Chapter Text
Scott will never say it, but he really is too old to be lying on a yoga mat for this long. He and Roz made it through half a card game before giving up and putting on one of Scott's true crime audiobooks. He doubts Roz cares one way or the other what they're listening to. The guy clearly just doesn't want to go back to sleep.
There's a knock, then a slightly slurred, "It's me, Shane," from the other side of the door. He sounds drunk.
Scott mutes the audiobook and heaves himself off the floor. Roz stirs behind him.
Hollander stumbles into the room. His hair's a mess, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. An Olympic medal shines from around his neck. He hiccups. Definitely drunk.
His gaze goes right to Rozanov. Then to Scott. Hollander breaks out into a rare, unselfconscious smile. "You didn't kill each other!"
Scott laughs despite himself. "I guess miracles do happen."
"So everything's okay?"
"Yeah, Rook, everything's okay." Scott expects to have to give a full status report on Rozanov's health. He debates what to say about the nightmare. It's not really his place but he feels like someone close to Rozanov should know. He isn't given the chance to bring it up, though. Where sober Shane would ask for a full medical report, drunk Shane has other priorities.
"Ilyaaaaaaa!" he exclaims, teetering across the room. "We won!"
Rozanov has pulled himself to his feet. Which is a relief because Hollander basically throws himself at the Russian menace. "I saw," Rozanov murmurs, "Am so proud of you, moy lyubov." Rozanov pulls Hollander in a full-body embrace.
The scene both grosses Scott out and makes him want to cry from missing Kip. It's officially time to go.
"Congrats on the win, Rook," he says, hand on the doorknob.
"Wait, Scott." Hollander wriggles out of Rozanov's hold. "Before you go I wanted to say thank you. You have no idea how much this means. I never thought anyone . . . I never thought we'd be able to trust anyone with this." His eyes well up with unshed tears.
Despite himself, emotion threatens to choke Scott up as well. He'd known logically that he couldn't be the only queer person in the league. It's different to know he's not. Two people now know about Scott, and about Kip - and the world didn't end. If he does get outed, and it all goes to shit, he thinks he'll have Hollander and Rozanov to back him up. He feels more certain of himself than he has in years - and all it cost was five years' off his life from the trauma of babysitting Ilya fucking Rozanov.
All things considered, Scott thinks it could have been a lot worse.
"Listen, if you guys need anything else, you've got my number," Scott finds himself saying.
He thought this night couldn't get any stranger. Then Shane Hollander hugs him. It's a quick thing. Strong and tight and then gone. He gets his arms around the kid long enough for a solid pat on the back before Hollander makes a speedy retreat.
"Thank you," Hollander says again, avoiding Scott's eyes.
Scott looks at Rozanov for assistance but the asshole just winks at him.
"Anytime, Rook, I mean it. Now get some rest." With that, Scott makes his escape.
As the door shuts, he hears Rozanov say something indistinguishable.
Then Hollander responding, "Okay, baby."
Fuckbuddies. Sure.
Scott dials Kip before he's even started walking.
*
"What time is your flight?" Shane asks as he sorts through the various first aid supplies. His head isn't thanking him for the vodka from last night but, he wants to make sure Ilya has easy access to the most important items during his travel.
Ilya hesitates. "Late. What time is yours?"
"8:20pm. Is yours before or after?"
"Uhh, after." Ilya clearly has no idea.
"Here, give me your phone and I'll look it up for you."
"No, is fine."
That gets Shane's attention. "Why are you being weird about this?"
Rozanov looks guilty. Like a dog that ate something it wasn't supposed to.
"Ilya."
"Okay, okay." Ilya tenses up his shoulders and then forces them back down. "Flight is not today. I cannot go to the airport looking like this." He gestures to his bruised and still swollen face.
Shane feels the room tilt. There's a tug on his wrist as Ilya pulls him to his side on the bed.
"Hollander, listen, will be fine. I have a plan."
Plan - a plan is good. He's slightly nauseous as he asks, "What's the plan?"
"I stay in a hotel here for another three days and then I take same flight home as Svetlana on Tuesday. So she can help me with the bags and the screens and the airport. Is a good plan, okay?"
Shane chews his lip. He feels foolish for not thinking about the press optics earlier. Especially today, the airport will be crawling with reporters. And he's been fretting about the idea of Ilya suffering through multiple plane rides in his current state. But-
"Why didn't you just tell me?"
"Did not seem important. You are leaving today. Will not affect you."
Shane fights the urge to rub his temples. He doesn't think Ilya is being infuriating on purpose. "I don't like the idea of you here alone for three more days."
Ilya starts to rub circles on Shane's back. "I will be careful. Will not leave hotel, or look at screens, or smoke too many cigarettes. I will behave, okay?"
Shane runs his gaze over Ilya. He's a collection of contrasts. Soft curls and sharp jawline. Bright eyes and dark bruises. Shane doesn't want to leave him like this.
"You said you would let me take care of you."
"Yes, and you did."
"If you aren't healthy enough to get on a plane then you aren't healthy enough to be left on your own."
