Work Text:
and the award for mvp of the year goes to…ilya rozanov!
shane exhales. puts his hands together. observes. pushes down pride and feigns indifference.
•••
the cigarette hangs between his fingers like an intruder as he absorbs the vegas skyline. he hates the smell and taste, but for the briefest of moments, it makes him forget. makes him numb to the current state of reality.
he can’t pinpoint the moment when the weight had started to fill his chest. it is a consistent and constant pressure that has take residence in his throat and bones. a feeling that isn’t really a feeling, more a lack thereof.
to the outside world, it looks like shane functions, thrives even. commanding on the ice, polished and professional in press conferences, drowning in luxury ad deals, a role model adored by the public.
he doesn’t struggle.
shouldn’t struggle.
wishes he wouldn’t struggle.
the ache persists.
it’s an absence of something that once was.
•••
he’s on his second cigarette when he hears the door on the roof open, the faint noise of jazz music temporarily permeating the air. the lights of vegas continue to burn as he takes another drag
“hollander?”
he stills. takes a moment to steady the chill. hates the way his throat catches at the sight of him.
ilya rozanov. in all his suited glory.
breathe shane.
he swallows again and nods in acknowledgement as ilya regards him, in somewhat disbelief.
“since when do you smoke?”
he almost sounds amused. shane bites the inside of his cheek.
it had six months since they’d spoken face to face or texted, and five and a half since shane had purchased his first pack of marlboros. keeping his hands busy with a cigarette meant he would be less likely to scroll through the messages again.
in that time, ilya had won the playoffs, bagged a couple hat tricks and seemingly drowned in the company of women (at least according to tmz). in that time, shane had become a stranger in his own body, repressing any thought he deemed ‘unnatural’ and craved body checks on ice just so he could feel something again.
“couple months,” is what he settles on as a response.
the air hangs between them, a silence that is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. it just exists. that’s somehow more painful.
“going to offer me one?” ilya asks as he fiddles with his cufflings. “is my special day after all.”
i gave everything to you and it wasn’t enough is what shane wants to scream.
instead he holds out the cigarette box, tapping his finger against the cardboard to calm the buzz. he’s always found it impossible to say no, a perpetual people pleaser.
ilya strides forward, retrieving one with a smile. shane does everything to make sure their fingers don’t touch.
ilya pats his inside pocket to find a lighter. the flame glows against his skin as he lights the cigarette. he borderline moans after his first drag, cheeks flushed from the air and eyes closed in a state of euphoria.
he looks so fucking beautiful. just like when they’d…
shane blinks the thought away. it haunts him to the core.
he remembers a time where he would be giving ilya shit for even thinking of smoking. now it was the only thing that offers him any sort of clarity.
“congrats on the win,” he finds himself saying as he taps some ash over the balcony edge. he watches it fall and momentarily wonders if he would drop down at the same pace.
ilya is looking at him. he doesn’t look back.
“number one draft, number one goal scorer and number one team. went to the right person.”
shane wonders if it sounds jaded and bitter as he takes another drag. the lights seem too bright all of a sudden, the smoke all consuming.
“thanks,” ilya says. he can’t quite read his tone.
sirens cut through the air on the strip below. shane feels tired.
“shouldn’t you be celebrating?” he finds himself asking as the ringing continues.
“i have all night for celebration. needed fresh air.”
shane tries not to think about how unsure ilya sounds. ignores the way he begins to shift on his feet.
“i wanted to find you.”
shane feels his throat tighten. he doesn’t respond. lets the smoke burn against him as he waits.
“to apologise,” ilya continues. he sounds stilted and awkward, and it’s not just from not speaking in his native tongue.
“i did not respond to texts. things got busy…”
busy.
shane wants to scoff, wants to shout about how convenient it was that ilya got too busy the moment after he’d put out, shared a part of himself that was so deeply personal and vulnerable.
“it happens,” he says instead.
he stubs the cigarette to the floor, eyes downcast before finally looking at ilya. his brows are furrowed.
“after russia i had to focus on the cup and my family and-…”
“you don’t have to explain,” shane interrupts, his delivery sharper than intended.
he watches ilya bristle.
“it’s fine,” the lie rolls off his tongue like a duck to water. he brushes imaginary dust off his suit, just to give his hands something to do.
ilya looks crushed.
“hollander. i’m sorry.”
the sympathy cuts more than any insult could. saying he forgives him would be a lie.
shane hums and turns back towards the skyline. his temple thumps against his heartbeat. he wants another cigarette.
“you should go. back to your party.”
he can’t bring himself to tell him he’s okay. not right now.
the sad reality is that ilya doesn’t owe him anything. it doesn’t matter that he was his first everything with a guy.
yet it doesn’t hurt any less.
you can’t force somebody to feel…
shane’s hands grip against the balcony in a desperate attempt to anchor himself. to bury that thought as quickly as it arose.
he doesn’t register ilya stepping closer.
“talk please.”
shane can’t bare to look at him.
“you are not saying what you think.”
it sounds clumsy but shane gets the gist. he laughs and it sounds hollow.
“what’s the point?”
ilya frowns. “why would you lie?”
because the truth is fucking killing me.
“what do you want me to say rozanov?”
ilya looks exasperated.
“what you feel? it’s like you’re here but not here.”
if only you knew how long i’ve spent outside of my body recently.
shane balls his fists, his heart beating like he’s just finished a marathon.
“it doesn’t matter what i feel. what does that change?”
ilya reaches out to touch his wrist. shane flinches.
