Chapter Text
November 2016
He doesn’t notice when it starts. Later he’ll think back to the withered petals he found on the coffee table, but he doesn’t remember coughing them up when he heard the front door close.
When he wakes up the next day his chest feels hollow. For days, weeks, Ilya has been thinking about Hollander sleeping over. He’s imagined dozens of versions of what waking up with him would be like. Several of them involve different varieties of morning sex. Others are completely innocent, Ilya attempting to keep Hollander in his arms for just a few more minutes.
He’s been looking forward to it for so long that it comes as a surprise when he wakes up alone.
As he goes about his day, missing Hollander and worrying about the game, he starts having chest pains. Painkillers don’t help and it’s not acid reflux. Then the coughing starts, accompanied by waves of nausea.
With nothing to do but ignore it, Ilya goes through his routines to get ready for that afternoon’s game. He gets stuck in front of the open refrigerator, his original goal completely forgotten as he stands staring at lined up cans of ginger ale.
A fresh wave of nausea hits him and sends him running to the bathroom, ginger ale abandoned. He kneels in front of the toilet dry heaving and coughing. Feeling like every organ in his body is trying to jump ship all at once.
Something finally comes up. It feels strange coming out of his throat and falls into the toilet soundlessly. When he opens his eyes he sees a lone dandelion floating in the toilet bowl.
It gets worse. An entire garden violently forces its way out of his body. The last time he saw anywhere near this many flowers was at his mother’s funeral. Appropriate, since Ilya feels like he’s dying. He remembers being sick as a little kid, the way his mother would hold him and rub soothing circles on his back. It helped him ignore how out of control he was, unable to command his own body.
He loses track of time. The only signs of its passing are the steadily growing pile of flowers and the fatigue that feels like it’s settling into his bones.
Just when Ilya thinks he’s at risk of losing consciousness, the nausea, heaving, and coughing abruptly end.
He abandons the flowers on the bathroom floor and just barely makes it to the arena on time.
Ilya ducks into a supply closet on his way to talk to the press so no one sees the two yellow anemone flowers he pulls out of his throat when he hears Hollander’s voice echo out from the visitor’s dressing room.
His blood runs cold at the first sight of yellow petals, and it’s only then that understanding begins to dawn on him. In Russia, yellow flowers are a sign of a break up. Not that he and Hollander had built anything worth breaking.
That night he looks up ‘vomiting flowers’ online. All the results say the same thing: Hanahaki’s Disease. From the way it’s described, if Ilya didn’t know better, he would think that it’s a fairytale. Some bullshit about true love that’s supposed to be romantic but actually sounds like something out of a horror movie.
He turns on the TV to distract himself and hacks up an entire bouquet of asphodels after seeing a commercial for some special Hollander must have filmed. (Even though it hurts, Ilya makes a mental note to watch it once it airs.) Now that he knows what’s happening he can recognize the warning signs. It still hurts just as much.
His chest feels tight and he’s having trouble breathing. Then the coughing starts. Loud, painful coughs that last until his airway is blocked off and he’s choking on scratchy leaves and tough stems. Ilya knows he’s panicking but the pain of his body retching, trying to expel this foreign substance, keeps him distracted.
The heaving takes him to the floor, where he spends the next twenty minutes sticking his fingers down his throat. If he makes it past his gag reflex, maybe he can try to pull the flowers out. If he can’t, at least he’ll throw them up.
By the time the final flower is out, Ilya is burning with shame and humiliation. His face is disgusting, tears, snot, and drool all drip from his chin.
He has to figure out how to control this. Everything he read online says it only gets worse. He’s been lucky that so far it’s only happened when he’s at home by himself. But he’s beyond fucked if it happens during a game.
It happens once more before he goes to bed and then first thing in the morning as soon as he wakes up. After that it’s two or three times a day, but it’s usually only a few flowers at a time or even just petals. The next bouquet he coughs up comes right after he sees a clip of Hollander’s game winning goal against the Toronto Guardians.
The flowers are piling up on the window sill in his room. He should really throw them out, looking at them is depressing. One night, after getting beaten 5-1 by a team they should be able to crush in their sleep, just the sight of them is enough to trigger another episode.
The fact that no one’s caught on yet is nothing short of a miracle.
A few days later, during a home game, he’s sitting in the penalty box when four marigolds fall out of his mouth. He shoots a nervous glance at the timekeeper. Their eyes meet.
She holds out her hand for the flowers, since there isn’t really anything for Ilya to do with them. The look on her face is pure pity. Ilya wants to tell her where she can shove her fucking pity because he doesn’t need that shit. But he has no other options.
Hating himself, he drops the four stemless blooms into her hand.
On his next day off, Svetlana shows up unannounced. There are small piles of flowers everywhere. It’s only been a few weeks and they feel like they’re taking over. But seeing them together in one giant pile was worse, so now he just leaves them in whichever room he was in when he coughed them up.
Just the flowers would raise her suspicions, but the overwhelming amount of yellow gives Ilya away.
At least he won’t have to explain why he doesn’t want to have sex with her.
“How long?” Sveta asks, in Russian, after sitting him down on his own couch.
“Two, maybe three weeks.” Ilya can’t bring himself to look at her, his face hot with shame. After how emotionally draining the past weeks have been, it’s a huge relief to be able to speak in his native language.
“Not that. How long have you been in love with them?” Ilya doesn’t respond. He’s not sure he even knows the answer and he’s scared of what will happen if he takes the time to figure it out. “Is this about Jane?” Sveta’s gentle voice is barely louder than a whisper.
Slowly Ilya nods.
“Oh, Ilyusha.” She wraps her arms around him, guiding his head onto her shoulder. “You can talk to me about anything. I love you, no matter what.”
He nods into her shoulder and tells himself it’s enough.
December
“Roz! Roz, you gotta see this,” Cliff Marleau calls out to Ilya when he enters the team gym. “You’re gonna shit, man. Show him.” Connors, on the elliptical next to Marleau, holds out his phone angling the screen towards Ilya.
IS ROSE LANDRY DATING MLH STAR SHANE HOLLANDER?
“No.” Ilya feels like he’s going to be sick.
