Chapter Text
“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance— pray you, love, remember.
And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.”
Ophelia, Hamlet Act 4, Scene 5
Ilya continued to lean forward, hands gripping the countertop behind him. His eyes stared ahead, carefully not watching Shane as he moved around the kitchen with viscous precision. The edge of the counter was digging into Ilya’s hips, and he longed to straighten up, shake out his arms, do anything to release the tension building between his shoulders, in his temples, and pressing on his chest.
Instead, he stood perfectly still, hardly breathing. Like a rabbit trying to disappear into tender shoots of spring grass.
Shane stomped over to the microwave and savagely ripped the door open, leaving 00:24 flashing on the display. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya watched as Shane dropped the plate, swearing and grabbing a dish towel before trying to grab it a second time. ‘What is the hurry, Hollander?’ Ilya thought bitterly. ‘Can’t stand to be near me for another second?’
Shane swatted at the microwave door, but it bounced back open, unlatched. The ghost of a smirk started to dance on Ilya’s face until Shane wound up and slammed the door a second time. The vengeance of it sent the microwave sliding backwards.
Shane didn’t seem to notice. His footsteps became muffled as he stepped from the kitchen tile onto the carpeting, and he quickly disappeared around the hallway corner. Ilya still waited three more heartbeats before he allowed himself to stand up.
He pulled a deep breath into his lungs, hoping it would help him feel a little less like he was drowning. But he couldn’t quite get a full breath, couldn’t quite manage to get the air to reach the bottom corners of his lungs. He felt like someone was pressing on them, had wrapped this heart in a fist that had never stopped squeezing.
He knew he’d been an asshole lately. He’d known he was an asshole since the moment he’d snapped at Yuna during their marketing call that morning. He even knew it for a split second before he chose to open his damn mouth and bite out with crisp precision,
“Stop being such a fucking nag.”
He hadn’t been looking at Shane, but he didn’t need his eyes to feel the air between them go perfectly, terrifyingly still. He didn’t need to look at Shane to know that he sat frozen, eyes wide, mouth open, speechless at the venom in Ilya’s voice. Ilya hadn’t been sure if Shane was breathing; he knew he wasn’t.
In that brief pause afterwards, Ilya had considered what it would be like to drop the composed, arrogant smirk that he’d plastered onto his face like a rictus. What it would feel like to apologize, to tell Yuna he was so, so sorry; to turn to Shane and try to explain why. But he hadn’t. How could he explain something that he didn’t even know himself?
English was hard right now. Had been hard for days.
After a very, very long silence, Shane had finally leaned forward, “Mom, wow, I am so sorry. I’m going to talk to him right now. I’ll call you tonight,” as he hung up and whirled on Ilya.
“What the fuck is actually the matter with you?” he’d shouted, face pale, hands trembling. Ilya looked at him closely. It was his professional business to know ‘focused’ and ‘driven’ Shane Hollander intimately. Over the years, he’d made the acquaintance of ‘pissed-off’ and ‘furious’ Shane Hollander many times, the Shane Hollander who would knit his eyebrows together and go ghostly silent just a few seconds before sniping a goal when nobody else saw the opening, or swear and storm across the ice to rally his teammates and try to shift his team’s dissipating energy.
But the Shane Hollander who had stared at him, apparently wanting an actual answer to his question, was none of those Shanes. This Shane was enraged. He was molten.
Ilya had never met this Shane Hollander before.
Ilya was only vaguely aware as his smirk crept up his face a little more. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“What? She was on my ass. I am grown man - I will call Turner soon, she knows this. She does not need to bring it up to me every fucking day.”
“Ilya, without Turner’s buy-in, we can’t host the kids’ shooting skills camp at the Nepean Sportsplex. If he doesn’t agree, then we have to start all fucking over and plan this thing from the beginning, again. And we are already out of time. I don’t care if you and he go ‘way back’. You know why you need to call him, and you fucking know why she’s asking!” Shane bit back the rest of what was doubtless a very boring, very factual lecture. “But none of that fucking matters,” he had snarled, eyes flashing dangerously, “Until you can help me understand just what the fuck is wrong with you, Ilya Rozanov. Don’t you ever speak to my mother in that tone-”
“Da, yes, Hollander and his mommy. Stupid me, how dare I try to make decisions about my own fucking charity. The charity where I put up more than half the initial investment, the charity where I-”
“No one is telling you not to make decisions, Ilya!” thundered Shane. “We are just asking you to call the guy you said you’d call six weeks ago!”
Ilya had felt it bubble up inside of him, then, as he watched Shane’s hands tremble in anger. It was very old, all-consuming, and darkly familiar; the primordial whisper to ‘get out, get out, getoutgetoutgetout.’ Without a word, he complied, knocking his chair over behind him as he stalked out the door.
He hadn’t said a word to Shane, or to Yuna, or David, or anyone, actually, all day. He drove around aimlessly, but felt like he was swimming below the surface of his own mind. He had come home to Shane’s condo several hours later; even as he was walking in the door, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just gotten a hotel somewhere. And now, as he watched Shane silently rage, he felt his shame roil deep inside him; he felt so small again.
