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Ilya is chasing the scent of nicotine in the air before he’s even properly out of the building.
He shoulders the door open and slams it shut, uncaring of the way it rattles as he does. Sweat plasters his curls to his forehead, yet he doesn’t move to push them back. He’s shaking. He should’ve worn something warmer.
Wind washes over him like reprieve, prompting him to take what feels like his first full breath. If the static in his chest was not so all consuming, he might’ve been embarrassed of how long it takes him to acknowledge his surroundings. Truthfully, he doesn’t really know where he’d stormed off to– this door was the closest, and so it was the one he’d taken. As he takes his first step towards the edge, he finds himself grateful to be on a balcony. Small victories, he thinks.
If he strains his ears, he can still hear the faint hum of conversation through the walls. The party, it seems, has not been affected by his absence. Unbidden, the night replays itself, poorly developed film unwinding and leaving him with fragments of sounds and images that land in an indecipherable pile of memory. The building, the noise, pleasantries exchanged like judgement; his smile, its wavering, how his eyes kept tracking the bottles of wine lined against the wall; his father, the fight, humiliation burning hot in his cheeks and anger coiling low in his gut.
The only thing worse than being hit is being hit in front of an audience.
It’s not that he’s surprised, necessarily. Ilya has long since been well-versed in all of Grigori Rozanov’s forms of discipline. Perhaps it’d be more accurate to say he’s disappointed, that this is the only thing between them that’s remained unchanged. That his father can forget Ilya’s name, his age, but never his own ire. Maybe Ilya’s a little disappointed in himself, too, for being affected at all. That, at least, they have in common.
If someone were to ask Ilya, years from now, what he remembers from this night, he wouldn’t be able to tell you much. He wouldn’t remember why he was there, or who was in attendance, or how long he’d stayed. He wouldn’t remember names, faces, or who he spoke to. He might remember the sound, though. The way the contact echoed and the entire room had gone silent, as if to hear it better. He might remember the ringing in his ears, which in hindsight may have been a mercy, given that it drowned out his father’s voice. He would remember feeling, with shocking intensity, that he was seven years old again– still the same bastard child, cradling broken glass in his hands like maybe he could put it back together if only he tried harder.
A muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands clench, unclench, the static under his skin searching for an outlet that doesn’t exist. Below, the view beckons to him, street lights glittering like promise. His eyes linger on the concrete a moment too long. Briefly– though with disturbing clarity– an image flickers before him.
Ilya closes his eyes.
He is not like his mama.
He keeps his gaze forward rather than down, scanning the tops of the buildings tall enough to reach him. Ilya wishes the balcony extended farther, that it wove indefinitely between the walls of each high-rise and he could sprint, unobstructed, until he reached some place where the stars were still visible. Instead, he presses himself against the railing and pretends twenty feet is far enough.
The heat simmering within him doesn’t fade. In fact, it grows, stretching across his arms and weaving between his ribs, charring the soft flesh of his organs. The fabric of his suit strains when he lifts his arm, tightening uncomfortably around his ribs. His skin itches in a bone-deep, unreachable way, torturous in its persistence. His breath falls out of rhythm; sensation divides his attention so that he can’t focus on steadying it. Ilya, horribly, feels himself slipping.
His fingers wrap around a box in his pocket.
The anticipation is so strong it’s almost like relief in itself. He pulls it out, hands steadier even before he’s opened it. It’s not healthy– the intensity of his reaction is indicative of it– but maybe that’s why he’s attracted to it. Because Ilya is not his mama, but he is similar in the sense that death is more of a comfort than it is a threat. And he won’t do it himself, but if he allows little things like this to pile up slowly, maybe it will happen faster.
As Ilya rolls the cigarette between his fingers, he thinks– not for the first time– that he is a coward.
The weight of the cigarette is familiar in his hand. He leans against the railing, keeping it pinched between his fingers, grip loosening as he lets some of the tension bleed from his shoulders. The scent of smoke still weighs heavy in the air, left over from previous guests. He imagines it wafting, curling around him before it disperses. Unable to wait any longer, he reaches for his lighter.
His phone vibrates against his thigh, jarring enough to make him flinch.
He curses, sighing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, finger halfway to the end call button when he glimpses the contact name. The letters glow back at him, stark white against the black.
Shane Hollander.