"I have fractured ribs and a concussion. Is not life threatening. If it was more serious I would already be in hospital. I will be dizzy and have headache but I will not be in any danger."
"You'll still be alone. And in pain."
Ilya's smile is grim. "Is just pain."
Shane ignores this. He unlocks his phone and pulls up his calendar. Does a quick search for flights. "I don't have to be back in Montreal for practice until Thursday. I can change my flight to Tuesday morning." That still gives him time to adjust to the jet lag and be in top form for his first practice back in Montreal. It's a much better plan than Ilya's.
"Hollander, you can't."
"Watch me."
Ilya’s mouth gapes open in surprise.
Shane capitalizes on this moment of weakness. "Done. Changed my flight. And before you ask, it's non-refundable."
Ilya's Adam's apple bobs. "Shane-"
Shane cuts him off. "You should know by now that I'm not the type of guy to quit what I've started."
The look Ilya gives him is half awe, half apprehension. "And people say I am the scary one."
*
Babe: I've been looking at their Wikipedia pages all day and I sort of understand why you're freaking out
Scott: it feels so good to be right
Babe: calm your tits
Babe: I'm just saying the rivalry is intense
Scott: it's even crazier in person
Babe: when exactly did they get together?
Scott: not sure. they said something that implied Rookie year tho
Babe: what do you mean you're not sure
Scott: I didn't ask?
Babe: honey. when I tell you to bring me the tea that means timelines
Babe: god dammit Scott
Babe: we need to get them over to the apartment so I can grill them myself
Scott: you really, really don't want them in our home
Babe: I really think I do
Scott: >:(
*
Sneaking Ilya into Shane's hotel room is remarkably easy. Soon enough they're sprawled on the massive penthouse couch, luxuriating in all the space.
It's a little awkward. They spent so long in the cramped dorm room that it started to feel natural to be pressed up against each other at all times. Shane already feels weird about essentially forcing his way into Ilya's plans to stay in Sochi. Now they have space and they're on opposite ends of the couch and Shane doesn't know how the rules have changed. He knows it's only a few extra feet but Ilya feels very far away.
"I have new life aspiration," Ilya says. "I will be Slavic trophy wife. Live off rich man and only stay in hotels like this."
Shane can admit that he may have gone slightly overboard with the hotel. Opulent is pretty much the only word to describe it. But he's not about to let Ilya give him shit for it.
"You're acting like you aren't also rich.”
"Ah, but is different when someone else pays. I am, how you say, sugar baby."
There's a knowing look in Ilya's eyes on the word baby. Shane's cheeks heat. He remembers saying that particular word a few times last night - and internally curses the rest of Team Canada for plying him with celebratory vodka shots.
"You would have to actually be sweet to be a sugar baby," Shane counters.
Ilya, the absolute shit, takes this as a challenge. "I can be sweet."
Before he knows it, Ilya is crowding onto Shane's part of the couch. Neutral zone breached. He tries not to be so relieved.
Ilya props his head on Shane's hip. His hand tucks itself into Shane's inner thigh.
"Do you want me to be sweet for you?"
Shane's blood rushes south. "You're still healing."
"So you do not want me to touch your dick?" Eyebrows raised. Gauntlet thrown.
Shane hates being the reasonable one in moments like these. "I think you'll hurt yourself if you start something."
"I think my hand is not injured and there is industrial supply of Vaseline in your backpack. Or," Ilya grabs Shane’s chin with his free hand, thumb pulling at his bottom lip, "You can give me your spit."
Shane swipes his tongue over the pad of Ilya's thumb. He gives it a little nip. "Hmm. Vaseline or spit. Doesn't sound very sweet to me. Not exactly up to sugar baby standards."
The hand on his leg slides higher. Squeezes.
"Okay, I admit I am sour baby. I can touch you now?"
Shane would laugh if he wasn’t so turned on. "Yes."
There's not much talking after that.
*
Ilya helps him figure out Yandex for the grocery delivery. The penthouse has a kitchen and, after almost two weeks of cafeteria food and take-out, Shane can't wait to make a real meal. Ilya naps while Shane makes lunch. They eat in easy silence then put on a movie (with strict instructions for Ilya not to look at the screen). Shane drifts off about halfway through. The physical and mental stress of the last few weeks is finally catching up to him.
"You do not have to stay in hotel with me the whole time," Ilya says later - interrupting their debate on which dumb action movie to watch next. He's smushed halfway on top of Shane. This is a very motivating factor for staying on the couch.
"I know. I'll probably go for a run later."
"You should see more of the city. I hear it is very nice. Good for tourists."
Shane shrugs. He's never been much of a tourist. Very few things beyond hockey capture his attention.
"I will if I feel like it. Coach gave me the next couple of days off to rest so that's my priority right now." He frames it as something he needs to do for hockey, hoping Ilya will be less likely to fight him on it.
"I see," says Ilya, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. "And did your coach give you a proper resting regimen?"