He blinked hard - for a moment, he hadn’t been in Shane’s kitchen; he’d been much younger and so, so frightened for what, or who, was about to walk into the room.
He paused, listening. All he heard was the chatter of ESPN talking heads; Shane had turned the TV volume way up.
Nobody walked into the room.
Ilya shoved off the counter, crossing the room in just a few strides. He threw his coat on, pushing his arms through the sleeves so hard that he thought he heard the left shoulder seam quietly tear in protest. He shoved his shoes back onto his feet, patting his coat pockets for his phone, wallet, and car keys before he paused again. But not in fear, this time. Or, not only in fear, at least.
What had he hoped to hear? Footsteps from the den back to the kitchen? Shane’s voice calling his name? Even if he was angry and furious, at least he would have been saying his name. A bubble burst in Ilya’s chest, and he slammed the door closed behind him, feeling a grim satisfaction at the resounding boom.
Shane was probably delighted, Ilya mused. He suspected, deep down, that Shane was always looking for a reason to get rid of him, any excuse good enough to finally break up and end all the stress of sneaking around. Ilya knew, he was certain, that deep down Shane longed for a normal life. And Shane’s life couldn’t be normal as long as Ilya was in it. ‘Congrats, Hollander. You always get what you want,’ he sneered to himself.
Ilya could still feel the cold ribbon of ‘getoutgetoutgetout’ wrapping through his guts as he got back into his car, started the engine, and slammed it into gear. He intended to comply; he had to. Had to get out, get out, getout. And then… it could be quiet again.
His car’s entertainment screen was too bright, even in night mode. He squinted as he quickly backed up and accelerated down the drive. The screen asked him to ‘Sync your Bluetooth Device?’ and he angrily stabbed at the ‘No’ button - the last thing he needed right now was to see a stupid fucking text from one of the rookies flashing across the screen. God only knew what he would say back.
Soon he was merging onto the highway, letting himself be lulled by the roar of the engine. He felt very far away from himself again. Only then did he let himself fully slip into the quietness that waited inside. It spread over him like a weighted blanket, gently extinguishing the tiny flames of adrenaline running through his blood, lulling him away.
He didn’t remember the first time he’d slipped under, or the first time he’d realized other people didn’t do this. It had just always been his way. Stay sharp and mean until he could escape, then gently float away into the silence until he was ready to try to pick up the pieces.
He drove and drove, headlights piercing the dark ahead of him. The dashing of the lane lines was the only clock his brain recognized right now. The highway stretched out in front of him, deliciously unending, demanding nothing from him. Promising him the fastest path to safety he’d ever had.
“Blya!” he swore, startled. Coming back to himself, he swore again as the truck behind him lay on the horn and flashed its brights. The driver was apparently protesting the very narrow space Ilya had merged into. Ilya didn’t remember choosing to merge at all. Automatically, his hands hit the blinker again, and he found himself pulling off down the dark exit. Ilya frowned; where was he? He glanced at the time on the dash, 8:57, but realized he didn’t know what time he’d left.
It took him a few minutes to get his bearings, quickly glancing left and right as he slowly drove down the exit ramp. It looked different in the snowy dark, with his headlights illuminating a small frame instead of the full view. But when he recognized it, he felt the fist around his chest ease, just a fraction.
Stopped at a red light, he dutifully switched his blinker on again. All the fight had gone out of him, leaving him sluggish and exhausted. He rolled down the windows, feeling the cold winter air slap some awareness into him.
Finally, he heard the gravel crunch as he turned down the driveway. In a moment, his headlights illuminated the dark windows of the cottage. Ilya turned the car off and just sat, listening as it began to settle and cool in the cold night air. Why was he here? How was he here? It was almost a two-hour drive from Shane’s house - had he really been zoned out on the highway that long? What was the word he’d seen on the internet - dissociating?
He took the keys out of the engine and instinctively began to turn around, before stopping short. He hadn’t brought any clothes, luggage, or groceries. His stomach growled, and he sighed. Why was he so fucking stupid and cruel?
He tried so hard to channel it into hockey, into playing hard, relentlessly chasing victories and awards. He tried to give it a safe place to live, where it wouldn’t spill out and hurt the people around him. He tried so hard to give this viscous anger somewhere it could burn safely, but it didn’t matter. Despite it all, he still hurt people. He was just like his-
Ilya stepped out of the car and into the cold wind that blew across the lake. He could never pull up without thinking of the very first time Shane had brought him here. Even now, with his fingers and ears already losing feeling, he could remember how it had felt.
How safe and calm he’d felt as soon as he’d stepped out of the car, even though his heart had been racing; he’s been so scared and so fucking grateful, all at once.
The way the sun had played on the leaves, making delicate shadows dance on the driveway as he had followed Shane inside. He could still picture the blush on Shane’s cheeks and ears as he’d opened the door for them, the pink flush shyly sharing Shane’s secret; that he was just as giddy as Ilya.
Ilya fumbled with his keyring, looking for his cottage key. Shane, being the ass that he was, had made Ilya's copy on a key with a loon on it. Despite himself, Ilya smiled as he looked down at it before quickly letting himself inside the cottage.