Chapter Text
Ilya Rosanov’s greatest asset in hockey is simply his survival technique.
He sat in his chair in his house in Vermont, and the more that he thought about it, the more he realized that his childhood really did prepare him for excelling in hockey. He just wished it hadn’t. Not in that way.
Now he realizes that even as a child, he would constantly monitor people’s moods, the temperature of the room, the levels of anxiety or anger or sadness, always needing to be able to judge when to throw himself between his raging father and his crying mother, when to be loud and boisterous with joy to sing along aside her, when to be quiet and soothing to keep her afloat. He knew– he knew there wasn’t anything he could have done to save her, nothing he could have done to keep her from her “accident”--- but there was still the smallest sliver of that devastated and wounded boy who thought maybe if he had just been….better. Been braver. Been smarter. Been quieter. Been—
It wasn’t going to help anything now. He rolled his shoulders to clear the tension in them. There was nothing he could have done, and he just would have to keep telling himself that for the rest of his life.
He remembered being a small child, barely taller than the bed she was lying in, waking her up to take her next dose of the medicine that was supposed to be helping her but never seemed to actually help. He remembered being young, but still being old enough to stop himself from crying where she could hear because his crying made her cry, and then she could rarely stop. He remembers how fiercely she loved him, how safe he felt when her arms were around him. He remembers how dulled the world became when she was “tired” and he would try anything to wake her up into a good mood. She’d say “don’t worry, I’m just tired, sweet boy. I just need to get some sleep,” as if he couldn’t see it. He remembers how angry he was that she left him, how angry he had been that she didn’t love him enough to stay, how angry he was that she was supposed to protect him and she didn’t.
He remembered the bright sunshine of her love, and the sheer panic that came tearing through him whenever something set her off. The little things he noticed as the signs that she was stable or in trouble – if there was bread in the kitchen, everything was fine. She was okay, and cognizant and present enough to buy bread and that meant everything was fine. If there was no bread in the kitchen, the cycle was beginning again and he was nauseous and all hell was about to break loose. .
It was exhausting, being the one who noticed all the time. Ilya shifted in his chair.
His ability to judge how angry his father was at any given moment – was he just going to scream or would his fists be involved? Would he be cruel with his words, or cruel with his actions? There were plenty of times when Ilya had judged it well, and he was able to placate, to soothe, to submit, to stave off his father’s rage. But also plenty of times when he misjudged– especially when he was younger, that he went for the wrong action, thinking that maybe his father would approve just a little more if Ilya showed a little bit more fire, a little bit more strength. He quickly learned that most of the time, stoic & un-feeling, cold rage held in check, blank faced and locked jaw got him through his father’s anger far more efficiently.
He wasn’t sure which was more disorienting, more devastating: not being able to predict his mother’s behaviour, or his father’s.
What it did was hone his skill for observation – what would set either of them off? What are the vulnerabilities of the situation, and what could he use to push either one of them in a better direction than the one they were currently on?
The way he could hear when Alexei’s voice strayed too far into one his father’s danger zones. Ilya had to withdraw into himself as he heard a slight whine or petulance in Alexei’s voice that Ilya knew meant their father would retaliate. There are times he feel guilty, gut-punch guilty how quickly he learned not to try to get between them, that he stopped trying to warn Alexei. He’s not sure how old he was,
As they got older, Alexei played dirty every chance he got. Living with Alexei, even growing up, had been a battle. Alexei manipulated, Alexei plotted, and so long as Ilya went along with his plan, Ilya didn’t have to worry. When Ilya began to separate himself from Alexei, when Ilya countered him or defied him – the gloves came off. As they grew, and Ilya began to excel at hockey, outshining his older brother, Alexei could no longer threaten him with punches or slaps or throwing him down the stairs.
And as he grew up, as he had more to hide, as he had more to protect, Ilya began to realize that many people around him wanted something from him. His father wanted…glory and honour and pride, wanted to be able to brag that his youngest son was just like him, a chip off the old block, basking in reflected glory. Alexei wanted to be his mother’s baby again, wanted the entirety of their mother’s love for himself again, wanted his father to see him again not just how he failed to live up to Ilya’s triumphs. He wanted to be the Rosanov everyone worshipped.
