Chapter Text
Sea lion woman, dressed in green
Wears silk stockings with golden seams
Nina Simone "Sea Lion Woman"
Ilya smiled to himself as he took the elevator down to his hotel room. Hollander hadn’t been the most skilled person he’d slept with, far from it; but he had been so sweetly eager that it almost didn’t matter. Certainly he had given Ilya something he needed, even beyond the sex, which didn’t take that long.
He was lost in a daydream of Hollander’s freckles, the way he so shyly asked “Was that...bad?” and the noises he made when he came, so that he didn’t even notice the trip down.
He rummaged out his keycard and opened the door, emptying out his pockets. To the keycard he added the Raiders keychain with his apartment and car keys, his wallet and a half-smoked pack of cigarettes, then went to shrug out of his jacket…
And realized with a stab of horror that he wasn’t wearing it.
How the fuck could I lose it? He always grabbed his jacket when leaving a room; it was a reflex. His teammates were always chirping him about his “security blanket.” If they only knew.
Maybe he hadn’t taken it with him…? He ransacked his hotel room twice, taking everything out of his suitcase, looking in the closet, under the bed, behind the bathroom door…
No jacket.
He sat down and proceeded to utter every swear word he knew in two languages. Damn Hollander’s brown eyes! Now Ilya had lost his sealskin!
No. Not “lost.” That would be bad enough.
No. Hollander had it. What if he left it there and housekeeping found it? Would it molder in the lost-and-found until it was donated to some thrift store? Would they just throw it away?
His mind flashed back to his mother and her beautiful songs and stories, about the princess who never smiled and the worker who became her husband; about Ivan Tsarevich and Vasilesa the Wise. Whenever she finished that story, she said “Do not forget me, my Ilyushka,” and he swore he never would.
Ilya remembered asking his mother one day if she loved his father. She had smiled sadly and said “Of course.”
But Ilya had known, even then, that she wasn’t telling the truth, and wondered why she stayed with him.
It wasn’t until four years later, seeing his mother on the floor, that he realized she had finally found a way to escape.
He threw himself down beside her and took her cold hand. “I won’t forget you, mother!”
It wasn’t until later that he saw a fur cloak on the garbage heap. Curious, he picked it up. It was slick and closely-woven...it would probably be waterproof.
He let the cloak dangle over his shoulder and went walking. It was spring, but the rain on his face was cold. There was a small pond near their house. Ilya went and watched the waves, thinking of Ivan and the dove maidens.
A gust of especially cold wind cut through his clothes, and, shivering, he put on the cloak.
Suddenly he was falling! He tried to catch himself, but landed with a whomp on the pebbly shore. He tried to yell and only a seal’s bark came out.
He thought furiously. The cloak must have been made of sealskin and it had turned him to a seal, just like the dove maidens in the story his mother had told him.
His mother. Suddenly he realized what must have happened to her. Like the dove maidens, Grigori must have taken her cloak and held her captive. And now that she was gone, he’d had no reason to keep it.
But was he stuck as a seal forever? He tried to change back, but only rolled on the gravel. Finally he figured out how to shrug off the cloak and found himself standing up.
He had returned home full of wonder. His mother hadn’t told him about the sealskin, but the dove maidens were similar. Ilya wondered if she’d wanted him to find her skin for her.
Over the next few months, he’d sneak out to swim as a seal, being careful not to let his father or brother know.
When he’d gone to America he’d taken the sealskin with him.
And now…
Now it was gone.
Countless plane rides, baggage claims and team shuttles and he’d kept it close...the only thing he had of his mother.
And now Shane Hollander had it and Ilya didn’t know how to contact him.
Even if he did, he didn’t dare let him know the true importance of the cloak. At worst he’d think Ilya was crazy.
At best…
At best Ilya would find himself captive, just as his mother had been.
***
It was three more months before he was facing Shane Hollander again. The hems of Ilya’s pants were wet, as always, which wasn’t fun on the ice, but he was used to it.
“Shane Hollander,” he smirked. “Will you disappoint them?” Like you disappointed me?
And Hollander, damn him, smirked right back, with a “Nope,” and proceeded to win the faceoff and score a goal.
Ilya, in his hotel room, growled at the TV. His cloak is probably moldering in a landfill somewhere by now.
And then fucking Alexei called, asking for money, and what did Ilya ever do to deserve this?
But it wasn’t enough that Shane Hollander had big brown eyes and adorable freckles and spoke perfect French. No, he had to be kind too and rescue Ilya from a question asked too fast and with too many words.
And then, after he broke Ilya’s shot record, something insane apparently took hold of Ilya, and he gave Hollander his room number.
When Hollander squeezed himself through the door and slammed it Ilya was about to make a remark, but then he saw that Hollander was holding a transparent bag.
And in it was a bundle of fur Ilya never thought he’d see again.
“Oh, yeah, you left this in my hotel room in Toronto,” Hollander said, following his gaze. “It looks pretty expensive, so I figured you’d want it back.”
“Yes,” Ilya managed, taking it, feeling the softness of the fur through the plastic.
“I didn’t see a label on it. Was it a custom?”
Ilya nodded, still dazed. “You kept it for me.”
Hollander’s brow furrowed. “Um, yeah? Like I said, it looked expensive.”
“But you didn’t have to give it back to me,” Ilya said through the lump in his throat. “Why would you do that?”
“Maybe because I’m not an asshole like you?” But he said it in a teasing tone, one corner of his mouth quirked up.
“No of course not, you are Shane Hollander, Canada’s Golden Boy.”
“Fuck off.”
***
Later, after Hollander had left, Ilya took the cloak out of its protective wrapping. The smell of stale cigarette smoke filled the room.
Ilya wrinkled his nose, but then buried his face in the cloak. Behind the smell of cigarettes was the smell of salt and a faint hint of floral perfume.
Ilya hugged it to his chest and let it absorb his tears.