Chapter Text
Shane was so easy to fool.
Ilya could see how exhausted he was after such a long day, so he simply waited for sleep to take him. He didn’t have to wait long.
Shane passed out fast, still wrapping his arms tightly around his back and pressing his head close to Ilya’s—and all Ilya could think was how sorry he felt.
Okay. Just lie here a couple more minutes. And that’s it.
That’s it.
He couldn't put this off any longer.
He just couldn't.
***
Prying Shane’s warm and strong arms off him was as painful as a thousand paper cuts. Untangling himself from Shane’s arms that held him completely, that held him even in sleep, hurt.
Ilya slid slowly down from his chest, right out from under his arm, trying not to disturb his sleep.
Shane had latched onto him with a literal death grip, and Ilya barely managed to disentangle himself without waking him.
Ilya didn’t want to leave—he wasn’t really in a hurry, after all—but... he had to. He wasn’t in a hurry, but he still dragged it out as long as he could. As long as it was physically possible. As long as it was allowed.
Ilya swallowed and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He could still feel those arms right there, in the same spot.
Hollander looked peaceful in sleep. Softer. He grumbled something in annoyance when Ilya quietly got up from the bed, trying to be as silent as possible.
But Ilya needed to... do something.
While Shane slept—and only then—because afterwards he wouldn’t get another chance.
He simply hadn’t had enough time back then. Now he had it. Time and silence.
He couldn’t help himself. He simply couldn’t, and even if the sun went out, he had to… Yes, it was irrational, but…
He just had to—
***
Under no circumstances could Ilya allow himself to fall asleep.
It was simply impossible. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much he wished for it… He just couldn’t.
***
The recent scandal had made Ilya think about a lot of things.
And what he understood—once again, perhaps for the thousandth time—was that he had been right to worry.
And that did not inspire hope.
It did not inspire hope at all.
***
Before leaving the room, Ilya looked once more at the sleeping Shane.
Outside the window, darkness still reigned—only the city lights glowed, faintly illuminating the room.
Now he was calm. More or less.
Maybe somewhere deep inside he had a desire… A desire to walk over to him, to touch him. To kiss his forehead. To ruffle his short, jet-black hair. To lie a little longer on his muscular, hairless chest, wrapped in those hot, so very strong arms. Arms that were so much bigger than his own—Ilya had memorized the sight of them around his cock, and that image still floated before his eyes the moment he closed them.
To imagine those fingers inside...
But Ilya didn’t do any of the things he was thinking of doing, no matter how much he wanted to. He couldn’t risk waking him.
He just couldn’t.
***
He had to fix it. He had to fix things with Shane because otherwise…
What he had would be all he'd ever have. All he'd ever feel. Forever.
And from these thoughts his pulse raced so hard he was forgetting how to breathe.
***
It was almost time.
It was almost there.
His iPod was all scratched up—nothing like the beautiful thing it had been a couple of years ago, when he’d first gotten it as a gift.
Ilya turned it over and turned it on. His hand automatically found that Dead by Sunrise album. He didn’t need anything else.
Nothing else.
His gaze caught on the date and time.
The countdown had begun.
***
One week later,
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
He dreamed of everything and nothing all at once.
In the end, as usual, one thing awaited him. The thing that always awaited him.
He was beginning to lose his sight in the fullest sense of the word.
The white light got brighter, and brighter, and brighter.
At some point it became blindingly bright.
The last thing Ilya remembered was white, white, and white, so bright and so inevitable.
Somewhere in the distance, a quiet sound reached him, but Ilya couldn’t tell what it was. Something…
The sound was familiar and so unreal, but somewhere deep inside he knew—it was a pure lie.
He knew exactly what it was.
He knew exactly what it was, and it was so disgusting.
So disgusting and inevitable.
***
Ilya slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurry from the white light and he tried to focus.
His mouth tasted of nicotine. Ilya wasn’t even sure if there was anything but bitterness in his mouth. These were the most ordinary cigarettes—no flavors. So that was what he’d smoked a bit of while waiting for the plane. Ha. His whole mouth was steeped in it, he could feel it in his nose.
Half-asleep, he brought the fingers of his right hand to his nose and caught the smell of nicotine. Again.
Ilya frowned and held his hand away from him, trying to make out whether his nails were clean.
His vision was still fucking blurry, and Ilya blinked a few times to clear his vision a little. Hmm. They looked clean.
Then he raised his eyes and looked around.
The cabin of the plane was nearly empty. The seats beside him were already vacant.
