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Ilya has been alone for forty-two minutes.
He's on the floor, his head falls between his knees as his hands threaten to tear his hair out of his skull. On the floor directly beneath his face, Ilya's phone lays face up; it hasn't lit up once.
Light up. Light up.
Just one message. That's all he wants.
One message.
Light up.
But there's no one to message him. The one person who would, the only person who knows about this, is knocked the fuck out and in the hospital in critical care.
Ilya keeps replaying it in his head: Ilya slamming Shane against the boards, Ilya taking the puck from him skating away, Shane intercepting Ilya's pass, Shane looking behind to smirk at Ilya, Marleau's big frame coming too fast towards Shane while he's distracted.
Shane unresponsive on the ice.
It felt like Ilya's life stopped then, as if Shane loosing consciousness made Ilya's own life end.
He's going to be fine, Ilya chants.
Shane woke up. On the ice. "Ilya. They can see us."
Of course everyone could see them. Ilya doesn't give a fuck. Nothing matters — nothing — if Shane didn't make it. It was all Ilya could do not to throw his gloves down on the ice and take Shane's limp hand in front of their teammates and coaches and the audience and the camera.
He almost showed the world his heart that lives on his sleeve.
He probably did. Twitter and Reddit are probably going crazy by now with screenshots of his despaired face.
He doesn't give a shit now. Because now his heart is in the hospital and he doesn't know how his heart is doing.
No one can text him an update because no one knows.
So Ilya sits, he sits and stares at his blank phone screen and tries to will it to light up.
Light up. Light up. Light up.
Ilya has been sitting on the floor for two hours and eight minutes.
Not that he's trying to count, but every minute Shane is in the hospital under critical condition is another minute that something permanent and career ending will happen. Has happened.
Fuck, he just needs to know Shane is okay.
Ilya doesn't register the banging at first. It's not until there's a voice that accompanies it that Ilya starts to take notice.
"Hey, Cap? Roz, open the fuck up." Cliff. Cliff fucking Marleau.
The last person Ilya wants to see right now.
Maybe that's a lie. He very much wants to punch his fist through the bastard's teeth.
Three more loud knocks on the door. "Roz, open the door."
"I sleep, Marleau. Fucking leave me alone." Ilya's voice is hoarse as if he's been screaming for hours. Has he? He doesn't think so.
It's not his throat that hurts anyways. It's his chest. It fucking aches.
Of course it does. His heart is gone.
The door handle turns and Ilya hears the door click open.
The connecting door. Ilya never locks it because it's always Marleau on the other side and they were friends.
"Hey, Roz! We're going to-"
Ilya doesn't look up — can't bring himself to move at all; how long has it been? — but he's sure that Marleau has stopped midstep.
"Rozanov, are you okay?" His voice is softer. It reminds him of a person trying to talk to a wild animal.
"Is fine, fucking fine. You can go now."
"Roz, you're sitting on the floor with a full bottle of vodka on one side and a pack of cigarettes on the other." Marleau sits on the edge of the bed directly in front of Ilya. "And you won't look up from between your legs."
Ilya forgot about the vodka and cigarettes. He didn't even open either of them. What if Shane calls and Ilya is too drunk to understand the call? What if he's too drunk to make it to the hospital? What if he manages to see Shane tonight and he reeks of cigarettes? What if the cigarette smell triggers vertigo from his very probable concussion and Ilya has to leave?
His only comforts tonight, out of his reach. Because the only comfort he really wants is Shane fucking Hollander.
"Marleau, I don't want to hear your stupid voice." It's already a struggle not to strangle him. "Leave me alone."
"No, man. You're not well." Marleau bends down slightly to try and look at Ilya's face. "What happene-"
"What happened?" Ilya looks up then, straight into Marleau's eyes. "You, Marleau. Why- What-"
Ilya groans and drops his head back down. He can't explain without ruining Shane's trust. He can't tell anyone about how his heart was cut out and thrown onto the ice tonight in front of thousands of eyes.
His fingers rake through his hair and pulls so he can feel something other than this inside pain. "Go back to your room, Marleau."
The room is silent, Ilya isn't sure for how long. How long has he been on the floor? Twenty minutes? Five hours? Maybe a year has passed and Ilya is just a withered corpse slowly decaying in a forgotten hotel room.
