Chapter Text
Shane does not answer Rozanov’s calls for 3 more days.
He doesn’t outright ignore him, either– he has half a brain to know that the Russian does not take kindly to being ghosted. To placate Rozanov, instead, Shane opts to send a short text every afternoon, no longer than 10 words each time (“Hey, sorry for not answering your call last night. Talk tomorrow?”). If these messages are meant to feign normalcy, Shane knows he is not succeeding.
When Rozanov does not respond to his messages, Shane feels his chest tighten with a mix of guilt and sadness. Truthfully, he wants nothing more than to hear the sharp consonants and jagged edges of Rozanov’s voice: God, if Shane could just talk to him, he’s sure his problems would dissipate in a heartbeat. He feels pathetic in a way that he chooses not to confront.
To be fair, Shane had been busy all the times Rozanov had called him, picking up extra practices late in the night to dull the resounding buzzing in his head that had refused to falter since the moment Shane had hung up on Rozanov. He’d skate around in near-darkness, practicing lackluster slapshots hours after his teammates had already returned home. The late night practices did little to soothe Shane, but they often granted him at least a few minutes of distraction– until Shane would hear his phone buzzing from the bench, skate over to see Lilly’s contact pop up on his screen, and spiral once more.
His movements were always methodic; wind back the stick until it was parallel with the ground, swing the club down and forward and ensure the stick contacts the ice at the puck’s exact location, shift weight to the stick, lead the stick forward and rotate the hips 30 degrees, focus on the target. Focus on the target, look forward and focus on the target, guide the puck, and focus on the target. Although accuracy had always been his specialty, Shane found himself unable to complete the most basic and necessary step; focus on the damn target. His vision would begin to turn slightly blurry, his thoughts wandering until it felt he no longer existed in his own body. Without fail, when his mind would come back to him, the puck would be sliding slightly too far left, too high, falling short.
For what end goal Shane subjected himself to these sleepless nights of aimless skating and shooting, he would say distraction, improvement; Shane Hollander, always on his A-game, always doing more than what was expected of him. Perhaps more truthfully, Shane always seemed to recall whatever he had eaten earlier that day until he would become overwhelmed with a near-insatiable need for the calories to leave his body. He’d feel the apples, toast, and chicken breast seeping through his sweat glands whilst he barrelled himself across the ice, unsatisfied until the familiar hollow feeling in his stomach returned.
On the third day of ignoring Ilya, Shane arrives to practice an hour early, re-taping his stick and taking his time during his pre-practice shower. When his teammates start to trickle in 40 minutes later, Shane grants them small smiles and fistbumps, not quite treading past basic formalities. As the Captain walks to his locker to begin dressing, Hayden saunters up to him with an all-too-bright smile on his face and a Redbull in his left hand.
“Morning, sunshine!” Hayden’s voice is friendly, earning a small smile out of the Captain.
“Hey, Hayd.”
Shane knows he sounds exhausted, though he cannot bring himself to force a more enthusiastic answer past his lips. Hayden shoots a pointed, questioning look that Shane ignores, continuing to lace up his skates whilst his best friend begins his own pre-practice rituals with a shrug. The locker room is humming with the aura of an evening practice, the Metros warming up and engaging in small, meaningless background noise. It's a comforting sound, Shane thinks. If nothing, his friends’ presence reminds him he is still alive.
Shane finishes tying the double knot on his skates, grabbing his padding and practice jersey from his locker when he sees Hayden staring at him out of the corner of his eye. Hesitantly, he turns to face his friend, quirking his eyebrows up as if to ask, What could possibly be so interesting?
Hayden snaps into a teasing (albeit slightly concerned) smile, turning away.
“You look like shit.” He casually announces after a moment.
“Thanks?”
Shane brushes off the comment as he continues getting ready, though can still see Hayden sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye.
Shane is hardly surprised by Hayden’s behavior; Hayden, being Hayden, always seemed to thiink Shane was being too hard on himself, or that he needed to find more hobbies and pleasures outside of hockey. He had offered to set Shane up with “one of Jackie’s friends” more times than Shane could count, nearly begging him to settle down with a good woman and join Hayden in the pits of parenthood.
