Chapter Text
Casual.
That's what they were. What Ilya had sworn he wouldn’t let it get past.
Casual.
Безразличный. Fuck.
Ilya lay in his bed, the dark sheets highlighting his blonde curls, softly framing his face. He had a bruise, dark and heavy on his hip from a rough hit he had taken the evening before. He’d been distracted - still playing better than the average player, of course, but… he’d been somewhere else. In his head, he was in bed with a tan fit body, moving slowly lower, mouthing at skin, tracing Ilya's moles like constellations in the night sky.
Not just a warm body, someone Ilya knew he shouldn’t care about. Shane. Hollander. But what was something casual between rivals? That's what he told himself as he held his breath waiting for a text chime late at night. Waiting for the teasing English words that meant more than he was willing to admit.
Fuck! Causal, no attachment.
The ceiling was white as snow as Ilya stared up from his lying position. He shifted slightly to look out the window at Boston, home. Russia was supposed to be his home. The glass was foggy, the cold outside creating slight condensation to run down the pane. He had an interview today, he should get up, check his email. Why should he, though, really? He’s lazy; he’s been told it enough to know that. The sheets are soft and comforting; all that could make it better would be someone to hold.
He groans, voice rough from dissuse. He rubs his hands hard against his eyes, then runs them through his bed-messed hair. With the bruise on his hip, he’s more careful than normal when sitting up. Pain was fine, expected even, nothing he can't deal with. It's early, though, so he’s careful. Careful not to think too much about freckles and crinkly eyes.
~
His coffee machine gurgles quietly as he leans against his counter. The tiles cold against his feet, and his hip hurts just enough for him to try to keep his weight off that side. He flips aimlessly through videos before landing on one of the latest game between him and Hollander. The video shows them close; Ilya obviously knows what he's saying, chirping about a stupid choice Hollander had made. The video continued, and Ilya watched as his own face turned horribly fond. Moreso than he even knew he was capable of. The video was a commentary about their ‘rivalry’ about how they ‘hated each other’. How wrong they were.
“Fuck…I am… Idiot.” His accent was strong in the morning air. The coffee steamed where it had been forgotten. He watched the video again, willing his own face to change, be less of a mirror of his emotions. Emotions he knew were there, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone but himself. Liking men… liking Hollander was not allowed. Not in the daylight at least. Anonymous in a 5-star hotel, late at night, that's when they were something. A fraction of what Ilya craved, but what else could they have? Nothing, so wet kisses and stifled moans were the soundtrack to what he allowed himself in fantasies. Domestic was never a word he used. Imagining making Hollander coffee with a sweet russian pastry he had baked the day before? Holding him close through the night? Not the fantasy he could have.
He waved the thoughts from his mind and grabbed the hot coffee, drinking it fast, not caring about the burn from it being too hot. The ginger ale taunted him from his counter, stupid, Hollanders' favorite drink. Ilya didn’t like it, yet he had it.
Hollander didn’t even know Ilya’s address. Because they were ‘casual’. Ilya hadn’t even known that English word before them.
His phone chimed, and he checked it quickly, pulse skipping for a second as he scanned for a name starting with J. Just a reminder: he was expected at the rink for the interview at 9. He exhaled, tension knotting the back of his neck. Another stupid interview where all the same questions would be asked. Where he would reply with short sentences even when there was more to say because they didn’t have time for him to translate from English to Russian to English again in his head. He sends a quick thumbs-up emoji to his manager. Fewer words are better. His English was fine, but words escaped him often, except one ‘casual’, how could he ever forget that one?
~
The rink is welcoming to Ilyas turmoil. The crisp air smelling slightly of sweat and chemicals always cleared his head. What was not welcome was the pain in his hip twinging again. He spotted his manager watching the few teammates of his who liked to warm up early on the ice to start their days. He loved hockey, but why they chose to wake up early when they would play just a few hours later was a mystery to him. His hoodie was warm. Hollander had left it behind after one of their hookups and had told Ilya to keep it because it was a normal grey one that couldn’t be tied back to him. Ilya wished he had given it to him on purpose.
“Am here” He said it flippantly, not particularly wanting to be there, c’est la vie (Shane spoke French, Ilya chose not to think about that too hard).
“Ah, there you are Mr.Rozanov. The interviewer is waiting. You look tired. Want me to grab you anything? Coffee?” His manager is a short man, kind but boring, not the way Hollander was boring. Real boring.
“Neit…No. I am fine.” He shakes his head and keeps his hands in the hoodie's pockets. His manager looks unconvinced, but he’s paid to get Ilya deals and fans, not to care that he hadn’t slept because all he could think about was his rival and how much he wants to hold him tightly and never let go. The short man starts walking, and Ilya follows.
