Chapter Text
I. 2014
It’s stupid.
He knows it is. His father used to tell him that he’d better dream small. That lazy, greedy men never got far unless they were willing to take life by the throat, and that Ilya had always been ‘too soft’ to try.
Once, when his mother was still alive, Ilya had found her out on the porch, staring off at Moscow’s winter snow. He’d sat next to her, cold reaching as far as his bones, trying hard to take her in. The moonlight danced in her long hair, her face twisted into something like exhaustion, and Ilya—young and scared and unsure—asked her if she was happy. She said she was as happy as she deserved to be, and Ilya nodded, because he wasn’t sure what that meant. He wanted to ask her if she’d been happier on her own, without Ilya or his father. But she ran her fingers through Ilya's curls, soft and methodic, so he bit his tongue. Some people deserve good things, and the rest of us just have to deal with what we get, she said, quiet, when she thought Ilya had fallen asleep.
And now, his mother is dead, and his father is sick, and Ilya knows there are things he doesn’t deserve and things he just has to deal with—and he knows better than to ask for more.
So he knows it’s stupid.
Ilya presses a cigarette to his mouth and tries not to think about Hollander. He tries to focus on the slight buzz that courses through his body, the taste of bitter and dry earth, but all he can think is that, if Hollander were here, he’d be bitching about how Ilya’s bound to get cancer if keeps going like this, and Ilya would put out his smoke and pretend to be annoyed. He’d whine and then smile, something provocative, and get close and move his hands across Hollander’s body until they’d both be shaking and pushing into each others space, until he’d be able smell the sweat still lingering on Hollander’s neck and count Hollander's freckles mindlessly, tracing them in his head like they’re the answer to a puzzle he’d need desperately to solve. They’d meld until they turned into one mass of flesh, so lost in each other that it’d be impossible to tell they were ever two separate people and not always Rozanov-and-Hollander. Ilya-and-Shane.
But he’s not here. He shouldn’t be here, so Ilya smokes until the cigarette between his fingers crushes easily and dissolves into a trail of ash. It feels nice, like life reinhabiting his body and breathing fresh air into his lungs, but it lasts a second and then it’s gone.
It feels like that, sometimes. With Hollander. Like those stolen hours are more than just hook-ups, like there’s something inexplicable there that holds them both steady and ignites something, a fervid passion, in both their hearts. It’s not just the lust. It’s the steady pounding in their chests and it’s the feather-like weight of having someone who knows him, who sees him, who understands him and still asks for more.
It’s breathing.
But it never lasts.
It’s beautiful, so excruciatingly beautiful—up until the moment it ends. And then Hollander is cleaning up and leaving or Ilya is rushing to catch a ride, and there’s not a second in between where they can bask in the stillness of morning and bathe in sleepy, amber haze next to each other.
He wonders, sometimes, how it would feel.
The part of him that’s stronger, or maybe the part that’s scared of how much he’d get if he just asked, refuses to think about it—about a warm body marinating under pools of morning light in Ilya's bed. The stronger part of him knows better than to linger on the idea.
But the part of him that’s weak—that’s lazy and greedy and whiny and everything Ilya's father thinks of him, wants.
It’s the part of him that runs his thumb down Hollander’s face in gentle streaks like if he pushes too hard, his skin will burn. The part that stares at Hollander with something soft, something he tries to excuse as hunger but doesn’t have the same bite to it, desperate in a way that makes him feel lost rather than excited. The part that wanted to reach out to Hollander during the Olympics, to say that no, he wasn’t alright, and wanted to have his head leaning on Hollander’s chest like a child until the rest of the world dissolved into murmurs.
It’s the same part of him that, right now, wants to open his messages and text Jane.
He left his phone inside, tucked away in a cabinet near his bed, face down so he can’t send something stupid like ‘i miss you’, or anything equally honest. He put it away because he still has self control—or maybe because he knows he doesn’t, and if he stares at the screen long enough, then words will materialize and he’ll send them before he knows what he’s done.
Ilya doesn’t want to admit (or maybe he’s just lost track of) how many times he’s read over their old text messages. And lord knows they’re old.
It’s been months.
The past five messages have all been from Hollander, spread out over nearly half a year of radio silence on Ilya’s part. He wonders if Hollander thinks about their messages as often as Ilya does. He wants to hope so. But it feels almost crueler, to imagine something like that when he can’t be sure.
So he’ll have another cigarette. It’ll feel almost like a protest, like if he ignores what Hollander wants long enough, then Ilya will stop wanting him. Then he’ll retreat to his room, where he’ll sleep alone with his head pressed hard against the mattress, and he’ll wake up alone, and he’ll avoid his phone because no matter how much he wants, he can’t send a message.
He wants to be able to tease Hollander and pout when Hollander teases him back. He wants to look into the eyes of someone who wants him, even when he’s messy and angry and imperfect. He wants, he wants, he wants. But he knows it’s stupid.
It’s not what he deserves.