Chapter Text
It's the most honest Ilya has ever been with anyone in his life. More than any of his teammates, more than any of the people who had ever shared his bed, more than even Svetlana who knew almost all there was to know about him.
Almost.
He pauses halfway through, because it's too much and everything all at once.
All these things he has kept so close to his heart that Shane coaxes out just by asking. Things he had assumed he'd tell no one. Yet here he is, huddling in some tunnel in Moscow with Shane half a world away wanting to hear them, even if he can't understand them. He taps the phone to his mouth. He knows Shane will wait. That he'll take the sudden silence for what it was, a moment to collect himself.
The passing lights of a police car catch his eye. The sound of its tires on the wet road echoing in the otherwise silent tunnel he'd wandered into. It fades and the silence settles back in. He knows Moscow is alive elsewhere, all the people getting ready to go out to the clubs, the parties, all the drinks being consumed before the drinks. The start of the nightlife he had once loved to lose himself in. But not tonight. Tonight he is crouched on the ground, baring his damn soul to Shane Hollander.
He lets out a slow breath, and brings the phone back and keeps going.
Not about his family this time, but about Shane. Admits how stupid he has been, how deep he has let it all get. That he is so stupidly in love, even if he knows it was the worst thing he could possibly have done. The things he would never say in any language Shane could understand, that he couldn't possibly admit to in the light of day. That he would hold so deep inside until the feeling of it made him explode, burst his heart into a million pieces with Shane Hollander's name etched on all of them.
He thinks maybe some days he is just as bad as his family. That he too wants more. More, more, more, more… that nothing will ever be enough when it comes to Shane Hollander.
Fuck me indeed, he thinks.
"Okay. I'm done."
The call doesn't last much longer, and he's thankful for the opening of a sex joke, thankful that Shane lets him take the moment to slip into something else, something easier.
I wish you were here right now echoes in the tinny phone speaker.
And Ilya wants. He wants it so badly he can feel it in every bone in his body, in every muscle. Every space fills up with want. For Shane, for the way his voice sounds right then, for the way he comes apart under Ilya's hands, for the warmth of his skin, the endless depths of his eyes.
More, more, more, more...
He replies back, in Russian. Doesn't trust himself to say it in English, but he wonders if Shane knows anyway.
They hang up not long after, and Ilya starts the walk to a busier street to hail a cab to take back to his apartment. The apartment that tomorrow he would leave forever and would be his brother's to do with what he wanted. There is already a room for his niece, painted deep purple with a princess bed that she has never slept in because Alexei would never let her stay. He longs for what he will never have. A brother. A relationship with his niece. All these lovely things he had seen second-hand over the years with his teammates. Who spoke easily of barbeques and holidays. Who didn't have great, gaping holes where their siblings should be.
Svetlana is there when he arrives, and Ilya feels a little bad for having ditched her as they had left the dinner service. But she doesn't seem to hold it against him as she draws him into a tight hug. "I called a lawyer," she says in Russian, "you'll have paperwork in the morning to sign over the deed."
Ilya gives her a tight squeeze and a quick kiss on her cheek before they pull apart.
"Thank you, Svetlana," he says, and he hopes she knows he means for more than just making the call. He makes a mental note to spoil her rotten the next time they see each other. To make a whole day of following her around any store she wants to go to, foot the bill for all of it and remind her just how much he appreciates having her in his life.
"I am going to go pack," he says and leaves to go to his room. He thinks maybe he should offer to take her out, but exhaustion fills him at the mere thought. She lets him go without suggesting it either and he thinks maybe it's okay to be a quiet night before they leave.
There is not much to pack, he had only spent a few weeks in the summers here, and most of the clothes he's content to leave. Alexei can sell off the sneakers for coke money for all Ilya cares. There's a few outfits he'll figure out how to fit in his carry on, the kind of shirts and pants he only ever seems to find in Russia, a couple of watches, a few gold chains. Most everything else is nothing he can't replace when he's back in America. Or doesn't have in Boston already.
There's a box on the top shelves that he pulls down. Carefully puts the contents into his carry-on between folded clothes. The note his Mama had left, some pictures he had managed to get from the house before Papa sold off anything that even had a hint of Irina. Tries not to think about how his beautiful, sad mother's life exists now in nothing but a yellowed piece of paper, a dozen photographs, and a few books she had dog-eared the pages on as she read them. He packs all but one of the books, leaving it on the nightstand beside his bed.He pours himself a drink and stares out the window at the snow still falling softly over Moscow.