Ilya prides himself on the reputation he has built. Which is to say, he’s happy to be viewed as a cocky, self-important asshole. There’s a certain privilege attached to such perception that he could not attain otherwise. Put frankly, Ilya gets away with things. Nobody questions his habits– smoking, drinking, sex– he doesn’t receive the same criticism others do, nor is he afforded the same sort of pity. That’s how he prefers it; the less people are looking, the less they notice.
Very quickly, he learned that Shane Hollander is not ‘people’.
Shane was easy to ignore when he was just a player on a screen. After the International Prospect Cup, when he became a number on his phone, this got considerably harder. Really, Ilya isn’t sure where he went wrong. Their first impressions were awkward at best— embarrassing at worst. Yet for some reason, he gave him his contact anyway. He let their conversations extend past what was strictly professional, then past what was reasonable, until Shane began pacing the border of something scarily close to a friend. Sometimes– though he won’t admit it to himself in quite these words– he thinks he’s okay with that. He’s okay with Shane– with all his strange habits and rules and eccentricities– being that close to him.
It’s infuriating, that he can’t seem to remember to keep up the façade around him. It’s infuriating that even now– cigarette halfway to his mouth, control fraying the longer he leaves it unlit– he’s still drawn, almost instinctually, to the idea of him.
And oh, how he hates how easy it is to give in to this temptation.
“Rozanov?” Shane says, audibly startled despite being the one who called. “God, what have you been doing all day? You didn’t respond to any of my messages!”
Muted shuffling filters through the speakers—the sound of Shane sitting up, no doubt. Ilya almost smiles. It makes him a little giddy to know that he has this effect on him—that he was worried enough to call, and that he cared enough to notice his disappearance.
“No, Hollander, I did not respond to any of your boring messages,” Ilya drawls, just to get a rise out of him. This is a practiced song and dance by now. Trying to draw a reaction from each other, pushing as many buttons as possible just to see what they do. It’s a small comfort, now– a way to stave off the inevitable a while longer.
“Fuck you!” Comes Shane’s response, all fond exasperation. It’s short-lived. There’s an almost palpable shift even before Shane speaks again, his voice losing its mirth.
“Seriously, what’s going on? You’re not normally like this– whatever normal is for you.”
Ilya sighs. “Nothing is going on.” His hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What does it matter, anyway? What, you think I am still a kid, cannot take care of myself?”
Shane bristles. “I didn’t say that.”
“Ok, so no problem,” Ilya says, feigning nonchalance. “Goodbye.”
“Rozanov.” Shane warns.
“Hollander.”
“Come on, Rozanov, don’t be a dick!” Shane huffs, louder now. Bingo.
Ilya catches this opening between his teeth. “Sorry, is kind of my thing. Would be bad for brand if I stopped now, no?” Ilya smirks, falling easily into this routine. He relaxes a little, adjusting his grip on the cigarette. Here is familiar territory. Here is the part of the conversation that he can control. He only has to get Shane to hang up, and then he will put away his phone and take out his lighter like he’s been itching to do all night. Really, this part isn’t very unlike chirping. And he “really gets under other players’ skins”, doesn’t he?
Shane says nothing for a moment, long enough to give Ilya hope. He’s gone, isn’t he? Finally?
“You’re in Russia, aren’t you?” Comes the eventual reply. Hope evaporates.
Ilya’s eyes trace the streets once more, hands tightening around his phone. He sucks in a breath, sharp and audible. It’s answer enough.
“Why?” Shane presses.
Ilya tries to be vague. “My father is hosting an event. Said he wanted his son there.” He can’t help but spit the word, ironic as it’s become. He’s only here for the optics, really. Inviting so many people just to leave out your son invites gossip, and what good would more watchful eyes do?
“So?” He says, because of course Shane could never be satisfied with anything but the full truth.
“So what?” Ilya snaps, the words coming out harsher than he intends. “So I am in Russia— so what? You think I hate my country that much? My family?”
Shane pauses, seemingly considering this. “I don’t know,” he says, “Do you?”
“What kind of–” Ilya huffs a laugh, though it sounds almost crazed as it echoes around him. “No, I don’t.” He pauses. “I…”
He what?
He tries to think of an apt descriptor, but he can’t. Not even in Russian. He owes them? It’s true, but it’s so… transactional. Like their relationship only extends as far as some kind of debt, one that he can somehow repay. He respects them, then? No, that’s wrong too. Impersonal.