He turned away from the aisle and faced the window. His window was shut.
His trembling hand reached out and pulled up the shade, opening it.
When he opened it, he was greeted by the good old view of Sheremetyevo Airport and the colorful shuttle buses from the planes to the terminal.
Well, hello, Moscow.
***
Shane didn’t ask questions, and Ilya couldn’t help but be glad. He had saved him from what Ilya wouldn’t have been able to say.
Ilya was incredibly grateful to him. Whether Shane kept quiet on purpose or not—he had kept the lump from rising in Ilya's throat.
Maybe he just hadn’t understood anything. Or maybe he simply wasn’t interested.
Either way, Ilya was glad Shane had said nothing. He was so, so very glad.
He would take any of Shane's reasons not to ask. And Ilya was so glad he didn’t.
He was so fucking relieved he didn’t.
***
First, he took a taxi to his father’s house.
He ran a hand over his trimmed hair.
He had cut it himself this time, without waiting for threats from his father. It was just… He hadn’t cut it very short.
Enough so they’d get off his back.
Familiar Moscow landscapes flashed past him. He’d ridden all over the city countless times, tearing around on his motorcycle since he was sixteen.
It was a shame that you couldn’t drive a car until eighteen—if he could, he’d have been happily driving all winter, but unfortunately for him, laws were laws. Stupid laws, by the way. In America, he’d heard, you could drive at sixteen or even earlier. It was just unfair.
Did they think you couldn’t run someone over on a bike the way you could with a car? Oh, they were sorely mistaken.
Ilya barely noticed that the car had stopped—the taxi driver had pulled up at a familiar turn. Ilya blinked.
They were here.
***
Going back to his father’s house felt like… nothing. Ilya doubted he felt anything, good or bad.
The key slid into the lock and he pulled the handle.
Okay. Okay. All good.
For now.
***
Polina hugged him. While she couldn’t see his face, he grimaced slightly. He didn’t understand what she wanted from him. Neither he nor Lyosha had really accepted her—Ilya didn’t get her attempts to touch him. Was it for show? For his father? So he’d have a picture of family before his eyes, when in reality there was nothing left of the family?
Was it the money that made her want to seem kinder?
Lyosha at least demanded things for a reason, for a difficult childhood—and Ilya could understand that, he could perfectly understand that—but what about her? Money was sent separately to Lyosha, separately to his father—why the sudden kindness? Were they going to demand something from him? Again?
She wasn’t a particularly warm woman—rather the opposite. And deep inside, Ilya knew she couldn’t care less about him and Lyosha. After all, she hadn’t married them, and not for their sake—she’d married a reasonably wealthy colonel.
So why all this pretense?
He didn’t know why she had married his father. Money? Folly of youth? Status? What?
However, he didn’t care in the slightest. He felt an irrational hatred toward her, because how dare she stand where his mother once stood? How dare she—
At that moment, Lyosha stepped into the hallway and stopped by the huge antique clock, leaning his elbow on it and shooting Ilya a sharp look. Ilya tensed. Then he put on something resembling a smile. Lyosha returned the same.
Lyosha was in uniform—apparently, he'd gotten off work early. What was he even doing at their father’s when he should have been with Alyona and Nastya?
Polina finally loosened her stupid embrace and let him go. She was saying something to him, but Ilya was only looking at Lyosha, standing so far away—and it felt exactly like that. Between them lay a chasm, a wound that nothing would heal.
Ilya swallowed and pushed away those stupid thoughts—missing Lyosha was as useless as trying to count the stars. Impossible. Pointless.
There was clapping. Lyosha was slowly, theatrically clapping his hands.
“Look at that. The hero’s back,” Lyosha said when he stopped clapping. “What’s it like being an ill-mannered piece of shit?”
Ilya automatically bared his teeth. Fuck, Lyosha had heard about the scandal.
Polina frowned, shot Lyosha a glare, and left, sensing that she was no longer needed here.
Let her go. Let her go far away.
She never stood between them. Never separated them. Never tried to make peace, the way their mother had. A blank gray smudge—that’s what she was to him. Thank god she ignored them enough that Ilya could do whatever he wanted without looking over his shoulder all through his teenage years. To put it simply—she didn’t give a shit. Like him. Like Lyosha.
Again, a clap. A different one. Ilya didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t want to. He was already ashamed. The Metros’ reaction was… well. Not the best one.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap—
***
—Clink.
Clink.
Again.
And again.