In fact, pretty much everyone Ilya knew, everyone he grew up with – they all wanted something from him. Money, fame, power, sex, his name, his fame– they were in it for themselves. As he climbed the ranks of the hockey leagues and teams, as he got better and better at the game, Ilya began to learn how to watch for it, worked hard at seeing through their schemes, and their lies. It became part of his strategy. He learned how to observe, how to see what made them tick, and how to un-do them. How to reduce them.
Except Sveta. Ilya leaned back in his chair, sipping at his glass. Sveta loved him, he knew that. Sveta saw him, knew the terrified little boy he had been and still was, and she loved him anyway. Sveta had been the key, keeping him from dying inside completely, keeping him from closing off every feeling. She’d been the reason he’d kept his empathy. He’d watched and observed and zeroed in on her insecurities, so he could destroy her first before she destroyed him, just like everyone else. He’d only wielded that power once, one time when she had made him so angry, and he said– he couldn’t even remember exactly what he’d said, something she had been secretly worried about, and her face had crumpled. And he could still feel the way his heart crumpled in on itself, watching her face as she cried. He felt nauseous with it.
And then he was on his knees beside her, wrapping his arms around her as she cried, apologizing over and over, crying himself. He didn’t mean it. He loved her, and he was so sorry. He was so so sorry.
Eventually, he’d wiped her eyes, fixed him with a glare that pinned him straight to the floor, and told him she’d accept his apology but that was the last time he’d be forgiven for making her cry. And then she punched him, hard. And that was that. From that moment on, Sveta was the only person he could trust to take his side no matter what, and still love him.
And after that, he knew the difference between being cutting and being cruel. He learned the difference between needling someone and devastating someone. He worked very hard at his ability to get underneath people’s skin, especially on the ice. He observed, he watched, he noted, and when it suited him, he would rattle their cages enough to make them make a mistake. Usually, it was simply a case of puncturing their bravado, or impugning their fragile masculinity. For most hockey players, those two thing were often tightly intertwined. He became famous for his chirps, famous for his ability to shake his opponents, particularly at face-offs.
The only person he couldn’t seem to rattle on the ice was Shane Hollander.
He’d watched videos of Shane on the ice, looking for weaknesses to be exploited. He’d been astounded to see there were very few. Ilya was good at hockey, one of the best players in recent memory. He wasn’t shy about this at all. But Shane was something else. Ilya knew how hard it was to play, how hard it was to make your body push harder, go faster. People said Ilya on the ice was like a panther; powerful, commanding, controlled power. You could see how much effort it took to play like Ilya played. But with Shane– there was just something buoyant about him, something graceful and light about the way he played. He just seemed to always be in the right spot to score, always in the right spot to receive a pass, but it never looked like he worked hard to get there. He was two steps ahead, playing the game several moves ahead of everyone else.
And then they met, in that weird back alley behind the rink with Ilya trying to light his cigarette in the cursed Canadian wind, and Shane with his brightness, his warm hands, his freckles. Ilya knew right then that there was something else, something more than just being the only person who played hockey as well as he did.
The CCM ad, where he’d (hoped?) expected that Shane would turn out to be just another hockey player, jostling for a better position, angling for better lighting, full of bravado and bluster with nothing to back it up. But he wasn’t. He was one of the best hockey players in the world, yet it didn’t seem to phase him in the slightest. He was polite to a fault. He remembered people’s names. He put the disposable cup his tea had been in the garbage can, then detoured way out of his way to put the cardboard sleeve and plastic top in the recycling bin. He had no oversized ego, he had no swagger. Shane had nothing to prove, and his fame and his skill and his everything just seemed to settle gently around him.
