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Ilya couldn't remember a time that he hadn't sort of wished he could be dead, at least a little bit.
He would never do anything to directly bring that about – he'd seen first-hand the effect it had on everyone around a person, even those who barely knew them. It left everyone who'd ever met them wishing they'd tried just a little bit harder, wondering if they could have been the reason that things took a different turn. He didn’t want to do that to anyone. In an ideal world, he could just disappear one day without anyone noticing, but unfortunately, he was Ilya Rozanov, and there was no world in which that was even remotely possible. So he stuck around, and he’d never make anyone wish they had done more, but if he drove a little too fast, or made risky plays knowing exactly how they could end, or when overboard with the vodka, even for him... Well, it would be easy enough for everyone to assume it had been a tragic accident. No harm, no foul.
Over the years, the feeling had become so familiar that it was almost a comfort, in a way – it was like an emergency exit; even if he’d almost definitely never use it, it was reassuring to know it was there if he ever really needed it. It was practically a part of him; he was Ilya Rozanov, he was a hockey player, he drove fancy cars and partied too hard, and he sort of wished he were dead.
He was probably being dramatic; it wasn't like it was the only thing he thought about – he'd become an expert at distracting himself from, well, himself. Hockey, sex, cigarettes, vodka; they were all well-loved methods of concealing the darker patches of his mind, even if they didn't do anything to actually get rid of them. Still, a fresh coat of paint over the mould clinging to the walls at least stopped you from having to see the mould. They were still there, of course, lurking and lying in wait for even a moment's silence, seizing any and all opportunity to come flooding in and occupying the empty space. Sometimes, it felt like he'd dedicated his life to minimising the amount of empty space it had to take hold of.
The first time he noticed its absence, he didn’t realise right away. Actually, it took a few days for him to notice. It wasn't until Shane had left his hotel room in Tampa with a lingering, "Goodbye, Ilya," and he was left with the silence for the first time since Shane had sat down next to him at that bar, that he noticed that the worst thing he felt was wishing Shane was still with him.
He didn't have a clue in the world what to do with that. If he went for a walk right now, he'd want to look both ways before crossing the road, and probably keep checking as he did, just in case. If he went and found someone to hook up with – even if, truthfully, he didn't want to find anyone but Shane – and he went back to their place, and it seemed just a little too sketchy, he'd leave. If someone tried to mug him, he'd hand over his wallet without question, not even a single snarky comment. Not a single one of those felt like the Ilya Rozanov thing to do, who even was he anymore?
Shane would probably do all of those things by default. He'd probably be horrified that there was anyone out there – let alone Ilya – who wouldn't.
He was probably just still reeling from the conversation with Shane. It wasn’t real silence; he was too preoccupied with all that had just happened. A night's rest to process, and he would be back to needing to depend on his usual lengths to keep his mind at bay. He couldn't let himself pretend that this could be his new normal.
It wasn’t until almost a full week later that the silence began to suffocate him again.
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The next time he felt it was the morning before their next game against Montreal. Just knowing that Shane was in the same city as him was enough, apparently. He’d gotten out of bed the moment he woke up, rushing to make sure everything in his house was ready for Shane to come over before he even realised what was happening. The thought made him so sick that he almost didn't want to invite Shane over at all. What if he got too used to feeling this way – or rather, this lack of his normal feelings – and grew dependent on Shane? They only got to see each other a couple of times a year. If he started to need him too much, then how bad would things become during the months they had to spend apart?
It still wasn't enough to override his desire to see Shane, though. He wasn't sure there was anything in the world that could. If he was honest with himself, that wasn't anything new. It had maybe been the case ever since that cold day in Saskatchewan, all those years ago.
He was probably being ridiculous. He wasn't actually feeling any different than normal; he was just distracting himself, like he always did.
Once he'd convinced Shane to come over, he made himself sit in his room, alone with his thoughts – the exact kind of thing he'd normally do anything in his power to avoid. Even still, his mind kept drifting back to the game they'd be playing this evening, or what he'd say when Shane got here. It wasn't like the darkness was gone – Shane wasn't that good – but it wasn't nearly as crushingly all-consuming as it should have been, and the craving to be gone was entirely absent. Without the weight to hold him down, he was left untethered, like any misstep would catch the universe’s attention, causing it to recognise its mistake and correct itself.