He wants to say he loves them. But then he tries to think about the last thing he loved, and he finds his thoughts drifting to his mama. He thinks about her; her calloused hands carding through his hair, her voice singing him lullabies long after he should’ve been deemed “too old”, her cheering from the stands at all his games, jumping up and down after every goal like he was already in the league. He thinks about how his father had never done any of these things, and how Russia has only ever been cruel to him, and how loving them would mean the same thing as loving his mama.
He couldn’t love them. He squeezes his eyes shut. He could never love them.
So what does that leave?
Shane has remained silent through all this. Belatedly, Ilya realizes he’s been waiting for him to speak. He takes a steadying breath; looks up at the sky as it lightens into dawn. Briefly, he considers saying nothing at all, waiting to see how long Shane will tolerate the silence– but he’d probably break first. The longer he hesitates, the more restless he finds himself becoming.
He doesn’t have to answer; Shane would never make him, and the topic would never come up again. For some reason, though, the idea makes him a little nauseous. It doesn’t make sense– he’s never talked about his family with anyone besides Svetlana. He hasn’t wanted to. But maybe that isn’t entirely true. Maybe he simply hasn’t trusted anyone besides Svetlana.
Maybe he wants to trust Shane.
His words stick to the sides of his throat when he finally opens his mouth. “My father is not a good man,” he tries. “He is… sick. Forgets things. It makes him angry, sometimes, when I have to remind him.” He takes a breath. “He is a prideful man. He doesn’t like feeling weak.”
It’s more honest than he should be. In the morning, when he is hit with a sudden wave of clarity, he knows he will curse himself for ever allowing things to get to this point. For now, though, stuck in the hours between night and day, he doesn’t think about it. He’ll come up with an excuse later; he’s always been good at that.
“Your father has Alzheimer's?” Shane asks. Ilya nods, though the action has no real impact. He recognizes the words from the articles he’s read, articles with words like “chronic” and “untreatable” and "hereditary". Hearing it said out loud, in such plain language, makes his stomach turn.
“Something like that.”
“So your relationship with your father, then…”
Ilya bites the inside of his cheek. “Is not good, no.” An egregious understatement, but it’s all he has the language for. If only Shane spoke Russian. How much easier this conversation would be, if he didn’t have to worry about the limitations of English.
“I’m sorry,” Shane says. It’s not enough. It’s more than he’s ever been given.
“Is not your fault,” he replies absently. He tries to imagine him, an ocean away. Where he sits, what he looks like. If he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, illuminated by the warm, dim glow of a lamp; curled up in bed, glasses sliding off his face, book abandoned in his lap; standing in his kitchen, forearms braced against the counter, chewing on his bottom lip. What is he thinking? How does he feel? What would happen if he asked?
For a moment, neither of them speak. Strangely, Ilya doesn’t feel the need to. Silence is not something he’s typically content to stew in. After all, it’s never brought anything good. Silence means tension; means disappointment; means eyes boring through him like he has something to hide. Even alone, he finds himself leaving on a fan, the TV, anything to stave off the quiet. But there is no fan here, and still he does not speak.
A gentle breeze passes over him, leaves rustling in its wake. Below him, cars run back and forth along the road, a hundred ants driving home, towards a sibling, towards a friend. A bird lands on the edge of a nearby building; chirps once. Ilya locks eyes with it, wondering what it sees. Does it see past him, or does it recognize the importance of this second of immobility, of their shared gaze? It occurs to him, then, that he’s never allowed himself the time for this kind of idle consideration. He has never seen any reason to– a bird is just a bird; a car is just a car; a person is unimportant unless they are him. Now, though, he is far, far away from the people that gave him those thoughts. Anger does not churn in his gut. The static under his skin quiets. The bird is a chance.
And he can see the stars.
As a rule, Ilya does not like silence. As a rule, Shane does not follow rules. So if Ilya enjoys this silence, with Shane on the other end, maybe that’s okay. Maybe this is okay.
“Don’t go back.”
Ilya pauses. The sudden break in their tranquility is so jarring it takes him a second to respond.
“What?”
“To Russia,” Shane clarifies, voice growing steadier as he goes on. “You go back in the summer, right?” There’s a pause, noticeable enough that it puts Ilya on edge. “Don’t.”