“I know, right? She’s like a huge fucking movie star,” Connors says excitedly.
“How the fuck did he even meet her during the season?” Marleau responds.
“It says she’s shooting a film in Montreal.” Connors leans over to Ilya, showing him the phone screen again. “There are pictures. Look.”
“Probably nothing,” Ilya chokes out, before heading for the exit as fast as he can without looking suspicious.
It’s almost not fast enough.
He ducks into an empty PT room, the door still closing behind him when he coughs up the first petal.
It happens slowly then all at once. First there’s a tickle in his throat and he feels slightly nauseous. Then it’s like all of his organs are fighting to see which one can escape his body first. He has no control. His body is wracked with spasms as flowers spill from his mouth. They gather faster than they can fall, it’s a struggle to keep his airway clear.
Time loses meaning. The spasms show no sign of letting up. If anything they get worse. At first, it’s just like every other time. Other than the occasional trace of saliva, the flowers emerge undamaged, falling softly from his mouth and landing gently on the floor in front of him.
Now they hit the floor with a wet thud, mangled and drenched in bile.
The only thing that burns more than the bile in his throat is the searing shame coursing through his veins.
Still, it’s nothing compared to the soul-wrenching agony hearing Shane’s I can’t I can’t I can’t and finally I’m sorry. Watching him run like a frightened animal while his come was still sticky on Ilya’s stomach. The sound of the door closing echoing through the house like a death knell.
He has to close his eyes because he’s starting to feel dizzy, but every time he does he sees Shane—beautiful Shane and his beautiful smile—holding hands with that woman. Just the thought of them makes the spasms more painful.
The final flower falls and Ilya is hollow. His body is a cavern, dark, empty, and cold.
Slowly, he stands up and gets to work getting rid of the evidence. He locates some towels and wipes the snot and tears from his face. It takes three towels to clean up all the flowers—all ones that have come up before except the columbines—and another two to wipe down the floor.
He checks to see if the hallway is empty, then speed walks to the bathroom down the hall. It has the biggest trash cans and is used by the most people. Not that he thinks anyone is going to go digging in a nasty smelling bathroom garbage can.
Ten minutes later he’s in front of the team doctor. His teammate saw him coming out of the bathroom and apparently Ilya looked bad enough that one of his second line defensemen, Vorkov, threatened to carry him to the doctor if Ilya refused to go willingly.
“I am fine,” he protests.
“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Henry, the team doctor, says, “I’m sending you home. And skip practice tomorrow if you need to—”
“No! I am captain.”
“Exactly. We need you in top shape when we hit the road in a couple days.”
Ilya grumbles, but this isn’t a fight he can win, so he rolls his eyes to keep up appearances and heads to his locker.
It’s a good thing the drive home from the rink isn’t long, because he passes out on the couch as soon as he gets home, too dizzy to make it to his bedroom.
Ilya takes Henry’s advice and skips practice the next day. Regardless of how he feels, he still looks like complete shit. If he showed up to the rink like this, he would be marched back out before he could even step on the ice.
Svetlana comes over, because she’s too good for him, and spends a few hours distracting him with gossip about her coworkers. It’s a relief to be able to converse in his native tongue. Sometimes Ilya forgets how much extra energy the constant translating takes until he gets a chance to stop.
Inevitably, the conversation turns to hockey and from there hockey gossip.
“Did you hear about Hollander and Rose Landry?”
Ilya nods, gritting his teeth to fight the oncoming nausea.
“Hollander never seemed like the type to date a movie star,” Sveta muses, “Too much of a rule follower. They make sense from an aesthetic perspective, both gorgeous.”
“If you say so.” They are, obviously. Even if Ilya wasn’t horny and bisexual, he still has eyes.
“What’s wrong with you? You usually love to gossip.”
“Why does everyone care so much? So what? Boring Shane Hollander met a pretty girl. Fucking good for him!”
Sveta gives him a weird look.
The room swims a bit and Ilya starts to feel a telltale tickle in his throat. If he doesn’t leave the room now, Sveta is going to see. As much as Ilya doesn’t want to be subjected to her questioning, he’s exhausted. He doesn’t have the energy to run, not from her.
He coughs and immediately feels petals in his mouth. It’s become second nature at this point to keep coughing while he pulls the flowers out with his fingers. They scratch his throat as he does. One nicks him in the gums and another on the inside of his cheek.
Six withered yellow roses sit in front of him. He can see a tiny trace of his blood on one of the thorns.
“Ilyusha.” Sveta wraps her arms around him and pulls him down to rest his head on her shoulder. The feeling of her fingers carding through his hair finally breaks him.
Angel that she is, Sveta patiently holds him while he quietly cries against her. He doesn’t cry for long. He can’t. It’s been over a decade since he’s cried at all. The last time was not long after his mother died. He cried for her, for the piece of his heart that she took with her.
All these years later someone else has taken another piece before Ilya even realized that he’d given it away.
“This is about Jane.” It’s not a question but Ilya nods anyway. “And since I know you have never met Rose Landry…” She lets the unspoken name hang in the air.
A few tears are still gathered in the corners of Ilya’s eyes, but no more new ones form.
“Shane. Jane.” He can hear the soft amusement in her voice. “Cute.”
Sveta comes over during the two days Ilya gets off for Christmas and watches over him as he disrespects his good vodka and tries to black out.
Because his life has become little more than a sick joke, he spends Boxing Day with his head in throbbing, stabbing pain and full of improbably clear memories of the last 48 hours.
He tries again on New Year’s Eve, but without supervision. He stops turning down party invitations, they’ll figure it out when he doesn’t show up. At least he passes out before midnight. Celebrating is for people who give a shit.
January 2017
It takes less than 24 hours of being on the road for someone to notice.
Ilya is able to hide the handful of petals he coughs up on their first flight out of Boston. He overheard one of the rookies gushing about Hollander’s latest hat trick. Ilya has basically had to stop watching hockey altogether. Even if Montreal isn’t playing, everything reminds him of Hollander. It’s also pretty much guaranteed that at least one of Hollander’s million commercials will be played at some point during the broadcast.