Over the past few weeks, though, Hayden had been watching Shane more closely. It began with small comments (“You know you can order something other than the chicken breast, right? No shot it’s just that good.”), escalating to more frequent dinner invitations (“Jackie’s going to kill me if you keep cancelling on dinner, she’s convinced that no one is feeding you otherwise.”), to this; pointed glances, allusions to Shane’s overall wellbeing, insinuations that Shane was not doing well– and would not admit it. As of late their pre-practice and post-game banter, usually light and joking, had become weighted and uncomfortable, Shane shrinking away from Hayden’s knowing glances whilst the latter became more and more desperate as the days passed. Hayden knows Shane, knows that he’s always been a strong and stable man who supports everyone and himself seamlessly, carrying everyone’s burdens without fail or complaint. For this, Hayden couldn’t understand why Shane wouldn’t allow someone else to carry him, if only for a moment, why he refused to acknowledge the bags under his eyes or the gauntness of his cheeks.
It most definitely did not help that Hayden knew of Shane’s anorexia.
Nine beers after the Metros first Stanley Cup win 3 years ago had given Shane surprisingly loose lips. Shane had told Hayden everything as they stayed up talking in their shared hotel room; the hospitalization, being barred from playing, his biweekly check-ups with psychiatrists and therapists that he maintained to this day. The next morning, when Shane had woken up with a blistering headache and the terrifying realization of what he’d done, he had asked Hayden if he remembered anything about their conversation the night before. Hayden had smiled knowingly, insisting that he had zero recollection of any conversation– “I must have been pretty messed up!”. Shane knew, though. Hayden had drank maybe three beers maximum, and if Shane– who had outdrank half the team– remembered, then Hayden absolutely did. The topic had never once come up after that night, though the two men seemed to be in silent agreement; I know that you know, but I won’t bring it up unless necessary.
“When was the last time you slept? Or ate something?” Hayden asks after a pause, tone still casual though hinting beyond nonchalance.
Shane feels his chest briefly tighten, snapping back to reality. “I’m good dude, seriously,” The Captain responds without turning to meet his friend’s eye, “Slept a full 8 hours last night. Must be that new macrobiotic diet that’s getting to me.” He finishes with a small chuckle, hoping he sounds believable (or at the least unwell to a normal extent).
Hayden watches him for another 15 seconds or so before turning away. “If you say so.”
Once the two are finished getting ready, Hayden helps Shane off the bench with an exaggerated, humorous grunt (if Shane takes it a bit personally, he does not say this). As they begin the short walk out to the ice, Shane hears his phone begin to buzz, quickly turning to his locker to put his notifications on Do Not Disturb as Hayden shoots him a smirk.
“And who could be calling you so late in the day, Mr. Hollander? Some poor girl you left all alone in your bed this morning?”
Shane barely catches the glimpse of Lilly’s name before he opts to power his phone off entirely, rolling his eyes at Hayden as he turns back to face him and continue walking.
“You’re gross. It was my mom.” Shane responds with a slight knock against his friend's shoulder.
The guilt continues to consume Shane as he shuts the locker room door behind him.
Shane does not play well during practice. More accurately, he plays abysmally. Perhaps, to the naked eye, he’s merely playing with less energy, but to the watchful eyes of his coaches and teammates, it's overwhelmingly clear that Shane is missing his shots, making shit passes, and barely maneuvering around defenders.
Shane can feel his heart beating in his chest painfully, his head pounding and swaying. He feels incredibly lightheaded, and he’s sure it’s not helping that all he’s eaten over the past 3 days was a protein shake in the mornings and plain chicken breast with broccoli in the afternoons. When the Metros finish a puck control drill, speed skating down the ice and cupping the puck around small orange cones, Shane has to skate to the penalty box whilst he feels the weakness seep into his bones, urgently trying to calm the hammering in his head and the pulsating underneath his skin. He’s not sure whether or not Coach or Hayden or someone else had asked him where he was going or what he was doing; if they had, Shane had ignored them. After a minute or so, Shane’s vision is stable enough to return to the ice, and he spends the rest of practice similarly staggering.
Shane nearly cries when Coach calls the end of practice and he’s able to return to the locker room, immediately beelining for his locker where he sits with his back pressed against the cold metal. Hayden enters soon after, joining Shane on the floor.
“Intense practice, huh?” Hayden asks after a minute, voice empathetic, guarded.