And his laugh was loud, and genuine, and it lit up his whole face.. The ridiculous poses the directors had them in, pretending to glare at each other – neither one of them could keep a straight face. Without saying a word, they both just connected to each other. Shane seemed to finish the sentences Ilya was thinking and vice versa. No posturing, no affectations, just two people trying desperately not to laugh and happily failing at it.
And then the shower. Oh god, the shower. And the hotel room after.
Shane was gorgeous, and he didn’t seem to know it. Shane was honest, without any pretenses. Shane was nervous but eager. Ilya no longer tried to deny that being Shane’s “first” was kind of hot. Teaching him how, teaching Shane how he, himself, like it – yeah, that was hot.
And that’s when Ilya got invested, because there had to be something, some way to get past that impenetrable cool, some way to find what made him tick. What made him tick? Ilya watched Shane’s games and made notes. He watched his interviews. He watched his interviews in French. He watched documentary shorts, he watched the Sports Illustrated and GQ clips of his magazine stories. He went back and re-listened to those games when Shane was micc’ed up. He made notes on all of them.
He clearly remembered their first face-off in the NHL. He’d sifted through everything he’d learned about Shane Hollander up that point, and realized that the only thing he could really use on the ice was Shane’s second biggest fear, the one likely to discombobulate and throw him off his game was failing the expectations of the people he cared about. He’d smugly, and admittedly somewhat seductively, asked “Shane Hollander, will you disappoint them?” And Shane – sexy, genuine, and real – had simply said “Nope.” And then he’d won the face-off, and then he’d won the game, and he really hadn’t disappointed them at all. It was just the truth.
The earnestness of Shane, the way he gave himself entirely, the sincerity of his heart– Ilya never had reason to doubt him. He’d been scared by Shane, he’d been worried by Shane, he’d been heartbroken by Shane, yes, it was true. But he’d never had reason to doubt him. There was no vindictiveness or duplicity in Shane. He’d never been malicious, or cruel, not on purpose.
Such heavy thoughts for such a beautiful morning. Ilya stretched, his empty coffee cup balanced on the edge of the table next to him. Shane would be here in a few hours. He was leaving Montreal directly after his meeting this morning with…..Rolex? A big name brand that was sure to involve many pictures of Shane posing in various states of undress, and Ilya was a big fan of those pictures. Maybe Shane would bring some of the proofs with him, and Ilya could spend the afternoon pointing all the areas of perfection and sexiness and matching them to the parts of Shane’s body and licking them–
It had been weeks since they’d seen each other. Ilya swallowed hard. He could, he supposed, relieve some of the tension himself, before Shane arrived. But it was so much better when they both were gasping and desperate. Ilya would wait.
*
Just because they loved each other desperately did not mean that spending extended periods of time together came naturally. Ilya sometimes struggled fitting into the necessarily regimented order that was Shane’s life. He didn’t mind the mess he’d scattered, he didn’t always understand why the details of Shane’s plan mattered.
It was early on, and they were still very much in the excitement & newness of being together. He couldn’t even remember how it had started, really. It had been what he had thought was an entirely innocent question and he didn’t understand Shane’s answers so, like an idiot, he kept pushing so he could try to understand and all the sudden Shane was defensive and snarling.
“It’s just how it needs to be, Rosanov!” Shane shouted, standing with his hands clenched.
“Okay, Hollander,” Ilya softened his voice. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to yell– I just feel backed into a corner right now, and I–”
“It’s okay. You’re frustrated, I get it. I’m just trying to understand.”
“I just—” Shane closed his eyes, took a long deep breath, then opened them again. “There’s just a certain way that I have put all these routines together, and they all mesh in a certain way and if they don’t…”
“What happens?” Ilya asked gently.
“I don’t– I don’t–” Shane closed his eyes again, running his palms down his thigh. “I don’t know . It’s just— I eat the foods I eat because they’re predictable. I know they’re not going to upset my stomach, I know they’re not going to gross me out, the textures are going to be okay for me. I know all the nutritional values, and how they are going to help. I wear the clothes I wear because they’re not going to make me itch or feel too gross on my skin, and they’re not going to be too tight anywhere and make me feel sick. I just have the way that I–”
Shane drew in a shuddering breath.