Luckily for the Raiders and unluckily for Ilya, they’re first game is against the Ottawa Centaurs. It should be an easy win, the Centaurs are the worst team in the league and Boston is on track to make the playoffs. But Ottawa is Hollander’s hometown, and with no team to brag about they brag about him instead.
They land in Ottawa with just enough time to drop their stuff in their hotel rooms before they have to head to the rink for the game.
It’s the easy win they were all expecting, despite being Ilya’s worst game of the season. Maybe of his entire career. He has constant shooting pains in his chest and he ends the game with no goals and no assists. It’s hard to say which is more painful, the ache in his chest or the humiliation from playing so badly. (That’s a lie. Ilya can’t imagine anything being more painful than the way his heart and lungs feel like they’re trying to tear each other apart.)
Less than a minute after getting back to their hotel room Marleau turns on the TV.
Seconds later Ilya is on the floor of the bathroom hacking up a multicolored bouquet of carnations. He wants to curse Marleau for turning on fucking hockey after they just played a hockey game, but deep down Ilya knows that the entire day has been building to this and he should be grateful he was able to hold it together for so long.
“Whoa, dude. Are you okay?” Marleau asks from the bathroom doorway. “What the fuck? Are those flowers?” Marleau’s face is a comical mix of worry and confusion, but Ilya is in no state to appreciate it.
“No Marly, is hockey pucks.” Ilya takes a deep breath. The feeling in his chest has gone from stabbing pains to a hollow ache, so he’s probably done for now. He collects the flowers and thrusts them at Marleau. “For you. Happy Birthday.” Ilya strips down to his underwear and collapses onto the bed.
“Uh… Roz?” Ilya stays silent. The last thing he wants is to tell Marleau the truth. “I’m gonna call coach and tell him you need a doctor.”
“Nyet. No!” Ilya slaps the phone out of Marleau’s hands. “They cannot help.”
“Then I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“There is no help. This is…” How the fuck is he supposed to explain this? Even without the language barrier it sounds crazy. Surprisingly, Svetlana had heard of Hanahaki’s before even if she thought it wasn’t real, so he didn’t have to explain much. He doubts the same will be true for Marleau. Ilya grunts in frustration and grabs his phone.
After a minute he sends Marleau a link to an explanation of Hanahaki’s Disease. Though whoever wrote it clearly thought they were describing something fictional.
“Damn,” Marleau says after a couple minutes, putting away his phone. “Must be some girl if she broke your heart this bad.” Ilya just nods, too tired to lie. “We’re gonna be in Montreal in a couple days. Maybe your girl there can help cheer you up.”
Ilya gives him a flat look.
“Shit. I thought it wasn’t serious.”
“Was not.” Marleau, rightly, looks unconvinced. “I did not think so! Was not supposed to be. Whatever, is done now. I will get over it.”
The silence that descends is uneasy. Marleau’s concerned gaze sits heavy on Ilya’s shoulders.
“Roz,” Marleau’s careful tone is foreign and unnerving, “how much of what you sent me have you actually read?”
“Enough, I think. Who gives a shit?”
“I do. I kinda hope you do.”
“You make no sense. Spit it out.”
Ilya has never known Marleau to bullshit or sugar coat things. He’s a direct guy who tells it like it is. Ilya doesn’t know how bad something has to be for Marleau to not want to say it out loud.
“This Hanahaki thing… if you don’t work it out with your Montreal girl, it’s gonna kill you.”
Ilya’s blood runs cold.
Marleau says something Ilya doesn’t catch and coaxes Ilya into bed. Ilya follows on autopilot. He only understands what’s happening when he suddenly realizes he lied down. In his periphery he feels the bed dip as Marleau sits next to him.
“… hockey.”
Ilya is losing the ability to understand English, but that one word and the sight of the TV remote in Marleau’s hand is pretty simple.
“No hockey,” Ilya manages.
“... Montreal… hockey…”
“Chto?” Ilya has never felt more pathetic in his life, which is saying something considering he was raised by Grigori Antonovich Rozanov. He’s going to die of a broken heart and the only English words he can understand right now are Hollander related.
“Илья, ты меня слышишь?” The surprise of the automated feminine voice helps nudge Ilya back to the present. Everything around him still feels muffled, like Ilya is seeing it through a thick wall of ice.
Marleau is holding out his phone, showing Ilya his translation app. The screen reads:
Ilya, can you hear me?
Илья, ты меня слышишь?
Ilya nods.
Can you speak English?
Вы говорите по-английски?
Ilya shakes his head.
Marleau sighs. “Okay.”
Take your time.
Не торопись.
The TV turns on and Marleau sits back against the headboard, making himself comfortable on Ilya’s bed.
It’s… nice.
It’s also fucking weird.
Ilya stares at the ceiling, trying to wrap his head around what Marleau’s just told him. Deep down, Ilya thinks, he knew that’s where this was going.
Unless he can get Shane back.
His chest twinges.
Fuck.
Ilya runs his hands over his face and gets up. In the bathroom, he splashes his face with cold water and stares into the mirror.
He doesn’t look too bad. Slightly sallow maybe, and there are small dark smudges under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping well (which he hasn’t).
After a five minute freezing cold shower, Ilya feels a little better. The shock of the water keeps him grounded. He fucking hates it, but it works. His mind is less scattered and his English is back.
He pulls on sleep pants and sits next to Marleau on his bed.
“Better?” Marleau asks.
“Yes. Still… not good.”
“No shit.”
“But I think will be okay.” Ilya doesn’t really, but he wants to. And it’s good for Marleau to hear.
“‘Course it will! We just gotta come up with a plan for you to win your girl back.”
“You want to help?” Ilya hates how small and unsure he sounds. He wants to summon Rozanov, cocky captain of the Boston Raiders, but the mask won’t stay on.
“Yeah, brother. I got your back. This is about your Montreal girl? Jane, right?”
“Is not real name.” Ilya doesn’t give himself time to think about what he’s going to say. He trusts Marleau and there’s a pretty crucial piece of information he needs if he’s going to help. Bracing himself for the worst, Ilya says, “Jane is a man. He is also not out.”