Lyosha was deliberately slowly stirring his tea, which had clearly gone cold a long time ago.
They were sitting in the kitchen.
Lyosha caught his gaze, peering intently at him.
Their father wasn’t home—and that was for the best.
Polina had gone out to buy groceries.
The irritating sounds of the tea being stirred finally stopped.
Silence fell.
“Are you at least coming back?” Lyosha asked, smirking.
Ilya winced. What a stupid question.
“Of course.”
Lyosha snorted and tossed the spoon onto the table. He wiped his thumb across his mouth, then looked at Ilya, leaning back in his chair more comfortably.
“Nice having your own apartment, isn’t it?”
It is nice, Ilya thought. It is.
If only I ever used it for real.
And Ilya was certain Lyosha knew exactly how things worked.
“Get out of here already, Ilya. Stop being an eyesore, for god’s sake. Before Polina comes back.”
The corner of Ilya’s mouth lifted in a mirthless smirk.
Family. Family.
Did that word even mean anything anymore?
Was it his fault? Or had it all just happened?
Looking at Lyosha’s sneering face, Ilya couldn’t help thinking that Lyosha had been right.
That Lyosha had been right, and Ilya hadn’t listened to him. He hadn’t listened, and—
If only Lyosha knew…
Ilya wished he could tell him. Like he could have before, before their mama. But now there was just empty nothing between them, and that was all.
That's all.
Empty nothing.
That’s all.
He stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, making Lyosha frown at the noise.
His gaze swept over Lyosha, noting the shadows under his eyes, the weariness. His fingers had trembled a little when he stirred the tea, and Ilya wondered how long it had been since he'd snorted anything.
And how long since he'd had a drink? Or since he'd gone without?
Anyway, it wasn’t his business, just as his own business was no longer Lyosha’s.
Their paths had diverged too long ago to mourn anything, and these feelings were for nothing.
Absolutely for nothing.
***
Ilya peered closely into the bathroom mirror. He ran his fingers over his neck. There were no marks left. That stirred some upset, sad feeling inside, one he didn’t want to name. Didn’t want to think about.
Not now.
He didn't lift his T-shirt to check for bruises on his waist and hips—unfortunately, they were gone. Completely gone.
He was tougher than he looked—Shane should have gripped him harder to really leave bruises.
Ilya shifted his gaze to his own face and his slightly trimmed hair.
He had let himself forget. Oh, how he had let himself forget.
Fortunately, no marks remained. Lucky him, right?
Everything was as it should be.
***
It was a beautiful Stalinist building built in the thirties.
Ilya put his bike on the kickstand and flinched as a couple of loud kids on bicycles sped past him.
Fuck.
Little assholes, you’re gonna get run over right here by rich dickheads in G-Wagons.
Ilya exhaled and took off his helmet, shaking out what was left of his long curls.
Okay.
All good.
***
Ilya carefully opened the door to Sasha’s apartment and quietly shut it behind him.
Sasha had been living alone since he was sixteen—though he often stayed at his father’s apartment for appearances, and so they could meet more discreetly, of course.
It was a three-room apartment, shabbier than his father's (and, by extension, Ilya's coach's), but still… It was their place. More Sasha's, of course. A lot had happened here.
He walked down the hallway and shivered.
New paintings stood on the floor—Sasha’s paintings. Canvases as tall as a man.
The paint lay in heavy layers, in places so thick it seemed less like paint and more like something dug out of the earth. The colors appeared deliberately muted. Black. Dark red. Dirty white. Dull silver, almost drowned in black.
Nothing stood out and nothing caught the eye.
It seemed that if he looked closer, these smudges would resolve into something recognizable. A person, a face... a figure?
But that never happened.
The paints seemed to interfere with one another, overlapping, hiding what lay beneath. And yet something seeped through. Not a figure. Not even a face. Just a... hint.
A fracture that might have been a shoulder. A few pale strokes—ribs. Ribs? Or maybe just streaks of paint. On one canvas, he could almost make out a human silhouette, but his gaze slid away before he could grasp it. On another, something like a head was visible. Only there was no face.
Sometimes it felt like it was about to appear. One more second—and out of the dark strokes, eyes would emerge, a mouth, human features taking form.
But every time, something got in the way. A stripe of black paint or a rough smear of dirty white or a... shadow.
The longer Ilya looked, the less he understood what he was seeing.
He realized he had frozen, not even noticing when it had happened.
The hallway was quiet.
Too quiet.