“it does i…fuck. it matters.”
liar liar liar.
“you’re full of shit,” shane snaps, all resolve melting as he shakes ilya away. “you got what you wanted from me.”
“what i wanted,” ilya repeats, like he is trying to process. it makes shane angrier.
“you fucked me. then you ghosted me.”
he hears ilya exhale.
“i…-“
“what else is there to say. that’s what happened.”
“hollander…”
“you wanted to find a way to get under my skin. another way to come out on top. you did. and now all i want to do is forget that it ever happened.”
the lights have become a blur of colour in front of him as the words continue to spill out.
“i want to fucking forget about you, god.”
forget the moment when you made me feel like this could work.
shane fumbles for another cigarette, doesn’t dare turn towards ilya. pushes the pain down with purpose. he’s a pro at that.
“before you i didn’t have to think about…” he trails off. doesn’t dare finish that line of thinking. what good would it do?
“about what?” ilya’s voice is uncharacteristically soft.
shane shakes his head.
“doesn’t matter,” he says. closes his eyes before turning towards ilya with his best mask.
“shane.”
he tries not to recoil at the mention of his name. steadies himself. exhales slowly.
“congrats again on the award. i’ll see you next season.”
“i didn’t mean to…”
ilya sighs, says something under his breath in this mother tongue.
“i never wanted to hurt you.”
you didn’t do anything to not hurt me either.
all shane can do is nod.
“if you think i don’t care,” ilya’s voice cracks as he speaks. “you do not know me.”
shane nods, “yeah. guess i don’t.”
he hears ilya suck in a breath. shane chances a glance at him and his heart stutters at how utterly crushed he looks.
ilya straightens his suit jacket, his lips drawn in a straight line before turning around to leave.
“bye hollander.”
shane doesn’t miss the way ilya wipes his cheek as the door slams behind him.
he’s alone again. finally lets himself sink, cigarette still unlit, ultimately abandoned as he pushes his hands to his face and collapses.
•••
the rest of the night is a blur of faces, a sea of bodies, the gentle thrum of something in shane’s bloodstream as he navigates his way through the ballroom.
he’d thought about leaving but what was the point? it would only give him more time to ruminate.
he finds himself in unchartered territory, accepting shots from scott hunter of all people. the tequila scalds his throat but numbs the continuous thumping.
“didn’t think i’d ever see you like this rook,” scott laughs as shane sways on his feet. “not taking that loss too well?”
that wasn’t even the worse thing i lost this evening.
“i’ll try again next year,” shane hiccups, steadies himself against the counter with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“i have no doubt you’ll be nominated again,” scott says, his tone warm and sincere.
why couldn’t i have liked you instead?
“i haven’t been a rookie in years,” shane sighs, tries to level his stare with scott but finds himself giggling.
“you’ll always be one to me hollander,” scott says, his hand landing on shane’s shoulder in a way that is meant to be comforting. he shudders.
“you’re nice,” shane murmurs. he pretends not to notice the way scott’s ears tinge pink.
there’s a momentary lull as scott’s hand slides away.
“i should go to bed. i think i drank too much,” he eventually says.
scott scoffs, “yeah you think?”
“shut up,” shane says with a slight shove. “thanks for the shots.”
scott tilts his head.
“you’re welcome.”
he pauses for a moment, like he is debating saying something.
“you sure you’re okay? you just seem…”
shane blinks back at him as he trails off. he suddenly feels very naked.
“it’s just you don’t seem like yourself.“
shane has no idea what that means.
“just if you want to talk about it, i’m here,” scott says with a tight but friendly expression.
i don’t deserve your kindness.
he nods. smiles and trains his line of sight towards his dress shoes. tries to blink back the tears that are threatening to spill out.
“i’m good hunter. but thank you.”
if scott hears how thick shane’s voice has become, he doesn’t comment on it.
“you need help getting back to your room?”
shane shakes his head, “nah, s’all good. i think i can manage.”
“okay. see you later.”
shane walks away. the weight persists.
•••
he finds his way into a lift, presses his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. let’s out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in. everything feels too warm and the room refuses to stop spinning.
when he reaches his floor, he fumbles to find his room key. his suit, now sticking to his skin, has too many hidden pockets to navigate. the drunk haze set over shane and makes it even harder to locate.
the sound of talking makes him still.
the voice is unmistakeable in the opposite room.
ilya sounds like he is on the phone. shane briefly wonders who he is speaking to and when he slinked away from the party.
he locates his key at the same time as the door swings open.
shane doesn’t need to turn around to know he is being watched
“hollander?”
he pauses.
when he turns around, he is met with a disheveled ilya. his cheek are blotched with pink and his bow tie hangs loose around his neck.
“early night for you,” shane says. tries to smile instead of crying.
ilya doesn’t laugh or even bite back. his eyes are shining.
“please talk to me,” he whispers. he’s never sounded more vulnerable.
shane grips the handle, his voice tight.
“tomorrow.”
ilya presses his lips together.
“okay.”
a million things left unsaid.
shane enters his room before he does something stupid, like invite ilya in or jump his bones.
he’s drowning when he’s inside.
the pressure is all consuming.
he wants it all to stop.
he stares down at the phone in his hand with a grimace.
stop.
please just stop.
•••
09:12:03
lily are you free?
[this message could not be delivered]
09:15:11
lily hollander?
[this message could not be delivered]
09:16:00
lily fuck
[this message could not be delivered]