Chapter Text
Ilya stood in the living of Shane’s apartment, a room he had been in many times before but this time it felt different. In the past, he had enjoyed coming over after a game for their hour of fun before making it back in time for curfew. Shane’s apartment has been convenient for their hookups. It helped to blow off some steam after a big game, which between the Montreal Voyagers and the Boston Bears always felt like a big game. Especially with how the rivalry was always played up. And tonight was no different. Both men had played hard and it was a tight game with Boston coming just ahead winning 3 to 2. The gentle lights that hovered above Shane’s kitchen were bright and glaring, as if he had a spotlight on him. The Montreal cityscape beckoned in the distance outside the window of the apartment as if it was inviting an old friend to gaze out and bask in its glory. The air felt constructing, warm and choking. “I am going to do this,” He thought. “I just have to find the words to go through with it.” He felt the pit in his stomach churning. Shane was staring at him quizzically noticing Ilya was fidgeting.
“Are you okay?” Shane asked.
“Hollander,” Ilya started, he felt the lump in his throat. Butterflies were now in his stomach. Shane’s name came out almost desperate and pleading. Shane broke the gap between them and went in for a hungry kiss. His slightly calloused hands cupping Ilya’s cheeks. Ilya could feel the pent-up lust and aggression in his lips between hungry kisses and was fighting with himself to respond with the same vigor as Shane. Shane noticed after a minute or two that Ilya was not returning his kisses and stopped. “What is wrong?”
Ilya took both of Shane’s hands off his cheeks and held them. He stared into Shane’s worried brown eyes and felt as though he could get lost in them, as he had so many times before. Shane’s eyes started to dart as Ilya counted the freckles on his cheeks and nose. The same sweet freckles that Ilya had become so obsessed with. And that was the problem. Their situationship or whatever you wanted to call it, had a reached a point that Ilya had realized that it meant more to him than it should, and that was dangerous. He had to end it now, before it got any deeper. Or maybe it already had, but Ilya tried to quell those thoughts to the back of his brain.
“Hollander,” Ilya found his courage, “We can’t do this anymore.” Shane gazed back, his eyes focusing on Ilya’s neck. Ilya tried to find his courage focusing in on those sweet freckles that peppered his nose and cheekbones.
“What do you mean?” Shane asked. His voice frayed and his face was blank as if trying to process what Ilya was saying without giving too much away.
“This must stop. This has been fun, yeah? But nothing more than fun.” Ilya tried to make his tone light even though ever fiber of his being was saying otherwise. Shane was now looking hard at the ground, not saying anything for a moment, probably trying to formulate words. Before Shane could say anything, Ilya decided to take the lead, “I will see myself out, yeah? I will see you at the next game, Hollander.” He had to get out, had to leave because he could feel the tears starting to well in the back of his eyes. Before he tried to take back what he said and lifted that gorgeous man into his arms onto the waiting bed upstairs. Ilya turned to leave, leaving behind a stunned Shane in his wake. Hearing the door click was the final nail in the coffin.
It had been a few days since Ilya had called things off with Shane and honestly, he felt miserable. Luckily the flight back to Boston had been uneventful, minus of course, Marlow throwing worried looks his way. “Roz, you are too quiet, you sure you’re, okay?” Only for Ilya to mumble something about being tired in response. When he arrived home, he found himself alone in his penthouse in Boston, staring at his phone and at one name in particular, Jane. The last conversation they had was about their last meet up where Ilya had called everything off. He knew he had no right to stare at their last conversation, but he was filled with regret. Tears were now falling down his cheeks. It should not hurt this much, to let go of something he knew was impossible. There was no future for them, both of them being in the closet in a league that loved to throw slurs as if it was nothing during a game and in the locker room. Blatant homophobia was nothing new in the league. The truth did not stop his heart from hurting.
He threw his phone on the charger and grabbed his Ipod, deciding instead to take out his feelings in a run. The October air was crisp as he made his way out onto the street. The one thing Ilya loved about the location of his penthouse was that it is near the stadium but also had enough garage space for all his luxury cars. He stretched his legs on the brick wall, knowing that if he did not do so he would regret it later. He felt his legs move and started into a sprint instead of a jog. His mind was distracted, he was not listening to the Russian pop music that was blaring through his headphones, all his thoughts were pointing back to one thing, Hollander. After twenty minutes of running through the streets of downtown Boston, Ilya stopped breathing heavily. He had hoped the run would clear his head. His thoughts kept coming back to those freckles, those dark eyes and those pink lips that he loved to kiss. Ilya gave out a long sigh trying to get back air in his lungs. Why, after ending things, did he still feel so fucked?
