Chapter Text
November 12, 2016 — Boston
“Hollander…”
“I just, I can’t, uh.. I can’t do this.”
“Hollander.”
“I’m sorry”
Ilya watches him disappear from view, barely comprehending the last thirty seconds. His eyes flick down, noticing his own miserable hand still outstretched on the cushion before turning it into a fist.
Pathetic.
Over the pounding beat of his own pulse in his ears, he listens for the sound of soft retreating footsteps, the slide of Hollander putting his shoes and jacket on, the soft click of the front door.
Everything to nothing, it only took a single minute.
Ilya is very suddenly aware of the residual mess on his chest, has the strangest urge to run a finger through it to taste their combined flavor. He shakes his head and reaches for one of the unused napkins still on the coffee table to clean it up instead.
He feels himself stand but his brain is fuzzy, like static on a TV. Nothing in the room makes sense. There’s a game that he doesn’t give a shit about still playing, two dirty plates even though he usually eats alone, an empty can of a drink he doesn’t like leaving a ring on his coffee table because why the fuck would he own coasters?
On autopilot, he cleans the mess— throwing out the trash and rinsing the dishes in the sink. He stores the remainder of the baguette, wipes down the counters from the crumbs, then his eyes fall on the bar stool that Shane had sat in at this very counter. His chest constricts as he irrationally thinks to himself, no one should ever sit in that chair again. It feels both painful and sacred.
“FUCK.” The expletive is loud in the empty house. His hands slam open palmed onto the marble countertop with a loud slap, a dull ache radiating up his arms from his palms as his shoulders hunch in.
Breathing heavily, he can feel his eyes beginning to burn, but there is no fucking way he’s going to cry over an empty chair.
Taking a deep breath, he straightens. Okay, so Hollander is having another panic attack. This is fine, this wouldn’t be the first time. He would be back. Probably.
Maybe.
Because Ilya knows this time was different. He had tried to change the rules of this little game they’d been playing for years, and he pushed too far too fast. He couldn’t think of a single other time that Hollander had outright lied in order to get away from him. As if Shane Hollander would ever forget about a team meeting when he’s the one to help set the schedule as team captain.
Ilya convinces himself that he’s fine up until the moment he enters his bedroom.
Clothes are strewn across the floor, he had stripped them off of Shane himself so he wouldn’t have to wait for them to be folded before they got started.
He had stuck to his plan, which had included:
☑️mind blowing sex
☑️convincing Hollander to stay
☑️setting out his own clean loungewear to dress him in
☑️making lunch
Now he had to deal with the aftermath:
☑️sheets that smelled like Hollander
☑️going to bed alone
☑️having a new, boring outfit living in his home, a size too small
☑️playing tomorrow against the man who had just run out of his house like he would rather be lit on fire than have any semblance of more with someone like Ilya
Every single realization hurt more than the last.
He was an idiot for ever thinking that they could be, what, friends? Of course perfect, beautiful Shane Hollander with his perfect family wouldn’t want to be tainted by Ilya any further.
He ruins everything he touches, always so greedy for things he doesn’t deserve.
Carefully, reverently, he picks up Shane’s jeans and folds them the same way he’s seen it done by their owner in stolen moments across two different countries. He sets them on his dresser before starting on the white T shirt.
A water droplet falls onto the fabric, absorbing immediately and forever into Shane’s clothes. A tear, he realizes, shocked to find that he’s been steadily crying. No big performative sobs, just the quiet stream of devastation making its way down his cheeks and chin. The kind of tears he’s learned to keep locked away where no one can see and try to beat them out of him.
Moving oh so slowly, he flips the shirt right-side-out and gently folds it on top of the jeans. This is a routine he’s achingly familiar with, the precise order that he’s seen this clothing stacked before.
The black briefs hiding halfway under his bedframe give him pause. He feels a bit sick at the thought of handling them after their owner made it so clear how little he wants anything to do with Ilya outside of the pleasure he can provide in the bedroom.
They feel like a taunt, a reminder of the body he may never get to have again. He picks them up anyways, placing them at the top of the folded shrine in a place of honor on his dresser.
Emotionally exhausted and tasks completed, Ilya considers a shower for about half a second before deciding he doesn’t have the energy to sob while standing in the water and would rather just do it horizontally. He climbs into the right side of the bed, careful not to disturb the pillow on the left that still carried the indentation from where Hollander’s head had last been.
As he settles and the linens are disturbed, he feels his heart wrench as he finds he had been right— the bed did smell like Shane and he was so incredibly fucked.
Tears ran dry as sleep closes in, and Ilya only has one thought running through his head: I wish this fucking day had never happened.
November 13, 2016 — Boston
Sunlight streams in through Ilya’s bedroom window, casting soft light into his poor, tired eyes.
Taking stock of his body, he is unsurprised that he slept like shit and feels like he had been run over. He raises a hand to wipe the sleep out of his eyes and is surprised to find them not puffy and crusted with tears, but he isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth (an English phrase that made no fucking sense, but Marly had been using it all week to describe his luck at some girl taking him back).
Sitting up, he reaches for his phone, surprised he woke up before his alarm on game day.
The time reads 9:38AM and oh fuck, he’s going to be late. He must have forgotten to set his alarm after yesterday’s fucking disaster.
He scrambles out of bed, looking for his gameday bag and suit when his whole body does still as if it had abruptly been unplugged from power.
There are no clothes on his dresser.
The stack of Shane’s clothes that he had so carefully placed were gone.
A million possibilities run through his head at once, none were rational. Had someone broken in? Had Shane come back to get them? Did he put them somewhere else? Maybe he threw them away in his sleep? Were they hallucinations and never were here at all?
He feels his breathing speed up, eyes darting around the room as if he could will them back into existence with his mind.
Out of habit more than anything else, he checks his phone again. The last thing should have been a text from Jane saying “I’m here” along with a missed call from Alexei.
Neither existed.
The last thing he had sent to Jane was a chirp about their upcoming game on the 13th. It was one he remembers sending 2 days ago.
What the fuck.
Next he checks his alarms, wondering if he had set it wrong when the date in the top corner catches his eye.
November 12, 2016
No fucking way.
His body is moving before he can form a coherent thought, running downstairs to check the kitchen.
He opens the trash can, empty. No napkins, no tuna melt leftovers, no empty ginger ale can.
He checks the sink, empty. No Tupperware, no plates last used by himself and Shane.
He checks his fridge and found the Tupperware was stacked and full, fresh ingredients ready and portioned out to make tuna melts for two professional athletes.
Beside the fridge on the counter, there is no leftover baguette. There is no baguette at all because on the morning of November 12, 2016, Ilya had driven to a local bakery and bought a fresh loaf right before Hollander was set to arrive.
Fuck.