“So, you’re bi?” Ilya’s head snaps towards him. Marleau looks calm, completely unfazed by Ilya’s confession.
Shock and relief butt up against each other as Ilya tries to process Marleau’s response.
Misreading Ilya’s reaction, he says, “I got two siblings and five cousins, and I’m the only straight one. They’re always chirping me about it.” He laughs. “It’s not that different than it is with the guys, except everything is reversed. If my cousins call something ‘gay’ it’s a huge compliment. Any time I come back from visiting family it’s a crazy culture shock.” Marleau’s smile fades. “I love playing hockey, and I love it when my family can watch me play. But if my nineteen year old trans cousin ever tried to come to a game, I’d send her home.”
“Yes. Is dangerous,” Ilya agrees, reeling from the fact that Marleau knows more about being queer than he does. “For Jane, too.”
Marleau gives him a searching look that makes Ilya’s skin crawl, but all he says is, “Sounds rough.”
“Thank you, Marly.” The words are inadequate, but they’re all Ilya has.
“You’re my brother, Roz. I’m here for you. No matter what.”
Having someone he doesn’t have to hide from makes a huge difference. After confessing to Cliff, the episodes are down to twice a day and are usually limited to a handful of petals.
Unfortunately, the trade off is that they tend to be during games. Ilya has gotten good at delaying the inevitable, holding things down until the next intermission or the game is over.
He has a close call when their game against the Toronto Guardians goes into overtime. He can feel that it’s going to be much more than a handful of petals by the steadily increasing pain in his chest. None of which is helped by the homophobic shit Troy Barrett and Dallas fucking Kent have been spewing the whole game.
“I was thinking about your Montreal girl,” Cliff says, settling into the seat next to Ilya as their flight to Montreal gets ready for takeoff. “We got a late flight the day after the game, should be plenty of time for you to see her.”
“She does not want to see me.”
“How do you know? Have you tried reaching out to her?”
“No. She is… There is someone else now.”
“Fuck. That was fast.”
Ilya doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Unfortunately, Cliff takes his silence as permission to continue.
“You should still try to see her. I’m sure she’ll understand once she knows how serious it is.”
“She will not know.”
“Not if you don’t tell her.”
Ilya closes his eyes and leans his seat back.
“Roz? Roz. Ilya.”
“What do you want me to say, Marly?” he hisses.
“I want you to fucking tell your girl what the fuck is going on.”
“No. Is not… Is my problem.”
“Yeah? Well, see if I come to your fucking funeral.”
The air between them suddenly feels too heavy to breathe. Ilya waits for Cliff to get up and storm away, to punctuate his threat with an early demonstration. He doesn’t. Instead he looks at Ilya with a mix of regret and pity.
It’s too much.
This time, Ilya runs first.
He storms up the aisle and shuts himself in an airplane bathroom. He coughs up something scratchy and shoves it in the trash without looking.
But, private plane or not, it’s still a gross airplane bathroom. Hiding out in there for more than a minute or two isn’t an option.
Going back to his seat next to Cliff sounds terrible, but all of his other options are worse.
They sit in silence for a few minutes. Ilya pulls out a tablet to watch a movie while Cliff is engrossed in his phone. As Ilya’s about to put his headphones in, Cliff speaks up.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed like that. I’m just worried about you.”
Ilya nods in acknowledgement and gives Cliff as grateful a smile as he can manage.
Across the ice Hollander is talking to his teammates, Pike and Boiziau. He hasn’t looked over at Ilya once.
Cliff is trying to help Ilya focus on the game they’re about to play. It would be working better if his primary way of motivating Ilya wasn’t talking about how fun it is to beat Hollander.
For the first time in all their years playing each other, Ilya and Hollander are completely silent as they lean over the face off circle. Ilya keeps his eyes down and concentrates on getting the puck.
He concentrates so hard that he loses the face off.
No one scores in the first period.
The energy in the locker room during the first intermission is a mix of restlessness and frustration. The guys are all trying to act normal, but Ilya can tell they’re avoiding him. It’s not technically his fault they haven’t scored, but it sure feels like it. His team pep talks are falling flat and he’s off his game on the ice.
Honestly, the only reason they’re not getting completely slaughtered is because Hollander is playing just as badly.
While the guys are all chatting and retaping their sticks, Cliff pulls Ilya off to the side.
“It’s Hollander isn’t it?” Cliff asks, voice just above a whisper.
“What is Hollander?” He’s been working so hard on not thinking about Hollander that It takes a few seconds for Ilya to put together what Cliff is asking him.
Cliff doesn’t answer his question, just waits for the look of recognition on Ilya’s face.
“She’s a hockey player from Montreal. Not a whole lot of options.”
“I did not say Jane is hockey player.”
He didn’t. Right? Ilya thinks back, going over their conversations in his head. He remembers something being said about hockey being dangerous for queer people but never made the connection between ‘Jane’ and hockey. At least, he didn’t mean to.
“I’m right though.”
Ilya nods unnecessarily.
“Fuck.” Cliff sighs. “Look man, I know what you said on the plane, but I really think you should say something. I don’t know the guy that well, but he’s clearly not doing okay.”
Ilya scoffs. “Of course he is. Even has pretty movie star girlfriend now.”
“Then why does he keep fucking staring at you?”
“Shut up,” Ilya grits out.
“You’ve been seeing your Montreal Girl for as long as I’ve known you, and I’ve known you a long time. You’re both playing like shit and pretending to ignore each other. Which is pretty fucking hard if you’re both on the ice. If you think that guy doesn’t love you, you’ve lost your fucking mind.”
Ilya waves his hand, swatting away Cliff’s concern.
Cliff looks down at him disapprovingly. “You gotta cut it out with this bullshit martyr act.”
“What is martyr?”
“Someone who sacrifices themself for someone else. And it’s not fucking worth it.”
There’s nothing Ilya can say to that. Cliff’s right about him being a martyr, but the only thing that will help Ilya is Shane loving him back. If Shane is happier without him, Ilya is not about to take that away.
“I need to retape my stick.”