Ilya slowly looked away from the numerous paintings.
Sometimes, when Sasha drew him—Ilya would take the drawings for himself, but what Sasha painted for himself… He swallowed.
He didn’t know what to call it.
He just couldn’t.
A couple of steps forward.
The floor creaked, and he finally stopped in front of the bedroom door, realizing he was breathing hard.
He desperately wanted a smoke, wanted to do anything, anything at all, just not…
…be here.
Ilya shook his head, driving away the pointless thoughts.
He straightened up, squaring his back. Silence filled his ears. A chill touched his shoulder blades.
As soon as his hand rested on the door handle and he finally opened it—the world drowned in black.
***
The moment Ilya entered the room, his eyes immediately latched onto it. The icon, glinting in the light of the chandelier. He saw it so clearly, so sharply.
On his chest hung the silver icon Sasha’s late mother had given him. He wore it differently than Ilya wore his cross from Irina.
Sasha wore it fanatically, with a kind of fear of removing it even for a second. Back when they'd only just started becoming friends—a long, long time ago, when Ilya was around twelve—Ilya would reach his curious little hands toward that icon. And Sasha would grab them, holding tight. Back then Ilya wasn't even wearing his own cross yet; he just kept it hidden away, admiring it from time to time. The thought of wearing it hadn't even occurred to him yet.
Back then when everything was simple and good.
Ilya finally looked at Sasha. Really looked at him.
He stood, leaning back against the table and staring at the floor. His head was bowed. Dark bangs almost covered his eyes—his hair had grown out a lot from his usual cut, resembling a short mullet. He wore a thin black turtleneck with long sleeves—too hot for this weather, but who was Ilya to judge? Ilya was curious how many new scars he’d added this time. And the main question: was there a single unmarked patch left on his arms?
Sasha still wasn’t looking at him.
Ilya heard the soft click of the door behind him—the draft had done its job—and only then did Sasha’s eyes finally find him.
***
Once, he had loved him.
More than his father, more than his brother, more than the memory of his mother and the memories of Sveta.
More than anything in the world.
Only everything was destined to end.
Nothing good comes of cocaine. To his great regret.
It hurt, too, because he had seen this crap devour his family. Lyosha before... Things were better between them.
Sasha... Before... Everything had been too good. So fucking good. But. But.
And... when he himself had used, it... well. It all ended very, very badly for him.
Fuck, his whole family was neck-deep in that filth. He remembered how hard it had been for Lyosha. He only understood it when his mother was gone. His eyes were opened. By then, though, Lyosha wanted nothing more to do with him.
Ilya had been too young to understand. By the time he did, it was too late. Much too late.
He wished it had all ended differently. With everyone.
If it were up to him, everything with Sasha would be like before, like two and a half years ago. But everything had changed.
And he couldn’t rewind time and fix it.
He wished he could kiss him like before. When he had truly enjoyed it. When it had been the best feeling in his life.
But now he only had to pretend it hadn’t happened. That what had happened—simply hadn’t. Keep his mouth shut. Pretend everything was fine between them.
What he had felt long ago, when he’d just been left all alone, without his mother, without his brother, and without Sveta.
How deeply he had loved him.
How deeply he had loved him as if it were the only right feeling in his life, the only anchor keeping him from plummeting down, from endless loneliness and the grief that tore him apart.
Only after that day did his feelings begin to fade, little by little. Only Sasha still loved him. And Ilya didn't understand. Why had Sasha done it, then, if he loved him so much? How could he even—
He ordered himself to calm down. He could pretend. He did it very well.
First for his father. Then for his brother. Now, unfortunately, for Sasha too.
For each of them, he had his own special mask.
Once, for Sasha, he’d needed no masks at all. But that time was gone.
That skill had gotten rusty while he was away in Canada, but... he could remember.
And oh, the irony that Ilya could almost pinpoint the moment he'd pulled Hollander out of the abyss of not knowing himself—out into truly knowing himself and his desires—and the irony was that at that moment, Ilya had been wearing the mask for Sasha. Sasha had loved that assertive side of him, and all these coincidences were incredibly funny.
Maybe he still wanted that. Or maybe not. But it didn't matter, considering that his skills... determined his future.
That's why it was so terrifying.
That's why he'd felt so awful after a couple of months in Moscow last summer.
Pretending was... disgusting. Unnatural. It weighed on him heavily. It drained him. Exhausted him. Left him drained dry.
Let go. Forget. Pretend. Accept. Pretend again, and again, and again.