A little while later, Ilya made his way back to his penthouse, deciding to slowly walk instead of jogging in hopes that he could wrap his head around the last few days. He enjoyed the Halloween decorations in the windows as he walked by some of the local businesses. His brain came back to Hollander yet again. He had done the right thing. He knew in his heart of hearts that he had grown feelings for Hollander, and those feelings were different than the feelings he had for hockey. He loved hockey, but he was not in love with hockey. He played it because he enjoyed it and his mother, God rest her soul, had loved watching him play as a kid. In a way, hockey felt like a way to keep her memory alive. Just like wearing her crucifix. And it got him away from Russia and all the bullshit he had to put up with there. Things in Moscow were, well, not great. His brother was a massive dick who used Ilya for money in the name of helping his niece. And then there was his father, who for all accounts was losing his memory, but those around him including Alexei and Polina denied it so vehemently. He had done the right thing, breaking things off with Hollander. So why did it feel like he had taken the one good thing in his life and crushed it?
Ilya entered the code back to his Penthouse and was greeted by a familiar face. “Surprissse” said a sweet feminine voice. It was, of course, Svetlana, Ilya’s closest and dearest friend. That he sometimes liked to fuck. Ilya jumped, not expecting her at all.
“Svetlana, you have to stop scaring me like that.” Ilya mumbled grumpily in Russian.
“Sorry for wanting to surprise you, Ilyusha. I just thought you needed a pick me up.” Svetlana huffed. “Some days, I think you don’t deserve me.”
“Sorry, Svetla, it’s not like that. I just was deep in thought when I opened the door. Seeing you scared me. Why did you think you needed to be here?”
"You were not responding to my texts,” Svetlana said gently, “I was getting worried.” Ilya’s brows furrowed, he did not mean to worry his dearest friend. “I am sorry Svetla, I am just tired. It has been a long week.”
Svetlana stared at him, not believing him. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked. “Ilyusha, I know you are a private person, but you are my person, my oldest and dearest friend and I know you very well. When you get quiet, it means that noggin of yours is in high gear or something is wrong.”
“I appreciate it, but I just want to shower and go to sleep. Will you stay with me, at least for tonight?” Ilya knew she was a very busy lady between her business and her own life so asking her to stay was a lot. But right now, he felt as if the only way to shut his brain off was maybe to have her here to distract him.
“You know I will. I will move the sun and the moon for you. And I am here if you ever need to talk.” She grabbed his hand tenderly and kissed it.
Ilya was cuddled in bed with Svetlana with clothes on. Normally when they met up and ended up in bed together it was naked fun time. The last thing on Ilya’s mind right now was being intimate, and of course, Svetlana was happy to just be there and cuddle. Her warm body was spooned against his chest. He breathed into her hair, finding comfort in the smell of strawberries and felt himself slowly fall asleep.
Ilya was back in his home in Moscow standing in his living room. The dark curtains hid the sun, which were most days now. He called out to his mother, looking for her. “Mama?” He cried out in Russian. “Mama, where are you?” He walked down the hall towards his parents’ bedroom, taking in the worn dark green flowered wallpaper coating the walls of their small apartment. It felt like déjà vu. “Mama?” He called again. He slowly opened the bedroom door and saw a lump on the bed. There was no response to his calls. Ilya walked into the room slowly, making sure that his father was not around. He knew that if his father caught wind that he was in their bedroom, he would pay for it. All he wanted right now was his mama. He wanted to show her the new move he perfected, his backhand goal trick. He saw the golden locks of his mother’s hair sticking out from the covers. He reached out slowly and touched her back. She felt cold, nothing like the warm hugs he was used to. He shook her, “Mama, wake up!” Her hand which had been resting on the bed slid down and a pill bottle rolled out. “Mama, please! Please wake up!” He saw her sweet face now, it was cold and still, her lips blue and parted. A dabble of vomit coated near her lips and onto the sheets next to her. Her face morphed now taking the form of Shane, cold and lifeless. “Shane!” Ilya yelled!
Ilya shot up, gasping. Svetlana stirred next to him. “What is wrong?” She asked sleepily. Ilya laid back down, unable to get the image of his dream out of his head. “Nothing,” he answered, “just a bad dream.” Tears were now prickling in his eyes fighting to escape. He grabbed his phone off his nightstand and looked at it, half tempted to text Shane to make sure he was okay. But he also knew it was the middle of the night. And Shane probably wanted nothing to do with him now. He stared again at the last text from Shane. “1221.”
Ilya sighed, knowing sleep would not come back easily. Svetlana turned to face him and cuddling closer. “I got you,” she said. “Just let it all out.”
He hated this. All of it.