Cliff catches his arm as he’s about to walk away. “This conversation isn’t over. I’m not gonna give up just ‘cause you told me to.”
Ilya shrugs him off and hates himself for pushing away one of the only people who actually gives a shit.
The entire game is a shit show. Montreal manages to score halfway through the third period and Boston spends the rest of it trying, and failing, to send it into overtime.
No one’s in a good mood.
Feeling guilty for being such an asshole when Cliff tried to talk to him during the game, Ilya lets himself be dragged out to some nightclub.
Begrudgingly, Ilya can admit that the loud, packed club turns out to be exactly what he needs. Something familiar to remind him that his life doesn’t revolve around one person. He used to find comfort in places like this. He could lose himself to the noise and insistent press of bodies before finding a piece of that comfort to go home with.
His teammates drag him over to the bar for another round. He pushes them out of the way and apologizes to the bartender for how obnoxious they’re being.
While he’s waiting for their drinks he notices a guy four bodies down the bar checking him out.
It’s embarrassing—and proves how much he’s been looking at tabloids—how quickly Ilya recognizes him. With a sinking feeling Ilya slowly turns around, scanning the club.
Through the throng of bodies, on the other side of the dance floor, is Shane Hollander, his hands resting politely on Rose Landry’s waist. He has a sweet little smile on his face as she plays with his shirt, slipping her hands underneath it like they belong there.
Ilya can’t do this. Fuck what Cliff says, Shane’s clearly fine.
It takes him less than a minute to find a woman to dance with. She’s hot and she knows how to move her body. Fucking her would be so easy, so simple. He wouldn’t get her name or her number and he wouldn’t tell her to look him up if she’s ever in Boston. He’d get them both off, maybe her more than once, and then leave.
He puts his hands on her waist and pulls her in closer, one hand sliding down over her ass. She smells good, something sweet and floral with a little bit of sweat, and her body fits nicely against his. Her head falls back as he bends down to kiss her neck, and can just hear her breathy moans over the music.
Little by little he loses himself in her, leaning in to kiss her when she buries her fingers in his hair. When she breaks the kiss and turns around, pressing her back against his chest, Ilya almost feels normal. He keeps kissing her neck, occasionally adding a hint of teeth. Everything finally feels good, familiar and uncomplicated.
He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but as soon as he opens them he knows it was a mistake.
Shane is standing less than ten feet away, unmoving in a sea of dancing bodies, staring at Ilya. The look of hurt and betrayal on Shane’s face makes Ilya’s blood boil.
Ilya should look away, see if the woman he’s dancing with wants to get out of there.
But his eyes don’t leave Shane’s.
Instead he makes a show of closing any remaining space between himself and his dance partner. He cups one of her tits in his hand. Her nipple is hard under her dress and he circles it with his thumb. She gasps as arches into him, her ass pressing into his groin. He gives Shane a smug look, a smirk full of false confidence.
Anger, hot and vicious, flashes in Shane’s eyes. For a moment Ilya thinks Shane is going to start a fight, not necessarily a physical one, and Ilya finds himself hoping Shane does. That moment is cut off when Shane flees, disappearing back into the crowd.
There’s a split second where Ilya feels like he just won a face off at center ice before pain lances through his chest. Something is already starting to block his airway.
“Bathroom,” he gasps out, and stumbles away from the woman.
He makes his way through the club, prioritizing speed over everything else. He pushes several people, hears a few drinks drop as he passes, and almost trips twice.
Considering he ends his journey on his knees in a bathroom stall, it won’t be hard to blame his behavior on intoxication. Nevermind the fact that he’s only had one beer.
Every sound he makes, every cough and retch, echoes off the walls. Before, he barely even realized he was making noise. Now, it’s deafening.
Ilya’s mind goes blank. His body heaves without him. Going out tonight was a mistake. Somehow he feels like he should have seen this coming. Of course he would end up at the same club as Hollander. Of course Shane chose tonight to do something as wildly out of character as go to a fucking club.
Or maybe it’s not that out of character. Maybe Shane Hollander, Rose Landry’s boyfriend, likes to go clubbing and be in enclosed spaces packed with people. Maybe he doesn’t have an extremely strict no-alcohol rule. Maybe he thinks living without constant paranoia is worth breaking Ilya’s heart.
He comes back to his body when he can finally breathe again. The club air is stale and thick, but still soothing to his overworked lungs.
On the floor in front of him is a pile of three dozen pristine flowers. None of them are wet or crumpled, and every single one is in full bloom.
The bright yellow hyacinth and sunny daffodils, interspersed with delicate white columbines, look grotesque against the dark backdrop of the grimy club floor.
He neatly collects the flowers into a bouquet and walks out of the bathroom with them, ignoring the looks people are giving him for having a huge fucking bouquet of yellow flowers in a fucking nightclub. A twisted part of him wants to march up to Shane and give him the flowers in front of his little girlfriend, but that would ruin his whole martyr plan.
He pushes his way out of the club and fires off a text letting Cliff know he’s going back to the hotel.
When he gets to the hotel he gives the flowers to the concierge because she’s there and she smiles at him. Back in the room he carelessly strips down and gets in the shower. He cries under the spray, tears still rolling down his face as he jerks off while thinking about how pretty Shane would look with flowers in his hair.
Not long after that, pictures of Hollander and Rose Landry stop appearing in tabloids. Ilya doesn’t let himself read into it.
He spends all his time training, feeling sorry for himself, and secretly looking forward to the all-star game in a couple weeks.
After being confronted with the physical manifestation of his worst nightmare, seeing one of Shane’s ads or the ginger ale he still hasn’t taken out of his fridge is easier to deal with.
The episodes go down to once a day, sometimes less, and usually only sneak up on him when he’s at home feeling horny, lonely, or both. Problems, he’s learned, only Shane can fix. The trade off for less frequent episodes is that when they do happen the pain is almost unbearable. He ends up on the floor for at least an hour every time.
One day, he passes a flower shop while running errands and just the smell is enough to make him nauseous.
The smell of the salt spray that seems to permeate the air makes Ilya’s head feel clearer than it has in months. He’s at the hotel’s open air bar where a bunch of players are meeting up to hang out a bit before the weekend’s events start.
