even almost giggles, looking away from Ilya once more as though that will stop him.
“Very sloppy,” Ilya echoes when a quiet laugh bursts from Shane’s mouth.
“M’not.”
“Handle liquor like child.”
“I don’t.” Another laugh, like a perfectly harmonized choir sung in Ilya’s ears.
And, of course, Ilya can’t help himself from smiling a stupid smile down at Shane. He’s still cradling his face with both hands. Tells himself it’s only to hold Shane steady but knows that it’s really because he just wants to.
“Smell like fucking dive bar,” Ilya keeps teasing, trying to drag more of those beautiful laughs out. “Like cheap vodka.”
A success. Then, following it, “They didn’ have the Russian stuff.”
“Oh, thinking of me when you ask for it?”
Ilya’s not expecting it. Not one bit.
“M’ always thinkin’ about you, Ilya.”
And—fuck. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? To the open, dopey look in Shane’s eyes as he looks at Ilya. To the press of Shane’s thumbs against his collarbones. The rose in his cheeks.
It’s because Shane is drunk, Ilya knows. There is no possible way he would say something like that otherwise. Shane is drunk, and Ilya is so fucked.
“Yes, is very thoughtful of you.”
Shane laughs like Ilya has just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“Okay,” Ilya tries, wanting to get away from the feeling brewing in his chest now. “Your dive bar perfume is hurting my nose. You need shower very badly.”
Whines like the very thought of a shower is painful. Ilya tries to roll his eyes at Shane. Finds himself smiling again instead. So very fucking fucked.
Suddenly, he’s thinking about Rose Landry again. About her sitting in the living room, probably on her phone, blissfully unaware of how completely and pathetically fucked Ilya Rozanov is just a few paces away.
“Can shower by yourself?” he asks, pivoting his mind for a moment. “Or do you need a babysitter for that too?”
Shane glares, but there’s a glint in his eyes that Ilya has been missing for so long that now, finally seeing it again, scares him.
“Can shower myself.” Nodding. Not looking very confident.
But Ilya needs a minute. Or five. Or however long it takes Shane to wash himself off. Even when he’s drunk, the vigorous maintenance is not lost. Ilya is betting on this.
So, he helps Shane to the shower. Turns the water on to the proper temperature, orders Shane to keep one hand on the wall at all times to stay steady, and then leaves the bathroom. If he stayed while Shane undressed, he knows he wouldn’t leave.
Wandering out of the bedroom and into the living room, listening to the fading sound of the shower, Ilya thinks of what he’s going to tell Rose. Then, instantly, he wonders when he decided her name was just Rose.
She looks up from her phone as soon as he’s in view. Her eyes are still annoyingly soft. “Is he okay?”
Ilya nods. He thinks. “I think so, yes. Better, at least.”
She exhales, a breath that Ilya knows has been in her chest for some time. He knows the feeling.
“Thank you,” she says. Smiling. Ilya still does not understand why she says this.
“I said before, is—”
“For Shane, not me.” Rose is still smiling. “I know.”
“Hm.”
“I’m glad he has you.” Sudden. Completely, terrifyingly genuine. “He needs someone like you.”
“And not someone like you?”
Rose looks down for a moment, maybe thinking. Ilya wonders what’s going through her mind despite himself. Hates the idea of being in her head but is also very curious about what is inside.
“No,” she finally says. “I don’t think so. We’re… I’m not sure we’re very compatible.”
“Compatible?” Ilya doesn’t mean it to be a question, but it is. He doesn’t know this word well.
“We don’t, uhm, fit very well together,” she answers, and it does not feel like she is patronizing him.
“Mm, like square peg trying to fit in round hole?”
Rose laughs. It’s bright. Almost likeable.
“I think I like you,” she then says, her almost-likeable laugh lingering in her voice. “And I definitely like you more now that I know you’re not a total asshole.”
“My reputation follows me around like expensive cologne.”
“Well, now there’s one more person who knows your secret.” She leans forward, whispering now. “You’re actually a big softie.”
“Oh, just as I was starting to almost like you,” Ilya exclaims with terribly acted anguish.
They share a moment. It’s strange. They’re both smiling at each other, and it almost, almost feels like a moment Ilya would share with Sveta. Distantly, he thinks she and Rose would like each other.
Then Rose is getting up, before Ilya can think too long about how normal the conversation feels.
“I think I should head out.” Grabbing her purse, phone in one hand and a piece of notepaper in the other. She walks over to Ilya, still smiling. “If you could, let me know how he’s doing tomorrow?”
She offers the paper to Ilya. A phone number. He takes it, for some reason.
“Okay.”
“Thank you. And this time I know it’s for me.” Adds the extra bit quieter than the thanks.
And then she’s gone. And Ilya is left standing there, thinking, wondering what just happened.
He goes back to the bedroom and waits for Shane in one of the chairs, since he doesn’t know if it would be a good idea to wait on the bed.
When Shane comes out, the water seems to have sobered him up some. He’s less dizzy-looking. Less glossy eyed. Almost instantly, he asks, “Where’s Rose?”
“She left. Will check in tomorrow.”
Shane looks guilty. Also, relieved, angry, tired. There are always so many emotions rippling through the way his muscles move. Ilya likes being able to pick them out, one by one.
“I’m sorry.”
Ilya shakes his head. “No sorry’s. Not needed. What is needed is sleep.”
He stands. Walks to Shane, who stays right in place without even a twitch, waiting. When Ilya’s hand reaches out and slides along his cheek, Shane melts into it.
Ilya leads him to the bed. Shane follows. Lets Ilya pull the covers back and guide him under and then pull them up over his body. His hair is still damp when Ilya leans down to kiss the top of Shane’s head.
He doesn’t lie down with him. Wants to. So terribly badly, but he doesn’t. Knows it would not be helpful. Knows it would drag him further down into the pit of tar he’s already standing waist deep in.
But he still watches Shane from one of the chairs across the room. Eyes fixate on his sleeping face—relaxed, peaceful. Ilya hasn’t seen Shane look relaxed or peaceful in way too long.
It helps Ilya sleep himself. Barely. Maybe only a few short, dreamless hours. He wakes up before Shane does. Falls back into the comfort of watching Shane and ignores that these may be some of the only times he ever feels comfort anymore. Ignores that it cradles him the way he can sometimes distantly remember his mama cradling him; warm and safe and everything.