Ilya didn’t even know what order it all happened in.
But he truly, truly had no choice.
He honestly didn't want to find out what would happen if he stopped pretending.
Because his whole life... depended on it.
He saw Sasha’s features as if through shadow. He was a different person already. He had changed. Beyond recognition. It was as if Ilya were looking at him and simultaneously looking at a stranger.
Maybe if he imagined a stranger in his place, it would be much easier.
Maybe that’s exactly what he should do.
Not think about Sasha, because Sasha was no longer there.
The only problem was that Sasha had always been using. From the first day they met. From the very beginning. Ilya could hardly remember a moment in their relationship when Sasha wasn’t on something.
So was it the drugs or simply… him?
What made him do it? Why? Why?
His heart lurched unpleasantly in his chest. Ilya was beginning to feel cold in the place where his heart had once been. Vaguely, he felt the ice spreading, freezing every artery and his entire chest cavity.
The people they used to be were gone, and never would be again.
His former self was gone too.
He had died and been born anew on the same day.
His heart simply couldn’t bear so much.
But he was still guilty; he was complicit simply by virtue of his involvement.
He was guilty also because—
He had no one to blame for all this but himself.
He didn’t even realize when hot tears started streaming down his cheeks.
Sasha’s gentle fingers wiped them away immediately, lightly, as they always had.
“Sweetheart, don’t cry, please. Don’t cry. Everything is all right.”
Nothing is all right, Ilya thought.
Sasha had long since stopped asking him why he cried. When their relationship first started, he used to ask every time—and he never called him a crybaby, like his father or Lyosha, and that had been enough—but Ilya simply stayed silent, choking on tears and keeping his mouth shut. He just couldn’t speak all that was on his mind. All the feelings left after his mother’s suicide. After Sveta left. In time, the questions stopped, because Ilya simply never answered—and Ilya didn’t have the willpower to ask him to ask what was wrong.
Now... Ilya was glad Sasha had stopped asking. Oh sure, he could still ask, but rarely, because he knew Ilya wouldn’t answer. Ilya had never liked talking about his tears, from the very beginning. What happened two and a half years ago hadn’t changed that.
He really was tired of it. He didn’t... didn’t want this. Not entirely.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a thought flickered that he just wanted to go back to Canada, to Sh—
That’s it.
And he also didn’t want to pretend it hadn’t happened.
Didn’t want to.
Only there was no choice.
He was just glad this break would last a lot less than last year. Just two weeks to endure this time. He could do it. He could.
He could.
Ilya barely felt his knees buckle, and he fell to the hard floor—tears still in his eyes—and reached for Sasha's jeans, starting to unbuckle his belt.
Sasha only frowned, watching him with obvious concern.
Dangerous, Ilya thought, dangerous, dangerous.
Play your part better, you asshole. Pretend better.
Sasha mustn’t be allowed to—
“It’s… I just lost a game. Sorry about these.” Ilya swiped his free hand across his cheek, pointing at the tears. “No big deal.”
Lies, lies, and more lies.
Ilya hadn't lost a single game, except maybe half a year ago. That loss, in January, had been truly hard to swallow. They'd played Boston more than once, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but none of it had been as stark as that.
He could have lost one of the recent minor games, and he could have blamed his tears on that. Only he wouldn't have cried over something like that. Those games were all so petty and unimportant—valuable experience, sure, but nothing that could gut him. The only game that could cause such overwhelming sadness was the one in January.
But Sasha didn’t need to know that. Sasha had stopped giving a damn about hockey a million years ago, when his father realized he couldn’t make a hockey player out of him. And besides, Ilya knew his excuse, as false as it was, would work.
Sasha doesn’t care about hockey—one of the immutable truths Ilya knew. And he could count on that. He could count on that, right?
Sasha’s face relaxed, and Ilya instantly calmed down.
Right.
Everything was all right. Everything was under his control.
Sasha hadn’t noticed anything. Sasha didn’t ask unnecessary questions. And that was the most important thing. As long as everything remained as it was now—Ilya was safe. The main thing was to pull himself together and do what he always did best.
Pretend.
The belt felt heavy under his fingers. The cold, massive metal buckle contrasted with his barely warm fingers. His fingers felt clumsy. His knees were completely numb even after the fall. It didn’t hurt. Or maybe it did hurt him. Ilya didn’t care. Anything, just to distract himself. The main thing was that…
He could do this.
Inhale. Exhale.
Just two weeks this time.
He could do this.
He could do this.