"Roz, is it Hollander?" Then Marleau is on the ground next to Ilya, because fuck, he is a nice guy. Ilya doesn't want the guy to be nice though. It makes it harder to imagine his foot kicking the shit out of him. "Is he… okay?"
Okay. Breathing. Alive.
Is Hollander alive?
"I do not know," Ilya admits and his voice breaks. "No one will text me. I-I…"
Ilya's eyes burn, but he can't close them. He needs to watch his phone. So the tears fall straight to the carpet, one landing on his black screen.
Marleau reaches out to touch his teammate's arm. Ilya can feel the air move before he makes contact and shrinks into himself. "Do not! Go away."
"I'm not leaving you like this. Is this about the hit? It was a legal move, I didn't mean for him to get hurt." Marleau doesn't try to touch him again, but he certainly makes himself comfortable beside him. "Talk to me, man. I-"
Ilya's phone lights up and the ring tone chimes through the room.
It's not a text.
Jane his phone says, the contact photo showing the view from Shane's fuck condo, and there's a accept and decline button at the bottom.
He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't care that Marleau is witness to everything happening right now. Nothing else matters right now.
"Shane? Shane are you fucking okay?"
"Ilya," Shane's weak voice croaks through the phone. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit," he argues. "You are in hospital. Which?"
"I don't know? I just woke up and- no one-"
No one knows to text Ilya. Doesn't he fucking know it.
"Then figure out which fucking hospital, Shane, dammit."
"You sound worried. Don't. I am fine."
He's not even close to fine. Frankly, he still sounds high as shit. But high is better than pain.
"Oh, I sound worried? Marleau puts you in hospital and I do not hear shit for hours and I am not allowed to worry?"
"Ilya- wait, shit. Nurses, shhh."
There's rustling and Ilya guesses he's hiding his phone, but he hasn't hung up so Ilya doesn't either. Instead, he puts it on speaker and sets the phone back on the ground.
He's still tense, but not so much as before. Shane is alive. Drugged up and hurt, but alive.
Marleau, on the other hand, hasn't taken his eyes off his captain. Ilya sits up and meets his teammate's — and best friend on this team — eyes.
"Shane… You're calling him Shane?"
"Yes," Ilya says simply. 'Cause it is that simple.
They've been making this whole thing so complicated when really, it is the most simple thing in the universe.
Realization sets on Marleau's face. "He's Jane in your phone."
"Yes. He is my Jane."
"But that's been…" Marleau looks like he's trying to count. "Five years?"
Ilya hasn't known Marleau had noticed. Have others noticed as well? "Six that we have had phone numbers, yes. Before, we had no phone."
Marleau knocks his head against the wall as he processes everything, what he did tonight, what it means to his captain. "I am really fucking sorry. I really didn't mean to hurt him."
Ilya opens his mouth to say something particularly harsh when Ilya's phone crackles.
"Ilyaaa."
Ilya reluctantly takes his eyes off Marleau. "They have you on good shit, Shane."
"Yes, I am most special and get best drugs."
"Hm, no I am most special. You know this."
"Asshole. Ass. I… I am in Montreal General, if you want to stop being an asshole and come kiss me."
Shane's parents are there. Hayden is probably there. Cameras and doctors and other patients and visitors and janitors and thousands more eyes that could see them. Just like on the ice.
Ilya itches to go. He wants to be there needs to be there, to hold his lover's hand and kiss his freckles. But sober Shane wouldn't want him there. But to threaten their secrets just for Ilya's comfort is selfish.
So incredibly selfish.
"Shane-"
"Uh-oh, I know that voice. Ilyaaa, I am in room 426 and I want you to come tell me how pretty my freckles are and call me your stupid Russian pet names and… and did I already say kiss me?"
Ilya shouldn't go.
But he's not a strong man.
"Okay, okay. I be there very soon."
"Yay, it-"
On Shane's side of the phone, he can hear a door open and faint voices. Doctors coming in, checking on him.
"I have to go, Lily. Bye bye, come over."
Ilya sets his dark-again phone and closes his eyes. Fuck. His body feels exhausted now without all the anxiety and tension that plagued him since the game, since Ilya had to watch Shane crumble on the ice and he couldn't do anything.
"Roz," Marleau says slowly.