"Yeah, he said to stay far away from Ilya Rozanov. Apparently that guy kicks in his sleep." Shane pushes on Ilya's shoulders like he's trying to dislodge him.
"No, I think he said opposite. Must stay as close to Rozanov as possible so you can absorb his greatness."
"Fuck off Rozanov."
“Make me.”
*
They cook dinner together. It's a simple stew that Ilya apparently ate a lot as a child and that fits Shane's in-season diet. Shane makes Ilya go ice his face and ribs instead of helping with the dishes. They're both yawning uncontrollably by 9pm and decide to stop pretending otherwise.
"You want a shower?" Shane asks.
Ilya makes a low sound in his throat. "Hmm, yes. If we go together."
Ilya is much steadier on his feet today but Shane still has him sit on the shower bench while he scrubs him down. He holds Ilya to him when they stand under the spray, washing the shampoo from his curls. Everything feels warm and drowsy and he revels in the feeling of Ilya's water-slick skin.
They bring each other off slowly, open-mouthed kissing in a way that feels like breathing one another in.
It's been a good day. The first easy day in a long time. Applying Vaseline to Ilya's back, Shane is reminded of those awful belt marks, and he can't help thinking they're living on borrowed time.
He waits until they're curled in bed to broach the subject. Something about having the lights off makes it easier to ask.
"Ilya, have your dad and brother done this to you before?"
Ilya's body goes taut. "Don't."
"I know they're your family and I can't ever understand what it's like but I need you to know this isn't normal."
"Is normal here. This is what I try to tell you."
White hot anger burns through Shane. He hates that someone made Ilya think this is normal. And even if it was normal here, that doesn't mean Ilya has to keep subjecting himself to it.
Shane steels himself for Ilya’s impending reaction and asks, "Are you going to keep coming back here?"
"Hollander, is hard enough to still be in Russia. Knowing they are also here. I am thinking always about bad things that will not happen. Thinking they will find me or find you. Please do not make me talk about it."
"I know it's hard. It's just . . . it might help." The pain in Ilya is buried so deeply that Shane doesn’t know how to begin excavating it. He doesn’t know how to protect Ilya from a pain that he can’t see, or touch, or begin to understand.
"No." It comes out sharp-edged. Ilya pauses, seems to settle himself. "Not here. I cannot talk about it here. Russia is already too heavy for me."
He thinks of Ilya in that bathtub. Ilya vomiting. Ilya crying. Ilya lying still and quiet in a way that’s wrong wrong wrong. Maybe Ilya is right and it isn’t fair to push him more. Even the way he carries himself is different here. Russia holds too many memories. It weighs him down.
Shane will do his best to lighten the load.
"Okay,” he agrees, “no more serious talk. We'll just rest here."
Ilya kisses Shane's temple and, even though it stays unspoken, he hears Ilya's thank you clear as anything.
*
The next two days are much of the same. They cook together. They watch/listen to movies. Ilya flirts like his life depends on it. Shane makes him ice his ribs.
They trade hot, languid kisses on the couch. Shane spends a long while torturing Ilya with his mouth. He ignores the flash of ice cold fear when Ilya gasps out, “Shane” as he comes. Ignores the panic until he can sneak out for a run, and then runs hard enough that his lungs hurt and he’s too tired to think about the terrifying intimacy of it all.
They sleep early every night, their bodies starved for rest. It's a king-sized bed. They still manage to fall asleep tangled up in each other.
Shane wakes the morning of his flight feeling like a dead man walking. They make eggs and eat them at a respectable distance. Ilya doesn't follow Shane to the bedroom to pack. Shane checks Ilya’s medicine bag four times. He pretends not to notice that one of his hoodies has mysteriously migrated into Ilya’s suitcase. He fights the urge to check Ilya's bag again.
Shane brings his luggage into the foyer. Ilya’s there already - he’s been on the phone with Svetlana arranging his own departure. Ilya takes in the suitcases and says, “Will be better to have the front desk call your cab. In case the driver recognizes my voice.” He says something to Svetlana in Russian before hanging up. Shoves his hands in his pockets and stands there. Waiting for Shane to leave.
Aside from the fading bruises, Ilya looks the way he always has - steady, impassive. It's the way he looked, before.
“I’d better get going then.”
Ilya nods. “Okay, safe travels.” His voice is polite but flat.
Shane wants to say something - he just doesn't know what. Doesn't have the words. He wants to kiss him goodbye. It’s a bad idea - one that he’s working up the courage to do anyway. That is, until Ilya shifts - almost imperceptibly - back. Away.
So he just says, “Bye Ilya.”
And Ilya says, “Bye Shane.”
And that’s that.
*
Shane: Did you make it home okay?
Lily: Yes
Shane: What did the doctor say?
Lily: Will go tomorrow
Shane: Ok, keep me updated.
*
Shane: Any news from the doctor?
Lily: Healing looks normal. IR for 2 weeks.
Shane: Why only 2 weeks?
Lily: They need me for the cup run
Shane: Too bad the cup is ours this year
Shane: Is Svetlana checking up on you?
Read: 11:17