“It’s the way you move through the world,” Ilya said softly. “It’s okay, my love.”
“But the problem is—”
“There’s no problem here, Shane–”
Shane huffed an impatient breath. “....... I have these things mapped out, I have these ways mapped out for how -I- need things to go. But that doesn’t….it gets me through my day, but what about your day? it’s too much for me to expect you to handle. It’s too much– I’m too rigid and it’s too much. ”
Ilya stood then, and went to Shane. “Hey.” He moved slowly, wrapping his arms around Shane slowly, giving Shane time to react. Shane stood rigid, then slowly began to melt into Ilya.
“You are not too much. This is not too much.” Ilya whispered.
“I don’t know when you’re going to get sick of me, get sick of putting up with me, and I’m so afraid of when that happens, when you’re going to realize– ” Shane whispered so softly Ilya could barely hear him. “I know I’m difficult. I’m weird. I don’t fit in and–
“You fit with me.” Ilya said firmly. “And I am not going to get sick of you. I am not.”
“But I know– I can see that these routines are– I have tried really hard to make them as easy for other people as possible, but they’re–”
“Hey.” Ilya drew back, so he could try to see Shane’s face. “Hey, look at me.”
Shane shook his head, keeping it ducked low.
“Listen to me, Hollander.” Ilya took Shane’s chin in his hand, tilting his face towards his. “I am not putting up with you. I am amazed every day I am with you. I am grateful for every day.”
“Every. Single. Day.” He punctuated his words with light kisses.
He continued. “You have routines. You have ways that you need to do things, and things you need to not eat and certain things that you do. And that’s just–”
“It’s too hard, Ilya. It’s too much to ask you to cope with.”
“Hear me, Hollander,” Ilya shook him gently to get his attention. “It’s not too hard. You’re not too hard. Loving you is the easiest thing in the world for me.”
Shane sniffed quietly.
“It’s the easiest thing in the world, Shane. You’re everything.. I don’t have to fight it anymore, I don’t have to hide from it anymore. You’re just everything, and that’s it.”
“I just feel like I should apologize," Shane began.
“No.” Ilya said emphatically. “No apologies. You are not too much. There’s no such thing.”
Shane huffed a small laugh into Ilya’s neck.
“We will figure out how to be together, how to live together, how to– navigate each other,” Ilya continued. “You have ways you need to do things, and I have ways I need to do things, and we’re just going to figure out how we can do those things together. I’m going to do my best to understand you, and you’re going to do your best to understand me, and–“
Shane kissed him abruptly.“And we’re not going to keep count and say who is more work than the other or any of that – we’re just going to accept that we’re both worth the effort.”
“And if your routines get messed up, or mine do – we will figure it out. The world is not going to end, I promise. We’ll figure it out together.”
Shane leaned back to wipe at Ilya’s tears. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you say so many words at once in English?”
“I haven’t had anyone to talk to for three days. I’ve had some time to think about all the things I want to tell you. And then work on translating them.” Ilya grinned. “English is a stupid language.”
Shane laughed softly. “Yeah. It can be.”
“And we’re going to argue, and we’re going to fight, but it’s not because we don’t love each other. It’s because we haven’t figured out the way through it yet.”
Ilya kissed him on the tip of his nose. “And also because I really can be an asshole.”
“You really can be such an asshole,” Shane muttered, wrapping both his arms around Ilya so tightly neither one of them could breathe.
*
“What are you looking for?” Ilya asked as Shane stood in the bedroom, the contents of his suitcase stacked somewhat neatly on the bed.
“My lip balm.” Shane shook out every item of clothing, checking the pockets, before refolding them and placing them back in the bag.
“Your lip balm?”
“You know, you put it on your lips when they are chapped or dry and it protects them.”
“Yes, I know lip balm,” Ilya stepped closer.
“I don’t have any, and–”
“This will be a problem?”
“Yeah. No. Not really. But kind of, yes.”
“Not really but kind of yes?”