Except for Ilya, who’s sitting alone and if he held his beer any tighter the bottle would break in his hand. Patience has always been a skill Ilya has selectively. But if he wants to see Hollander before they’re on the ice, this is his opportunity. Hollander hates this kind of thing, but his sense of obligation, especially as the team’s captain, will force him to come anyway.
Despite everything, he’s excited to play on the same team as Hollander. This is their seventh All-Star game together and for six years the league has bent over backwards to keep them on opposing teams. From what Ilya’s heard, most people are worried that he and Hollander won’t be able to play well together, either due to animosity or clashing egos.
He can’t wait to prove them wrong.
At least he can trust Hollander not to let anything get in the way of hockey.
Off the ice Hollander is much less predictable.
For days Ilya has been trying to prepare for the possibility that Hollander will want to hook up again.
In general, Ilya is against sleeping with someone who’s already in a relationship. As always, Hollander is the exception. Regardless of Hollander’s relationship status, Ilya knows he doesn’t have the strength to reject him.
A problem Shane obviously doesn’t have.
Ilya hates himself for it already.
He stops himself from turning when he notices Shane in the mirror behind the bar. He’s been using it to nervously watch the door without turning around every ten seconds like a loser. He downs the rest of his beer, so Hollander doesn’t notice him staring as he walks up and takes the seat next to Ilya.
“I’ll have the same as my teammate please.”
Ilya gestures for the waiter to refresh his drink as well before they walk away. Hollander hasn’t even said anything to him yet, and Ilya is already thrown off. Is Hollander trying to prove something by ordering a beer? In all their years of knowing each other, Ilya has never known Hollander to drink during the season.
“So are they out of ginger ale, captain?”
“I’m feeling a bit wild.”
Ilya didn’t know what to make of that. He couldn’t deny that something about Hollander was different. The nervous tension that always filled their interactions was gone. If Ilya didn’t know better he’d say Hollander seemed relaxed, easy.
Ilya could see him smiling sweetly out of the corner of his eye.
Fuck. Maybe Ilya didn’t know better.
“So this should be fun, huh? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team.” He's so fucking cute. Ilya wants to drag him somewhere private and kiss his fucking face off.
But he won’t give in that easily. What’s left of Ilya’s pride and self-respect help him stay strong against the assault of his affection for Shane.
“Have you?” Ilya asks, trying to be coy but sounding much too sincere.
“Yeah. I have,” Shane says, earnest but confident. It’s new. It’s sexy. “Nice that it’s in Florida this year, right?”
There’s a familiar eager note in his voice. Though Ilya is used to hearing it when Shane is asking, begging, for his cock.
“Yes.”
The waiter comes back with their drinks. Shane says “thanks” like the polite little Canadian boy he is. Ilya watches the line of his neck as he tilts his head back to take a sip. The entire image feels wrong. Of course, Shane is an adult and he can do what he wants, but since when does that include beer?
Maybe it’s the influence of all the pretty Hollywood people he’s been spending time with.
Speaking of which.
“Did you bring anyone with you?”
“My parents thought about coming, but they're going to Mexico in like two weeks. And they’ve been to these before, so.” Ilya has to stop himself from saying that he doesn’t give a fuck about Shane’s parents. But he’s trying not to give himself away. “Also I didn’t feel like being managed this weekend.” Amusement tugs at the corner of Ilya’s mouth. He’s missed Shane’s little boring jokes. “Did you, uh, bring anybody?”
“Nope.” Who would Ilya even bring?
Soft silence settles between them. They’ve never been good at actually talking to each other.
“Nice shirt.”
Ilya looks down at the ridiculously garish shirt he decided to wear. He thought it would be funny, forgetting that Shane doesn’t understand the concept of doing something ironically.
“Thanks. I like to, you know, get into the spirit.”
“You’re pulling it off.”
Warmth spreads through Ilya’s chest. He’s being flirted with by Shane Hollander. Sexy, sweet, newly confident Shane Hollander. Ilya feels euphoric.
He wants to bask in the feeling forever. Which, of course, means he barely gets any time to enjoy it at all.
They both wince when Carter Vaughn suddenly shoves his way between them, a little day drunk. Though Vaughn’s always been a weirdly enthusiastic guy; this could be him sober. With Vaughn comes a rude reminder that everyone still thinks he and Hollander hate each other. At least he didn’t seem phased by the two of them sitting together.
“I feel like we’re gonna get a lot of that sort of thing this weekend.” Shane looks directly at him, gaze unwavering.
Ilya doesn’t look away. “They should give us a chance to get to know each other. Who knows what we might have in common.”
Eventually Shane looks away, giving Ilya a chance to give him a once over. Fuck, he looks good. He’s wearing an actual outfit, not just old sweats or one of his game day suits. The only other time Ilya’s seen him like this was at his house in Boston. But this is many steps up from the plain jeans and t-shirt he wore then. (There’s a twinge in Ilya’s chest and he quickly pushes the thought away.)
The clothes he’s wearing now are actually flattering. The way his pants hug his thighs makes Ilya want to bite them. The cut of his jacket is distinctly masculine, but the overall effect is still soft. The colors are gentle against his lovely complexion. His freckles are even more beautiful than Ilya remembered and he’s enamoured with them.
“You’re looking very pretty today. Different maybe?” A lump forms in Ilya’s throat when he thinks about what, or who, inspired this change. “Someone take you shopping?”
“If I, um, If I tell you something will you promise not to tell anyone or make fun of me?”
“It depends.”
“Seriously.” Always so earnest. Of course Ilya agrees. “I hired a stylist.”
Despite his promise not to, Ilya laughs. He’s not making fun. It’s just that it’s so perfectly Shane that joy just bubbles out of him.
“Fuck you,” Shane says, but he’s not really mad.
“Sorry.” He is. Kind of. The fact that he can’t stop smiling is definitely not helping him sound sincere. “Of course you did.”
“I shouldn't have told you.” Shane starts to curl in on himself. The shadow of self-consciousness creeping in to take away his hard won confidence. Ilya can’t let that happen.