Before he could figure out how to correct himself pre-emptively, Shane was ringing his doorbell, and he was answering.
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He didn’t have to wait nearly as long for everything to return to normal this time. The moment he set foot on Russian soil again, he was sort of wishing the plane had crashed on the way. Not really. He didn’t want anyone else to die, and he didn’t want his brother to have to mourn him and their father at the same time – even if he didn’t really think his brother would mourn him at all. Maybe if just his seat could have dropped out of the plane unexpectedly, somehow not suck anyone else out, and they all failed to notice. That could’ve worked.
But it hadn’t, and here he was. His father was dead, and it was his job to make sure everything was perfect. He didn’t have time to wish for things that hadn’t been.
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He’d been back in Russia for only a few days, his father’s funeral was tomorrow, and all Ilya wanted was for it to be over, the desire a crushing weight on his shoulders, making his every step laboured. He wasn’t even entirely sure what it was, but he didn’t want to be here, having to hear about what a great man his father had been from seemingly every person who had ever met him, and organising & paying for all of the funeral arrangements with his father’s voice in his ear, lecturing him on every detail, even now that his body had gone cold. He didn’t want to be back in Boston either, having to hear everyone offer him their condolences and go on about how hard this must be for him. It was hard, obviously, but not for the reasons they would assume or accept. He didn’t want to hear about how perfect the man who’d never had a single good thing to say about him had been, and he didn’t want to pretend that the worst part of this wasn’t that now he never would have a good thing to say about him, even if Ilya hadn’t ever believed it would happen before. He wanted to be nowhere, and nothing, and for it to be over.
Which is why, about two hours ago, he had switched his phone to do-not-disturb and gone for a walk. It was now almost 11 pm, and he still hadn’t gone home. It was beyond stupid to be out in the cold for this long in Russia, especially so late into the night and barely into Spring, but Ilya couldn’t find it in himself to care. Maybe he would stay out here all night. Maybe someone would find him in the morning and have just enough time to make some last-minute arrangements and turn the service into a double funeral. That thought alone was enough to dissuade him.
Two more days, and he would be back in Boston. He wished that reminder was enough to get him through this, but even in Boston, he would still have a father who never had and now, never would, love him. He would still have no living family members who actually wanted him, just like he hadn’t since he was twelve years old. God, how he missed his mother. His father’s coldness had been bearable while she was still around; she had loved him enough to make up the difference, at least for the most part.
Alexei had once told him, shortly after the funeral, that he shouldn’t waste time missing their mother, that it was her fault for leaving them, but no matter how impossible his grief had gotten, Ilya had never been able to blame her for it. He understood why she did what she did. He could never do it himself – they weren’t in nearly the same situation, but if he didn’t know just how much it affected everyone, and if the only people he’d be leaving behind were two boys who the cruelties of his mind would be able to convince him were young enough to bounce back, well, he can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same.
He didn’t want to, but he could see why someone would.
This was the problem with Russia; every time he came back, it was like he’d never left. He was shoved back into the thoughts and feelings of a seventeen-year-old being berated for choosing the NHL over the KHL, a fifteen-year-old discovering that vodka could quiet his mind at least for a while, and a twelve-year-old crying silently under the covers, praying no one would hear him so he wouldn’t get punished for mourning his mother, whose body was barely even cold yet.
The only separation between him right now and those versions of himself was that they hadn’t yet met Shane Hollander, while it felt like all he did these days was wish he were with him. They had spoken on the phone two days ago, the evening after he landed in Moscow, and he was pretty sure it was the only thing that had allowed him to make it this far. It hadn’t even been a long conversation; all he’d done was tell Shane where he was and why, and Shane had made sure Ilya knew that he could talk to him, that he wanted to help.
Those versions of him, no matter how miserable they had been, had no idea how good they’d had it. They hadn’t yet been cursed with loving someone they would never be able to have, destined for a lifetime of missing him. Shane would have been better off if those were the only versions of him that existed, too. They wouldn’t burden him with a secret that could destroy the career he had dedicated his life to building.