“It’s not a problem, it will just irritate me.”
“We could go get you one, there’s a store that’s maybe 20 minutes away–”
“They’ll have some, yes, but I use this particular kind, and the other brands don’t do as good a job.”
“Not even for a day or two?”
“It’s… It’s the one that works the best for me; it’s got a good flavor that doesn’t make me feel sick and it glides on really smoothly and it keeps my lips from being too dry but it’s not too waxy and I don’t have to reapply it too frequently, and it’s….it’s just the lip balm that I need.”
“Okay. We will find you your special brand of lip balm.”
“No, it’s fine. I can deal.”
“Shane?”
“I can deal. We can’t go driving around here together looking for one specific brand of lip balm. Who knows where we could find it, and who knows who will see us, and just no… I can deal.”
Ilya watched him carefully that afternoon. He saw Shane licking his lips absentmindedly and grimacing. A little while later, he saw Shane start nibbling gently at his lower lip.
“Shane.”
“I am not going to cause a fuss about not having the right lip balm. That’s just…. I’m not a prima donna. It’s fine.”
Ilya does a fairly good job distracting Shane by using his own lips. But soon after they are collapsed, breathless and blissed out, Ilya sees him chew his lip again.
It was at bedtime that Ilya realized the depth of the problem. Yes, they were blissfully tired out, and yes, they were smiling and yes, they are in love, and yes, yes yes, they will have the whole night together, and then also the whole next day and another night and Ilya’s heart squeezes with the happiness of it.
But Shane has brushed his teeth, and ke[t glancing at the bedside table – where his lip balm should be, Ilya realized. This was part of his bedtime routine– He brushes his teeth, he uses his nasal spray, he puts on his lip balm, then he will lie down on his right side and shimmy forward until he can curve himself around Ilya. It’s been the same routine every night he has spent with Ilya, and this little hiccup, this lack of a step is distressing Shane. He’s not upset, he’s not angry, he’s not freaking out. He’s just distressed, and trying so hard not to be, and it is starting to distress Ilya.
“I found some of that goat milk hand cream you like–” Ilya offered. “Could that help your lips?”
“No, seriously,” Shane fidgeted with the blanket, “it’s fine, thank you.”
“Butter? Would butter work for your lips?”
“What? No?”
“Lube?” Ilya offers, and Shane splutters.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What? It’s slippery, it makes things glide, it–”
Shane giggled into Ilya’s shoulder. “Not a chance.”
“If I’d known, I would have gotten the flavoured lube, Shane. This is a thing they have.”
“It’s fine.”
“If you chew your own lips off in the night, I will be very sad, Shane.”
“I won’t chew my own lips off in the night, Ilya.”
“Promise?”
“Christ, Rosanov, I promise.”
They tease each other a little more, murmuring softly, as the darkness settles around them. But Ilya can practically hear Shane’s thoughts, working to convince himself that he can fall asleep without the lip balm.
“Olive oil!” Ilya crows.
“Olive oil?”
“Slippery, nourishing, useful in many instances,” Ilya rolled to his back, pulling Shane’s head down to his shoulder, “mentioned in many ancient Greek texts as good for skin, as well as for sexual acts.”
“What the hell–”
“Someday I will see if I can find you a copy of the big book of ancient Greek art my school library had. Many many pictures of many many naked men. Women, too, but mostly men, doing all sorts of interesting things. The book always fell open to the good pictures– it was a very very popular book.”
Shane was now laughing so hard he was shaking the bed.
“But seriously, Shane, will putting a little olive oil on your lips help you to go to sleep?”
“I guess we can try”
They padded down to the kitchen, moonlight streaming in through the windows. Ilya sat Shane down in a chair by the kitchen table, and went to search his pantry for olive oil.
He found the bottle, and drizzled a small amount on his fingertip. He turned to Shane, who watched him solemnly. Standing in the moonlight, Ilya rubbed his fingertip slowly and reverently across Shane’s lips and can’t breathe for how his heart is pounding, how beautiful he is, how he loves him.