It had not been an intense practice by all metrics.
“Yeah.” Shane manages to answer, voice clipped.
The two sit in silence for a minute or two as the rest of the locker room begins to brim with energy once more, players fired up from practice and discussing their plans for the night– physical therapy, a movie with the wife, an early night in. Shane attempts to recall if he has any plans, and his mind comes up blank. He sighs, preparing himself for another long night of staring at his reflection, at the ceiling, at the incoming calls from Rozanov he won’t answer.
Hayden turns to Shane as though he is about to say something before Coach’s voice suddenly calls into the locker room.
“Pike!” Coach searches the room for a moment until he makes eye contact with Hayden, the player immediately straightening his posture. “Come to my office for a few minutes.”
A few players shoot Hayden questioning glances as he sighs, pushing himself off the ground and trailing after Coach. Although Shane doesn’t see it, the former turns for a second before exiting, taking a final glance at his friend ragdolled on the floor as if the strings holding him up had been cut. He leaves the locker room with a frown etched upon his features.
Shane isn’t sure how long he stays leaned against his locker attempting to regain feeling in his body. He calls out to players as they leave, yelling a “Good practice” or a “See you tomorrow” from his spot on the floor. When the locker room is almost entirely empty, Shane eventually crawls to his knees before using the bench to support his standing up, beginning the slow process of shedding his layers and packing them away, the remainder of players trickling out.
As Shane shuts the locker and swings his bag over his shoulder, he abruptly hears his Coach’s voice once more.
“Hollander!” Coach doesn’t have to search the room this time; Shane is the only player left. “My office, please.”
Shane pauses then nods, readjusting his bag before following Coach into the office neighboring the locker room, heart rate quickening once more. He examines the room as he enters: the office borders on too-large, the walls adorned with photos of players and lineups, a boastfully lavish trophy case in the corner, Stanley Cups lined up one-by-one. Shane had been in that office more times than he could count on his fingers, deliberating on strategies, lineups, deciding what players were ready and which players needed more time.
Undeniably, Shane can tell this is not a “game plan” meeting, though. He doesn’t need to be told this explicitly to be sure of this fact.
“Sit down, Shane.” Coach says as the two enter the room, absentmindedly gesturing at the chair across his desk.
Shane is getting quite sick of people telling him to sit down before berating him. Nonetheless, he obeys.
Coach wastes no time in speaking.
“This won’t take long. I wanted to talk about your performance today.” Shane’s heart drops. Coach continues without so much as a breath. “I know you, Shane, and I can tell when you’re in a funk. I’m not going to sit here and try to be your therapist, telling you to cry your heart out to me. What I will tell you is this:” Coach leans over for emphasis, meeting Shane’s eyes with fervor. Without realizing, Shane feels his posture straighten and his face flinch back a bit. “The qualifiers are coming up within the month. You are not performing at your best, and I need you to be playing better than your best, both for yourself and your teammates. You are the Captain of this team and you were given this title because I am supposed to be able to trust you to lead your teammates and hold your own. Can you still do that, or should I plan to have to put the “C” on Pike’s jersey before the next game?”
Shane thinks he might throw up.
Coach speaks with a cynical efficiency, wasting no time on pauses for processing or empathetic glances thrown Shane’s way. The words are not an attack, but a genuine question, spoken with the same cadence that Yuna would ask Shane how his day had been.
Briefly, ever so briefly, Shane imagines a world where he is no longer Captain. Would he feel relieved? Upset? Would the loss of the captainship be the end of his career? Would it take enough pressure off for Shane to be able to breathe evenly again, sleep again, eat again?
Shane inhales, pausing for only a few seconds before responding with faux-confidence. “I can still do that, Sir. I know my head was elsewhere today, but I’ll step it up, I promise. I’ve got some personal things going on, but it’s irresponsible of me to bring that onto the ice. I won’t disappoint you.”
Coach holds his hand up as to silence Shane, the latter’s mouth promptly shutting.