“No, no. I love it.” He tries again with as much sincerity as he can. “I love it.” Okay, maybe that was a little too much. “You got, what, tired of looking like shit?”
“I didn’t look like shit. I just wore, like, athletic stuff.”
“I know what you wore.”
“And some of the guys in the league are so fashionable.”
Yeah, right. Ilya will believe it when he sees it. But there’s a joyful sparkle in Shane's eyes that Ilya doesn’t want to scare away.
Neither of them says anything for a moment, leaving space for the spectre that’s been haunting Ilya for months to sneak back in.
“So… this has nothing to do with Rose Landry?"
The smile melts off of Shane’s face.
“No.” Shane’s eyes look sad. “Well, I mean, yeah she always dressed very well and so did her friends, but.” Ilya’s grasp of the English language still leaves a lot to be desired, but he’s always been good at reading people. Hope starts to bloom in his chest, but he tamps it down. He’s getting ahead of himself. “I just wanted to stop looking like I was always going to the gym.”
He has to be sure.
“So, you and her are not…?”
“We’re not. She’s great, but we’re just not… compatible. I guess.”
Compatible.
He’s heard it before and he thinks he knows what it means. But that’s not good enough. Even without the sickness that’s taken root inside Ilya’s chest it wouldn’t be good enough.
Why does English have to have so many fucking words?
“I should circulate, I guess,” Shane says and Ilya realizes he’s been quiet for too long.
“Yeah,” he says reluctantly, “You have new clothes to show off.”
Ilya lets himself indulge a little and checks Shane out as he walks away. He’s got to give it to Shane’s stylist, Shane’s ass in those pants looks almost as good as it does naked.
Maybe he’ll get a chance this weekend to double check.
compatible
(adjective)
able to exist, live, or work successfully with something or someone else
Marly: Have you talked to him yet?
Me: I have not even been here whole day!
Marly: More than enough time to have a conversation.
Me: We are busy playing hockey.
Me: Maybe you have heard of this?
Marly: Fuck off.
Marly: Sorry I don’t want you to fucking die.
Me: We talked.
Marly: And?
Me: Was nice.
Me: He broke up with movie star girlfriend.
Marly: That’s great! I bet he left her for you.
Me: He only says they are “not compatible”
Me: This is good thing, yes?
Marly: Fuck yeah. Get in there.
No one takes the All-Stars game seriously.
No one except Shane Hollander and, by extension, Ilya Rozanov.
In the past it’s been because the two of them aren’t capable of playing against each other without taking it seriously. Now that they’re not just on the same team, but on the same line theres no fucking way they’re going to hold back.
Before they even step onto the ice, Ilya knows—and he’s pretty sure Hollander does too—they are about to play some of the best hockey of their entire careers.
All the way through the first face off the ice is full of players chirping about their rivalry. It’s clear that everyone expects them to fight over the puck, to want to be the star of the show. Maybe they don’t all expect it from Hollander, but they definitely expect it from Ilya.
Then Ilya scores a goal off of Hollander’s assist in the first minute. It happens so fast that they’re already celebrating by the time everyone else in the arena catches up.
Ilya gets caught up in the excitement. Having an excuse to touch Shane is exhilarating and he takes full advantage of it. And the more he reaches out, the more Shane reaches back.
There’s something building between them. It’s not sexual tension exactly, though that’s an undeniable part of it. When Ilya kisses Shane’s helmet after a truly beautiful goal—and fuck he forgot how fucking hot Shane is when he plays—pulling away feels like fighting gravity. They stand in the middle of the ice for a little too long just grinning at each other. Eventually they reluctantly go back to their positions so they can finish playing the game.
By the end of the game, Ilya is so aware of Shane’s presence it’s like they’re physically touching.
Ilya loses track of him after the game, both getting intercepted by other players who want to celebrate the win. He tries to turn down their invitations to a party that’s apparently being set up on the beach, but some of the guys are annoyingly persistent.
The beach is full of the players along with their friends and families, excluding any kids. Someone puts a beer in his hand and he gets pulled into a conversation with a few guys he used to play with. A couple of them got traded and one says he switched teams to be closer to family when his contract was up. They introduce Ilya to their WAGs or siblings, and it all just washes over him. Ilya hasn’t spoken to any of these guys in years, he’s not too concerned with remembering new names.
Eventually, he’s able to excuse himself to go look for Shane.
He walks along the edges of the group. It’s easier to see everyone, and Shane is more likely to be there than in the middle of a mass of people. If he’s there at all.
It only takes a few minutes to find him, but once he does Ilya kind of wishes he hadn’t.
Along the edge of the crowd Ilya spots Shane talking to some guy Ilya doesn’t recognize. The guy is standing much closer to Shane than necessary. There’s plenty of space around them and it isn’t that loud. He’s smiling and starry eyed, laughing at something Shane says that probably wasn’t even funny. It’s just an excuse for him to put his hand on Shane’s arm and step close enough for their legs to brush against each other.
He leans in to say something into Shane’s ear. First Shane looks confused, then understanding dawns and he blushes.
It’s too much.
Nausea, chest pains. Ilya knows what’s coming and he needs to get out of there.
As soon as his hotel room door clicks shut he doubles over.
This episode is mild compared to some of the ones he’s had. There’s minimal pain and it’s over quickly. He leaves the six yellow hyacinths next to the bathroom sink.
This is the first episode he’s had since landing in Tampa for the All-Star weekend. It’s not hard to guess why. Every time Shane sees Ilya, he smiles. Ilya’s hardly even seen him talk to other players—which is normal for Shane—and when he is around people, his attention is always on Ilya.
Marly: Holy shit, Roz. Never seen you play like that before.
Marly: You and Hollander are something else, brother.
Marly: Thought you guys were gonna start making out on the ice a few times. Crazy that no one’s noticed.
Marly: Just tell him, man. He obviously feels the same way.
Ilya ignores Cliff’s messages. He’s made it clear that there’s nothing Ilya can say to get him to back off, so there’s no point in responding.
A moment later he gets a new text. He smiles despite himself when he sees Jane appear on his screen.
Jane: Are you at the party?
Me: Not anymore.