It was always going to end eventually. Shane would probably fare better the sooner it did; it was like ripping a Band-Aid off. No one would ever need to know that Canada’s Golden Boy had been debasing himself by associating – let alone sleeping with – the likes of Ilya Rozanov. He had no one to blame for his reputation besides himself – well, partially the media, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t encouraged it. He’d been a cocky asshole in every interview, and let himself get papped leaving various clubs night after night, each time with a different woman on his arm. Maybe if he’d been like Shane and kept his reputation squeaky clean, then they wouldn’t be in this trouble now. They could have let people think they were friends and let that cover up whatever else they may be, but like it or not, he wasn’t Shane. He wasn’t squeaky clean. He was an asshole, he’d been sleeping around since he was fourteen, and he needed the noise that all his vices provided to keep his brain from slowly strangling him to death. No amount of bad acting would have been able to cover that up, and besides, his thick, action movie villain accent had probably walled off that option no matter what he’d done. He’d never stood a chance at being someone good.
He caught himself staring down at the frozen river below the bridge he had begun to cross almost ten minutes ago, and was now just standing on, but couldn’t bring himself to look away. The ice was just thin enough that it would break on impact, especially from the height he was at, and he let himself wonder what the media would say if he really did do it. Would they think it had been some drunken accident at first? That after years of recklessness, he had finally got his comeuppance? At first, maybe, but eventually, a toxicology report would leak and reveal that he had been basically sober. Maybe then they’d spin him into a cautionary tale. See? If you’re a dick to everyone you meet and waste your life away on sex and booze, then no matter how rich and talented you are, you’ll wind up just like Ilya Rozanov, so miserable that he was found bobbing in a frozen river the morning of his father’s funeral. He wasn’t quite sure what the lesson was; he didn’t think anyone would choose to be like him unless they were running from something as well, but it made a good story at least. Others would be kinder, talk about his accomplishments and talent, drone on that he was so young, and if only we could have known, we would have done something.
Done something, as though there were anything that could have been done, as though his entire life hadn’t been a series of branching paths that all, at one point or another, wound up here. Whether it be on a bridge above a frozen river, or with a noose around his neck, or a bottle of pills in hand, ready to finally see his mother once more. He’d heard once that dying of hypothermia felt like falling asleep, and he wondered if it would feel the same as a mouthful of sleeping pills dragging you under. Maybe he’d be able to understand her better than ever. He missed her so much here – missed her so much everywhere – and he couldn’t imagine how the guilt of those left behind, and the headlines, and the shock of the freezing water below the layer of ice wouldn’t be worth it if he could see her again and finally, finally be done.
Fuck. He should call Shane. He’d said he would, right? Shane would probably worry if he didn’t call soon. He was probably already worrying, wondering if he should be the one to call Ilya. There would be better reception over by that tunnel. He should walk over there, off of this bridge, and call Shane, so he wouldn’t worry, and wouldn’t forever wish he’d been the one to call.
Even as he did it, he couldn’t quite believe that he’d been able to. The versions of himself that hadn’t met Shane wouldn't have been if they had been the ones up there tonight.
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Somehow, Ilya made it back to Boston. Well, he knew exactly how, and that was the problem. He was in far, far too deep. Shane had been the only reason he’d made it off that bridge, and through the funeral and his last few days in Russia – his entire time in Russia, really. Well, he was never going back now, so it wasn’t like he’d need Shane’s help with that again, and he’d spent years making it through his life in Boston with Shane as nothing more than a hookup whenever they had the chance. He could only hope it wasn’t too late – that he wasn’t yet so dependent on him that he wouldn’t be able to go back to how things had once been now that he was ending it. Hockey, sex, cigarettes, vodka; those were his distractions from himself. Those were, even if not entirely healthy, at least consistent. Dependable. They wouldn’t ruin both his and Shane’s lives if they got found out; hell, they weren’t a secret in the first place, they were practically his tagline.