The interviewer is set up in an alcove of the rink. She has heavy makeup on, and Ilya pointedly looks away from her low-cut shirt. He’s “Boston's most eligible bachelor,” and he can’t look at any women without people assuming things. What would they think if they knew how torn up he was over a man, one he was supposed to hate? He didn’t go out for sex anymore. He waited; it's casual to wait for someone who lives in another country. Casual. Ugh, Безразличный. Locker rooms were the worst. Teammates teasing, questioning, and looking over his shoulder to see who he was texting. They said he blushed; Russians do not blush. They were lucky, his teammates, having wives or girlfriends to go home to. His teammates were convinced he had someone waiting for him at home, too…someone called Jane. It would be a boring life to be a hockey player's wife, so much time alone waiting, he could relate. The only one waiting in his strange relationship was Lily.
~
The camera trailed him as he shifted in the small chair. He was already annoyed, and they hadn’t even begun.
“Hello, Mr.Rozanov. I’m Ariana Montiague. It's wonderful to get this rare chance to interview such a talented hockey player.” She talks to him slowly as you would to a child, like she thinks he won't understand. It's infuriating.
He waves off her praise with his signature smirk. It's fake. Ilya has become a good actor. Good at pretending not to care, he's able to hide his true feelings for almost anyone. Almost.
“Will be good to answer what fans want to know. Da.” He nods slightly to punctuate his sentence. He runs a hand through his curls intentionally, looking good means more viewers, means more publicity for him and the team. Every move is calculated. On the ice, they have plans, formations they should stick to, but there's also the freedom, flying on the ice. Everything fades away besides him, the ice and the puck. It's his lifeblood.
“Alright!” She's too excited. Ilya wants to cringe away from her high energy; it's too early for this shit. “Do you know the way these interviews go?” He shakes his head no. “Well, quick run down, the fans ask the questions live on the internet, and we pick which ones to ask. Do you understand?” She’s patronizing him, and he just sighs and nods his approval.
“First question: ‘What is your favorite hobby besides hockey-related activities?'”
He thinks a second, considering his options, he could tell the truth -Baking- and be ridiculed by his team and the entire internet, or he could lie, say something manly.
“Fishing.” He decides to say. He’s never fished in his life. Hollander likes to eat fish; he’s seen him eat it pretty much every time there is a event they end up at, at the same time.
“Mmhm. Russia must have some good fishing spots, lots of wilderness, right?” He wouldn’t know. He nods anyway. “Okay, next question: ‘Do you have an irrational fear?’”
Ilya hates it when he doesn’t know a word. “I do not know word ‘Irrational.’” He tugs at his sleeves and thinks about flying, being on the ice instead of here.
“Oh! It's when something is not logical. For example, my irrational fear is spiders.”
“Ah, I see. Mine then…” Should he be vulnerable? Maybe just a little. “Plane crashes. I have been on many plane, have not crashed yet.” He always sits in the aisle seat, the leg room is better, and it is easier to escape from. He’s never been on a plane with Hollander. ‘Does he like the window or aisle?’
The interview continued on that way, deciding between being truthful or lying to be more like what's expected. Ilya was bored, and his fingers itched to check his phone for texts from Jane. He had felt it buzz a few times in his pocket. He stretched in the seat, his hip twinged, and he hid the grimace with another smirk. Stupid heavy hitters. He’s surprised he hasn’t been asked about dates; maybe he’ll get out of this without being accosted about his love life.
“Almost done! Last question: Is there a Mrs.Rozanov? It's been a buzz lately that you have been doing less dating and staying in more. Could that possibly be because you found someone to settle down with?” Fuck, he spoke too soon.
“No, I am still single,” He winks at the camera. “Lately, I have been less wanting to date. Takes too much energy.” That and he already knows who he wants, even though it's casual.
The interview wraps up easily, and he finally gets to leave and enjoy a rare day off. The minute he's away from the cameras and other people, he slips his phone out of his pocket. And like magic, there it is, a blinking red number showing he has 1 new text. From Jane.
Jane- I’m in your area tonight.
Lily- What do you want me to do about that?
Ilya wants nothing more than to quickly invite him to his house. To cook him dinner and fuck him till he falls apart. Tell him to stay the night. Instead, he's an asshole and hopes Sha-Hollander still wants to sleep with Ilya when he’s intentionally being dense.
Jane- You know what I want, you asshole.
Lily- Maybe I want you to beg me for it
Jane- In your dreams, Rozanov.
In his dreams Hollander was his everything. And he was allowed to have it.
Lily- Come to this address at 8, *address *
Lily- You’ll be begging when we’re done ;)
It's done. He took a stupid leap. He is weightless, cut loose from sense or reason, tumbling through the cold blue above Boston. He is a plane without a pilot, a body suspended between heartbreak and hope, where the thin air bites his cheeks and the clouds taste of longing. He could crash, splinter into a thousand unsayable words, or he could soar above it all, become free of gravity, dragging him down to reality.
All he did was invite him to his house. It's not that serious. It's casual.
Casual will be his death.