Me: Looking for me? 😘
Jane: Yeah.
From where Ilya was standing, Shane hadn’t been looking very hard. Bitterness curls in Ilya’s gut, warring with the hope that’s been building in his chest. Memories from this weekend pushing back against the memory of Shane running out on him and into Rose Landry’s arms.
Jane: What’s your room number?
As he thrusts into Shane, Ilya feels flayed open.
He can still feel the dried tear tracks on his face, but Shane is looking up at him like he can see every part of Ilya and wants him anyway. Shane groans, back arching the way it always does when he finally has something inside him. He’s so beautiful Ilya could cry.
The way their bodies move together is easy and familiar. Ilya’s eyes never leave Shane’s. He cups Shane’s flushed cheek and traces his freckles with his thumb. Tears stick to Shane’s lashes. His eyes are soft and sweet, they say thank you and please and more.
“Ilya.” Shane’s moan trails off into a desperate whine.
“Will you come for me?” Ilya smiles at Shane’s answering whimper. “You feel so good, so perfect.”
“Fuck.”
Shane’s hands come up to tangle themselves in Ilya’s curls and pull him down into a kiss. He tightens his grip, the slight tug sending sparks of pleasure down Ilya’s spine.
Breaking the kiss, Shane gasps, “Close!” against Ilya’s lips.
Ilya moves his hand between their bodies. He watches Shane’s eyes roll back in his head and bite down on his lip just in time to muffle his shout when he comes over Ilya’s hand.
Shane pushes Ilya off of him and bullies him onto his back. He quickly disposes of the condom and takes Ilya into his mouth, sucking him down like he’s hungry for it.
Tears gather in Ilya’s eyes when Shane looks up at him. He quickly blinks them away and it hits him. He almost lost this, he thought he had lost it.
“Shane. Fuck, Shane, Shane— Uh!” He grunts as he spills down Shane’s throat and collapses back onto the bed.
Kissing his way back up Ilya’s body, Shane settles half on top of him, on hand idly playing with Ilya’s hair.
“You look very happy with yourself,” Ilya says. Shane blushes, but doesn’t stop smiling. “Is good. You are very pretty when you smile.”
“Shut up.”
After a few minutes they get up to clean off. Ilya leaves Shane to wipe himself down and turns on the shower. He doesn’t need to, but it’s a habit he’s developed over the years. Right now he wants to wash away the emotional toll this day has taken. The sex helped settle him some, but was emotional in its own way too.
He steps into the shower, surprised when Shane steps in after him.
It must show on his face because Shane suddenly looks hesitant.
“Sorry. I, uh, should’ve asked. Sorry.”
Ilya wraps an arm around Shane’s waist before he can leave again.
“Stay.”
“Yeah, okay.”
It’s one of the least efficient showers Ilya has ever taken. Washing each other turns into soapy groping. They both get more than a bit carried away.
Ilya is too wrung out to go again, but he jerks Shane off while he kisses him and plays with his hole. This time Shane can make all the noises he wants and Ilya does his best to commit them to memory. He takes advantage of Shane’s post-orgasmic haze to convince to stay just a little bit longer.
It can’t last; they both have early flights to make.
Eventually, Shane gets dressed, scrunching his nose at having to put dirty clothes on his clean body. Ilya uses the opportunity to watch him. In another context this moment would be so normal, even boring. Just one of them getting up earlier than the other.
Maybe one day…
For a moment, Ilya lets himself believe the lie.
Shane looks back when he gets to the door, and Ilya has to stop himself from crossing the room and kissing him breathless.
“What?”
Ilya just says, “Nothing,” because he doesn’t have the words to explain and if he tries he’ll fall apart. “Goodnight, Shane.”
“Goodnight, Ilya.”
Jane: Have a safe flight.
Me: There are two people at my gate both yelling at desk person at same time.
Me: Fucking Americans.
Jane: I hate people like that. I don’t understand why anyone would think yelling will solve their problems.
Me: This is because you are nice Canadian boy.
Me: Pretty boy like you do not need to yell. Only say please and smile.
Jane: Shut up.
Me: You are blushing aren’t you?
Jane: Fuck. Off.
Me: 😘
When Ilya gets home he thinks about texting Shane. Just to let him know that he got home safely.
But it feels too intimate.
They don’t keep track of each other when they’re apart. That’s why this thing between them worked for so long, because they didn’t worry about each other when they weren’t in the same place. (Ilya pointedly ignores the memories of all the girls he’s brushed off while clubbing, in Boston and Moscow, in favor of texting Hollander.)
Jane: Left the thermostat too low while I was gone and now my apartment is freezing. 🥶
Me: You want me to warm you up?
Jane: How?
Me: 😏😈
The three dots appear and disappear repeatedly as Shane figures out what he wants to say. Ilya can almost picture the way his face scrunches in concentration as he overthinks every word. A wave of fondness hits him so hard his chest aches.
Jane: You would really want to do something like that?
Me: Will not kill you to say phone sex, Hollander.
Jane: It might.
Jane: But you would want to?
Me: Yes, Shane. Is always nice to hear you beg for my cock.
Jane: Fuck off.
Ilya smiles down at his phone. He wonders how hard it would be to convince Shane to use FaceTime instead. He’s already a little impressed by how bold Shane is being, in his own way.
Jane: Did you get home okay?
Me: So eager.
Me: But maybe we wait so you do not freeze your dick off.
Jane: Asshole.
Me: 😇
Ilya waits for a few minutes, but there’s no response. It’s fine. Their conversation was basically over anyway.
But still Ilya can’t stop staring at his phone’s dark screen.
The fond ache in his chest is really starting to get uncomfortable when a new text comes in a few hours later.
Jane: I don’t know why my mom brings me to contract negotiations with sponsors if she’s not gonna let me talk.
Me: Yes. So sad.
Me: So hard getting paid to be pretty.
Jane: 🖕
Ilya’s not able to reply right away because he’s busy coughing up three white camellias and baby’s breath. It’s surprisingly quick and relatively painless, and the flowers are pretty. Ilya finds an empty vodka bottle to use as a vase and places the flowers in the center of his dining table.