Dammit. Ilya almost forgot about the big hockey player sitting beside him on the floor. If only big defense man would poof out of existence.
Ilya opens his eyes again and turns his body. If he's going to get punched in a homophobic attack, he'd rather face it head on. "Say what you want to say. Do not hold back."
Marleau doesn't rise to the bait. Ilya can't name the emotion behind Marleau's eyes, but he's surprised to think it looks like… shame?
"I am so sorry," Marleau repeats. "Hollan- Shane- Hollander sounds okay, at least."
"No thanks to you," Ilya spits bitterly. He knows he is being unreasonable. He is being an asshole. But it's better than sobbing again like he feels like doing.
"You love him?"
"Yes."
It's true. Ilya can't deny it anymore after tonight. It's the only explanation for why he shut down. That's not what fuck buddies do, not what rivals-with-benefits do, not what casual hookups do.
There's nothing casual or inconsequential about their relationship. Not anymore. Not for a long time now.
"Marleau, I do not care if you talk about me. But you say one thing about Shane and I-"
"Whoa," the guy puts his hands up as he shakes his head. "Rozzy, I wouldn't do that to either of you. Look, I am surprised, but I'm not- I'm not homophobic, dude. You do you, whatever. It doesn't bother me."
Ilya nods slowly. They watch each other, Ilya ready for — no, fucking wanting — a fight and Marleau trying to be a good friend when it matters.
Marleau is a good friend. He's sitting on this hard ass hotel floor with his captain who just finished crying and inexplicably came out to him, and he's not running away. He's staying right here until Roz doesn't need him any more.
And Ilya can't fight. As much as he's itching for it, he needs to wash his face and get shoes on. Shane is waiting. He has his heart to go visit.
"I need to leave." Ilya stands shakily and picks up the vodka and cigarettes off the ground. Stupid things.
Marleau follows Ilya's lead and dusts his sweatpants off. "Do you want company?"
"What?"
"I can go with you, if you want."
Ilya narrows his eyes. "You think I am weak? I am not weak, Marleau."
"Fuck you Roz." Marleau bumps Ilya's arm with his elbow. "You don't have to be alone in this anymore. I said before I wasn't going to leave you alone like this; that doesn't change because you're gay."
"Bisexual," Ilya corrects, but his mind is trying to keep up.
Ilya's always been alone in this. He didn't know about sexualities when his mama was alive. His father and Alyoshka were absent at best, horrible at worst. There was Sasha, yes, but that was only sex. Sveta loves him, but she is in Russia most of the year and they rarely talk about feelings; she's not the most vulnerable person.
The only person Ilya can say is "there for him" is Shane, but even that has been a newer development. Before he dated Rose Landry, it was just sex, not meaningless like with Sasha, but without the casual friendship like with Sveta.
Now, here's Marleau with a metaphorically offered glove.
Marleau nods and a smile slowly starts to grow on his face. "Like I said, you do you. I won't say anything." He hold out a hand, and Ilya can almost hear the intention behind it.
I'm on your side. I'm still your friend. Your secret is safe with me.
Ilya doesn't have to be alone anymore.
Ilya takes his hand and grasps it hard. "Thank you, Marly."
"Let's go see your boy, yeah? I'll call the cab."
It takes too long in Ilya's mind, the minutes moving like molasses in the back of the cab. Ilya picks at a callus on his palm, taps his foot, and tries not to register his reflection in the car mirror.
They don't talk in the cab. People have ears and hockey is a big sport in Montreal, which means they're more recognizable here than in cities like Dallas. Anything they say could be posted online and the car is too quiet to hide their conversation.
So they don't say anything until they're at the hospital doors.
"Hey, Rozzy. I just wanted to say," Marleau says as he clasps his hand on Ilya's shoulder, "I know you're hurting right now, I know tonight was scary and I know I played a major role in that, but want you to know: I am happy for you, Roz. Truly."
Ilya can feel a weight ease off his shoulders, not totally but noticable enough.
Someone sees him. Not someone he's fucked like Shane or Sveta. Someone who is a friend, an equal (though not on the ice; Ilya is better than any other Boston player). Marleau sees him and he doesn't turn away.
Oh, what a thing to be seen.
"Thank you, Marly. You stand guard outside room?"
Marleau gestures to the building's doors. "Let's fucking go."
Written by a human in Ellipsus.