He could either keep up what they were doing and let himself be destroyed by the impossibility of what he really wanted, tortured by having so much of Shane, yet at the same time, nothing at all, and risk ruining both of their lives, or end things now, even with the possibility that his previous distractions wouldn’t be enough anymore, but there being a chance he would be fine, and eliminating the risk to Shane. Even if it destroyed him, at least he would be the only one he was burning in the fallout. Anyone could see what the right option was, even him.
Besides, he was confident he’d be able to go back to how everything was before just fine. He’d lived as he was for his entire life, and he’d always been able to rely on his previous vices to carry him through it all. Sure, he’d been a bit miserable, but who wasn’t? It was practically a part of who he was, anyway. Didn’t people always say you shouldn’t change yourself for a relationship? Well, not wanting to be dead was about as massive a change as he could make, so he was just following orders.
Fucking hell, relationship? He was becoming delusional – this needed to end today.
As he walked out onto the ice to warm up, he readied himself to see Shane again. He’d call it all off tonight, and he’d be back to hockey, sex, cigarettes, and vodka.
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Ilya’s heart stopped a second before Marleau hit Shane. He noticed soon enough to feel it before Shane did, but not enough to do anything to stop it.
He realised, in the same moment that Shane hit the ice, that he’d been kidding himself thinking he'd be able to return to a life without Shane in it. The only question was whether or not he was selfish enough to destroy Shane's life along with his own.
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He tried, but as much as he hated to admit it, the answer to that was yes, he apparently was selfish enough. No matter how his brain reasoned with him, looking down at Shane in that hospital bed, all loopy on painkillers, he was unable to do it to himself. For once in his life, he wanted to avoid the hurt, rather than run into it headfirst, daring it to take him down.
He'd spent so long with death as the only option for the escape he so desperately craved that he’d stopped bothering to look for any other routes. The feeling was so ingrained into who he was that he hadn’t stopped to consider that maybe it could end and he could keep going, that maybe he wasn't inherently incapable of happiness.
Maybe it was selfish of him, but after a life of every quiet moment being filled with the crush of his thoughts, he couldn't give up a chance for it to be over that would also let him still be around to experience it.
He still wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure it would ever be possible for him to escape himself. Actually, if he had to bet on it, he’d place a whole lot of money against himself, but it was still the first crumb of hope he’d had at one day feeling okay in decades, and it was enough for him to choke out “Maybe” when Shane invited him to his cottage, instead of a flat out no, and enough that he didn’t end things then and there. He was in no way committed to staying, but at the very least, he was leaving himself the option.
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Ilya hadn’t seen Shane since he visited him in the hospital, and he wished he’d just ended things then and there. Shane wasn’t a magical fix-all cure for his fucked-up brain, and it shouldn’t be on him to be that, even if he could. He didn’t know why, all of a sudden, he’d been convinced this was something that could end, but it was the way he’d been since he was a child. If it was going to change, it would have happened by now. He was playing for the NHL – one of its best players at that – he had more money than he knew what to do with, he was constantly surrounded by people desperate to be him or be with him, what more could he ask for? If everything he had wasn’t enough for him to be happy, nothing could be.
He should just text Shane and tell him it was over. The season was practically finished; this game was almost certainly the last unless LA performed a miracle. He was even texting Shane right now; he had no excuse to put it off any further.
Over text? Really?
He had one flimsy excuse to put it off. On paper, they weren’t really anything, and it wasn’t like they’d see each other in person anytime soon; it wasn’t like he couldn’t have justified doing it over text, but still, it was enough to pretend he was holding off for reasons that weren’t entirely self-serving, so he allowed it. If Shane brought up going to his cottage again, he’d give a firm no – he would – but as long as Shane didn’t bring it up first, well...
There it was, the Admirals had won. Ilya supposed it was less embarrassing for him that Boston had lost to the winning team, at least, so good on them.
Then Scott Hunter was calling a man down from the audience, pulling him onto centre ice, and kissing him for all the world to see, live on television, and every assumption he’d held about what was guaranteed to destroy them was flung out the window.
He didn’t have to think before he stabbed the call button. Just as quickly, Shane picked up, and before his rambling could force Ilya to take a second to think, he cut him off.
“I’m coming to the cottage.”