“Hollander– I can’t not.” Ilya sputters, caught off guard. “What would I even do? Stay home and watch reality TV like old man Scott Hunter?”
“You could stay with me,” he offers. “Come to my cottage. We could– I don’t know, go swimming, or hiking… whatever you want. For two weeks.”
He says it quickly, like if he hesitates he won’t be able to finish. Ilya almost thinks he’s misheard. For a torturous second, he can’t even respond, jaw hanging uselessly as he croaks around the sudden obstruction in his throat. In the end, all he can bring himself to say is, once more, “What?”
Shane sputters, bravado gone almost as fast as it appeared. “Nothing, it’s stupid, forget I asked! You should go home, obviously! I don’t even know– fuck, sorry.”
Ilya considers this. He’s right. People will talk if he doesn’t, and it will raise questions if he’s seen with his supposed rival during the off season. But the objection lodges itself in his chest, refusing to rouse even when he tries to cough it up.
Home. He should go home. But is Russia home, really? Is Moscow, with its crowded streets, unforgiving snowfall and empty apartment? He thinks about coming back– really, truly thinks about it. All the nights that will end, inevitably, just like this one. The fragile quiet that awaits after. Walking on eggshells for two months, all in the name of tradition, of some warped sense of honour only he is expected to uphold. He thinks about finally returning, pieces of him shipped back in a box, spilled across a rink and told to win a cup for a country that was never his own.
Almost by instinct, his gaze drops once more to the road.
Shane is still rambling on the other end of the phone, growing increasingly unnerved by Ilya’s prolonged silence. Two weeks. What might it be like, to have him to himself for that long? The prospect almost scares him– it does scare him, that kind of unfettered time. But then he thinks back to the static from earlier– the heat, the radiating anger, the insatiable itch– and how it wasn’t ‘home’ that calmed him.
It was Shane.
Every single time, it has been Shane. What could matter more than that? What could home, the wretched thing, count for in the face of the unrelenting pull that drags Ilya towards him, a sunflower tilted towards the sun? What leverage does the biting cold of Moscow have against the threat of morning light against freckled cheeks, their elbows knocking into each other as they brush their teeth, their breaths echoing in that shared space?
In Russia, Ilya has never really been alive. With Shane, he has. Laid out like this, simple and bare, it isn’t so hard to make a decision.
“Ok,” he interrupts, cutting off Shane’s unending rant.
Shane is out of breath when he answers, “What?”
Ilya takes a second before answering. Waits for the hesitance, for the doubt. Gives himself a chance to change his mind. He’s surprised to find that he doesn’t. For what might be the first time in his life, he is completely sure of himself.
For what might be the first time in his life, he feels brave.
“I’m coming to the cottage,” he says, finding himself a little breathless, too.
There is a long, charged pause. The speaker picks up Shane’s breathing, its hard rise and fall. Eventually, he mutters, “Ok.” Ilya raises a brow, more to himself than anyone else. “Ok,” Shane repeats, louder this time. “I– I’ll text you, then.”
“Yes, you’ve done lots of this lately.”
Shane snorts. The sky fades into a light pink; the sun peeks over the horizon. “Fuck off,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it. Everything feels lighter, somehow—brighter, like he’s seeing colour for the first time. Or, rather, he’s only just noticed it.
Ilya is so lost in thought he almost doesn’t hear Shane speak again.
“Goodnight, Ilya.”
The audio cuts out immediately after. Shane hangs up.
Ilya pulls the phone away from his ear; gapes at the black screen. Slowly, incredulously, a smile stretches across his face.
He moves to place his phone in his pocket, taking notice of the cigarette in his other hand as he does so. Studying it– its long, slender form wrapped delicately in paper, its filter an almost garish orange— he considers the lighter in his pocket. There’s still time to smoke it, should he choose to.
Instead, he lets his grip go lax. The cigarette slips from his fingers, careening over the edge of the balcony, tilting end over end in a continuous spiral.
He doesn’t track its movement, choosing to turn his gaze on the clouds instead. It isn’t quite joy, but it's close. Ilya. The syllables sounded different on Shane’s tongue. Warmer, somehow. Reverent.
The way his mama used to say it.
“Goodnight, Shane,” he whispers into the waking dawn. The name is unfamiliar on his tongue, and it's all still a little strange, but it feels good to say. His smile widens. Absurdly, he has the urge to laugh.
Across from him, the bird on the ledge takes flight.