“I don’t need you to grovel to me.” Coach sighs, leaning back in his chair, examining the Captain with a knowing eye, “I like you, Shane. I like you enough to have made you Captain as a newer player. You’re a good Captain and a good man. I hope you’re doing okay, and if you need to take some time for yourself, I won’t stop you. I am only asking you this because I need a Captain during the qualifiers who can leave everything behind and do what he’s supposed to do; play good hockey.” Coach swings the back of his hand to his palm with every word, emphasizing them. “I’m not trying to insinuate that that person isn’t you. I’m just telling you that if it isn’t, you have to tell me. If you tell me you’re good, then I’ve worked with you long enough to trust that. Okay? You’re free to go.”
As quickly as the conversation began, it ended, as though Shane hadn’t just been told the very essence of his career was at risk. Wordlessly, Shane nods and stands, leaning over to grab his bag from the floor. He flashes a weak smile at Coach before turning towards the door, one hand on the doorknob.
“Oh, and Shane,” Shane turns back around, meeting Coach’s eye hesitantly, “I’m going to be submitting a request to the team nutritionist to rewrite your diet plan with more calories and protein. Eat a good meal tonight, kid. You look like you need it.”
Shane pauses, nods, throws out a quick “Thanks, Coach, I will, have a good night” before exiting the office with a bit too much urgency. He beelines for the exit into the back lot, chest tightening with every step. If nothing else, he refuses to have a panic attack where Coach could see– he already thinks Shane is weak. Shane doesn’t need to show him just how right he is.
As he steps into the cold Winter breeze, filtering into the back lot, the coil in Shane’s chest loosens momentarily before he is surprised to see Hayden leaning against the wall adjacent to the door, scrolling on his phone, not yet having noticed Shane. He glances up after a second, meeting Shane’s eyes with a look Shane cannot decipher.
“Hey!” Hayden calls upon noticing Shane’s presence, a bit too faux-cheery.
“Hey.” Shane responds, slightly surprised, voice still weak.
Hayden slips his phone into his back pocket before walking to Shane, tone casual as he speaks.
“What did Coach want with you?”
The question immediately stings. Shane sighs, attempting to slow his rabbit heart.
“He’s said that he’s, um,” Shane hesitates, “...worried, about my performance recently. Said that I needed to tell him whether or not I should still be Captain for the qualifiers.”
Hayden whistles in response, now having caught up to Shane as the two begin walking to their cars. “Shit man, that’s intense, even for Coach. He’s probably just giving you tough love, though, don’t take it personally.”
Shane nods, “Trying not to, but I’m not sure if it's working. I don’t blame him, I played like shit today.” Shane admits, head hanging a bit. “What did Coach want with you?” He asks after a moment, suddenly remembering Coach’s impromptu meeting with Hayden right before his own lashings.
Hayden slows down, caught off guard by the question and clearly uncomfortable. He attempts to play off his discomfort, speaking flippantly, “Um, mostly chewing me out over my backhand and my slapshot, saying I needed to work on my power.” A pause. “He also wanted to know if I think that you’re, um… relapsing.”
Shane freezes with urgency, turning to Hayden. “What?”
Hayden does not stop walking, though he moves glacially, turning to face Shane with a dismissive expression as he walks backwards. “I don’t know man, it was a weird conversation.” He throws his hands up, evading responsibility, “Don’t worry about it.” His hands drop and he continues walking, turning back around and praying he will hear Shane’s footsteps follow.
They don’t.
“Hayden, what are you talking about?” Shane’s voice pleads for Hayden to meet his eyes as he takes panicked steps to meet him.
Hayden nonetheless avoids Shane’s eyes for a moment. He really, really did not want to be having this conversation.
Hayden sighs after a minute, conceding, digging the toe of his tennis shoe in the asphalt whilst speaking, “He said that the physician reached out after your recent appointment, saying that you had been rapidly losing weight and she was a bit concerned.” A pause as he begins chewing on his lip nervously, “Coach has known since you joined the team and he got a copy of your medical records. He never brought it up because he thought it wasn’t necessary. He asked if I knew if you were doing okay, and whether or not I thought it was possible that you could be relapsing.”
Shane stops breathing, “And what did you tell him?”
Silence. The air seems to vanish, as though the world has been sucked into a black hole. Temporarily, nothing exists.
“I told him that I couldn’t be positive, but… I was worried that you might be.”
Everything comes crashing back down.
Shane can barely process what has been said before he finds himself responding, voice dripping with an uncharacteristic anger, “What the fuck, Hayden? Why the fuck would you say that to him?”
Hayden sighs, exasperated, meeting Shane’s eyes with an expression that isn’t quite apologetic, “I was just being honest, dude! You can’t deny that you’ve been off lately. I’m worried about you, Shane, you haven’t come for dinner in weeks and I rarely see you eat anything larger than a protein bar nowadays. Jackie’s been asking about you after games, saying you look too skinny. Even fuckin’ JJ asked me if you were doing okay. And I know that this could all be totally unrelated to your– condition,” Hayden says this with slight hesitation, “And maybe you actually are just “stressed”, but I’m not going to lie to Coach and say that I think you’re totally chilling and fine when it’s obvious that you’re not. And how am I supposed to know if you’re okay or not? You won’t talk to me anymore, you just brush me off like nothing's wrong.”
This takes Shane by surprise. His anger subsides long enough to see Hayden’s face, truly study it; there’s a genuine sadness there, an ardent begging evident on his features.
Shane’s defenses crack ever so slightly, anger melting briefly and giving way to the raw, unfiltered sadness underneath.
Hayden notices this immediately, “Dude, if there is something going on, or you’re relapsing, or literally anything else, you can talk to me. I’m your best friend, I just want you to be okay. Just fuckin’... just talk to me, man, please.”
Shane is drowning, has been drowning for weeks, and Hayden is reaching from the lifeboat for him. Hayden is offering Shane the chance to be saved from his own self, and Shane wants so, so badly to take it.
This is exactly what Hayden wants. He wants you to admit that you’re weak so he can steal your spot as Captain. You’re not weak, you’re disciplined.
You’ve barely even lost any weight. It was a reach to even say that you had lost 5 kilos, and he acts like you’re emaciated.
He’s not your friend. He doesn’t care. He’s just jealous and wants to take your control.
Shane physically recoils at the thought.
He meets Hayden’s eyes with a newfound coldness, “I’m on a strict performance diet, that’s not exactly revolutionary.” Shane’s words are harsh, cruel, “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I’m fine. Can’t you just stay out of my business? I don’t need you telling coach I’m a fucking nut job or something so I get kicked off the team.” Shane's voice wavers ever so slightly, but he maintains his hard expression, staring right into Hayden’s eyes.
Hayden’s demeanor changes, face dropping, frustration and fatigue coating his words, “That’s not how it is, Shane, and you know that. I don’t need to convince Coach that you’re not doing well, you’re doing a fine enough job of that on your own.” He spits the words at Shane half-heartedly, “No healthy diet makes you look and act the way you currently do. You look sick, Shane. I’m just worried about you. You don’t get to turn this on me.”
Hayden’s eyes are pleading once more. Shane watches him for a moment, faltering. He almost, almost gives in.
He thinks you are pathetic and sick. He doesn’t think you’re worthy of being Captain.
What little refuge had been left in Shane vanishes.
“Yeah well, I’m sure it doesn’t help when you’re filling his head with this stupid bullshit about me ‘relapsing’.” Shane places the words in crude, mocking air quotes, “or whatever the fuck that even means.” Hayden scoffs, but Shane doesn’t stop, “And you know what? I bet you’re fucking hoping that Coach will demote me so that you can get the Captainship. But I got Captain over you for a reason. Remember that.”
Immediately Shane knows he has gone too far. Hayden’s face flashes a profound sadness before his expression hardens into a mask of pure, unfiltered anger.
“Fuck you, Shane. If you get demoted it'll be for your own stupidity and recklessness. I don’t know what the fuck is up with you, but I hope you get over it soon. And don’t worry, I definitely won’t make the mistake of trying to be a good friend to you again.”
Without another word, Hayden storms off, roughly slamming against Shane’s shoulder as he walks past his best friend and Captain. Shane hears Hayden’s door open and slam shut, his car skidding off as Shane remains in the parking lot, realizing what he has done.
It was always Hayden’s dream to be Captain. Shane knows this. Of course, Shane knows this.
Why the fuck did he say that?
Shane shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. The throbbing in his head from earlier returns with a vengeance, the ground swaying. It takes several minutes for the world to be still again.
Shane drives home in silence.
Shane throws his bag down in the foyer, heading straight for the shower. He doesn’t feel the need to make his usual show of deciding what to eat, standing in front of the fridge as the minutes tick by; he already knows he won’t eat anything, so what’s the use?
Shane passes through his bedroom without stopping, aggressively flicking on the bathroom lights. The bathroom is frigid, and the tile is unforgiving on his bare feet once he takes his shoes and socks off. Shane figures that he deserves it. He quickly strips the rest of his clothes, tearing at them harshly and throwing them on the ground, not bothering to place them in the hamper. His stomach grumbles. He pinches the skin of his abdomen in response.
He turns to face the mirror, beginning his nightly routine of scrutinization.
His eye bags keep getting darker. His cheekbones and jawline are defined, but not in a way that looks attractive or sexy. His collarbones are beginning to poke through his skin more, looking angry. He can count 6 rib bones resting along the skin of his stomach, protruding ever so slightly. He looks tired. He looks sick, Shane realizes. The thought makes a pool of anxiety begin to form at the base of his stomach.
Isn’t that what he wanted?
Shane thinks of the look on Hayden’s face earlier. The anger, the betrayal, the sadness in his eyes whilst begging Shane to talk to him. The smile on Hayden’s face when Shane had been given the Captainship. The genuine pride on his face, the way he began tearing up when Shane accepted the white “C” patch and placed it above his heart.
Shane thinks of Rozanov, thinks of the missed calls and unread messages. He thinks of them a few months ago, sitting on the beach in Florida, sneakily holding hands. He thinks of crying in Rozanov’s arms whilst Shane realized he was gay. Kissing him, feeling the defined contours of his body. Feeling safe next to him. Feel something beyond safety, beyond simple attraction and comfort, something he’s too afraid to name. He thinks of the look on Rozanov’s face when Shane had tried to refuse the food he had cooked. The distraughtness in his voice when he accused Shane of lying about eating.
Shane feels hot tears begin to slip down his cheeks.
What is wrong with him? Why does he keep ruining things?
His stomach grumbles again, followed by a stabbing sensation. Shane doesn’t pinch himself. He lets himself feel it, lets the pain course through him.
I deserve this, he thinks. I should feel like shit. I don’t deserve any of these people. I don’t deserve to be Captain. I don’t deserve Ilya.
Shane catches another short glimpse at himself before finally stepping into the shower, turning the water ice cold, as always. The water stings against his skin, and Shane relishes in the feeling. After a few minutes, Shane finds himself sliding down the side of the shower, head spinning again. Practice and his argument with Hayden had taken what little of Shane’s energy he had to spare, and he was so, so tired.
Without realizing, Shane falls asleep, back against the hard shower wall. He awakes groggily, not sure how long has passed, only feeling the water having turned colder than it already was. With a grunt, he pushes himself off the ground, finishes scrubbing himself quickly, and shuts the water off. He pulls his softest, warmest bathrobe around himself, but is still shivering even when he’s dried off and in his pajamas.
Settling into bed, Shane checks his phone. Rozanov had called him twice today. Once before practice and again, it seems, whilst Shane had fallen asleep in the shower. Shane sighs, opening the messaging app and begins to type out his trained excuse.
Shane’s halfway through his “Talk tomorrow?” when his phone screen lights up: INCOMING CALL FROM LILLY. Shane freezes. His thumb immediately shoots to the red “REJECT CALL” button, but he hesitates. His brain begins screaming at him to decline the call, knowing he cannot feign the energy to act normal right now, let alone lie. If Rozanov asks, Shane might just tell him every thought he’s ever had within seconds of answering the call.
Still, there remains an ache so deep, so primal to hear Rozanov’s voice. It had been a terrible day, a terrible 3 days, a terrible few weeks. He wants only to hear Rozanov’s soothing voice teasing him, calling him beautiful. Shane is a weak man. He clicks “ACCEPT CALL” before he can even realize.
For a good 10 seconds, there’s silence on the other end of the line. Momentarily, Shane thinks he has hallucinated the whole thing, but his screen nonetheless indicates a live call, the seconds of the call ticking onwards underneath the bolded “Lilly”.
Shane grows impatient, deciding to speak up when Rozanov doesn’t.
“Hello?” Shane prompts, timid.
Rozanov remains silent for another second before Shane finally hears his voice.
“Oh. I thought I was going to hear your stupid voicemail again.”
Shane smiles weakly, voice low and apologetic with a small laugh, “No, um, it’s me.” A pause, “Um, sorry for not answering your calls the past few days, I’ve been…busy.”
The call remains silent. Shane can only hear Rozanov’s breathing, deep and loud.
“Are you there?” Shane asks after several more seconds of silence.
“Yes, sorry. I did not think you would pick up.” Rozanov’s voice sounds different, strained. It tears at Shane’s heart with an overwhelming severity.
“Well, I did, so…” Shane can’t conjure up anything else to say.
More silence.
Rozanov clears his throat. “Well. I wanted to ask. You are coming to Boston next week, right?”
Shane is confused for a moment before checking the date on his phone. He hadn’t even remembered that the Metros were supposed to be playing the Raiders in four days' time.
“Looks like it.”
Silence becomes the third person on the call. Rozanov clears his throat again after a moment.
“Will I see you? Or will you be ‘busy’?”
Shane can hear the sarcastic, slightly angry tone of Rozanov’s voice and nearly winces. He ponders this for a moment.
The last time Shane had seen Rozanov, he had barely been able to conceal his…thing, and that had been weeks ago, though it feels like a lifetime. He’s not sure how, but Shane feels as though he must be an entirely new person at this point– cruel, deceitful, entirely undeserving of Rozanov. Shane knows that the smart decision would be to refuse Rozanov’s offer. If he hadn’t looked well three weeks ago, he definitely would not look better now.
His defenses were crumbling. He can’t trust that if Ilya looks at him with those sad eyes and begs him to talk to him that he won’t let everything go within seconds of being in his arms.
Simultaneously, though, a heaviness had settled on Shane’s shoulder ever since Rozanov departed from his condo a few weeks ago. He always missed the crude Russian in between their meet-ups, but now, it feels as though the very air has been stolen from his lungs. There had been so much pain, so much anguish. Shane had never felt so viciously lonely in his life. He’s positive that there’s nobody in this world that could possibly begin to stitch together the torn shreds of Shane’s soul besides Rozanov.
Shane caves.
“No, I should be free. If you’re free. If you’re busy that’s okay but I would… I do want to see you. But if you don’t want to see me, that’s- that’s okay.” Shane cringes at the insecurity in his own voice.
Rozanov exhales shakily, almost a laugh. “I would not ask if I was not available. I will see you then?”
The knot that had been steadily growing in Shane’s chest since his conversation with Hayden loosens, if only by a millimeter.
“Yeah, I’ll see you then. Talk tomorrow? It’s pretty late and I haven’t slept much.” Shane responds sincerely.
Rozanov pauses. “Yes. We will talk tomorrow. Maybe you have forgotten how to use phone, but you are supposed to press the green button when you get a call.”
Shane laughs, small and sad, but he thinks it's the first time he’s truly laughed in weeks. “Yeah, I know. We’ll talk tomorrow. Promise.”
Rozanov’s voice is nearly a whisper. “Talk tomorrow. Okay”
“Okay.”
Neither man speaks for a moment, though neither hangs up the phone, either.
“Well, um, goodnight, then.” Shane breaks the silence.
Rozanov softly exhales, “Yes, goodnight. Talk tomorrow.”
Shane hangs up after a few more seconds and a whispered ‘bye’.
Shane exhales, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. They will talk tomorrow. At the very least, they will talk tomorrow.
In Boston, a car honks from the street below Ilya’s apartment, a man yelling in response.
When his phone screen fades to black, it takes the Russian a moment to breathe again. Hearing Shane’s voice felt like a wave of relief and tsunami of grief all at once. He had expected to hear that stupid voicemail once more.
Terrifyingly, Ilya isn’t sure if he would have been able to handle another night without hearing Shane’s voice. The thought is scary. The thought of losing Shane is scarier.
Perhaps scariest is the fact that briefly, Rozanov had thought he had lost Shane; not even merely in the sense of their arrangement, but the ugly, formidable thought that he was gone altogether. The thought alone makes Ilya gag.
The Russian’s chest tightens. Shane was fine. Well, maybe not fine, but he was alive. He would see him in a few days, and then he would be able to verify this with his own eyes.
And at the very least, they will talk tomorrow.