He will never come back here.
It's a thought that fills him with hope and dread in equal measure. Tomorrow he will go to his mother's grave one last time. Leave flowers, the white lilies that she had always loved. Tell her about Shane and hope that somewhere she is happy for him, even if it was all complicated. He will say goodbye and walk away for the last time. He will go to the restaurant near the graveyard that he likes, order his usual, bask in real Russian food for the last time. He will then go to the airport, get on a plane, and never come back.
The thing was… he knew. In the back corners of his mind, he knew. It would always end like this. That Papa would die, and he would come to a funeral, and that would be it. His last remaining tie to a country that wouldn't want him anyway, not if they knew who he really was. Maybe if they hadn't fought at the dinner, Alexei would have kept hounding for money, texts and phone calls when his drugs ran out or when some bill came up that he couldn't pay. Maybe the ghost would have lingered longer, haunting him and reminding him that he came from nothing good. Maybe he still would, even with the threat Ilya had laid at his feet. And maybe, if he was feeling particularly self destructive that day, he would answer.
It was an inevitability though. Russia wasn't home. It hadn't been for a long, long time.
And Ilya wasn't sure what was. Home.
Boston, maybe. Where he had somewhere along the line, in locker rooms and on the ice, grown from a dumb teenage boy to a slightly less dumb man. The Dunkin' close to his apartment that knows him by name and order now, the little Russian store that sold food that was very close but not quite right, all the bars and clubs he had made his way through both in celebration and commiseration. The streets that now felt as familiar as the ones he had grown up around. His house, his cars. A team of men that loved him for hockey but maybe not much else.
It didn't feel right though.
He thinks of Shane. Of deep brown eyes, of freckles dusting along skin, of the way everything, all the noise in his head could just… stop.
He thinks about how it wasn't magically all better after their call. But it was lighter. Like Shane had reached his hands into Ilya's chest, dug his fingers into the awful blackness that encased Ilya's heart and gently pried it open - just a little. Enough for something better to take root.
Ilya finishes his drink in two large gulps and sets the glass back down.
He takes off his suit and hangs it up so it doesn't wrinkle. He will wear it again tomorrow to go see Mama. Oh, Ilyusha, look how handsome you are she would always say, the few occasions his younger self had been told to dress nicely for something or the other. He changes into sweats, cleans himself up after the day and slips under the covers of his bed. He knows sleep will not come easily tonight. He reaches for the book he had set aside and opens it up, flipping past the first few pages that contained acknowledgements and other things before the book itself started.
He doesn't remember falling asleep, just that at some point the words on the page blurred together. And he doesn't know how long he has been asleep when a pounding on his door startles him out of it.
"Ilya! Ilya get up!" Svetlana's voice calls out, and even half asleep Ilya can hear the panic.
He quickly gets out of bed, half tripping over sheets as his legs get tangled, and moves to the door just as Svetlana barges in.
"Sveta… what's wrong?" he asks, yawning and rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He glances to his bedside out of habit, but it's not the LED clock he has on the table in his Boston home, rather an old-fashioned clock that he can't hope to read from here. "What time is it?"
"You have to go. Now." Svetlana says, sharp and urgently, ignoring the question, as she shoves her phone at him and grabs his carry-on from the floor to put on the bed.
"What - " Ilya responds, confused. He fumbles with the phone a bit and finally manages to focus his eyes on the text chain left open.
He stares at the words. He knows them all. He can read them all in the Cylric it's written in, and he can translate them into English and back again. All the words make sense on their own. It is when the words are all put together that his brain can't follow.
"Ilya!" Svetlana snaps.
Ilya looks from the phone to her panicked face. He is not sure what his own is doing. The phone clatters to the ground.
"Sveta…"
Ilya can't feel his fingers. He stretches his hands out, like the team's physical therapist had shown him, touches thumb to pinky, then ring, then middle then pointer. The tips are numb. He presses his thumbnail into the top of his middle finger, watches the skin go from pink to red to white, looks at the indent left behind, but he doesn't feel it.
He was supposed to go visit Mama. He was supposed to leave flowers, say goodbye.
"No flights to Boston for six hours," Svetlana murmurs next to him as they walk through the crowded airport. "You could get to New York, flight in ninety minutes, and Boston from there… Ilya are you listening?"
Ilya snaps his attention to Svetlana, hoping he looks appropriately apologetic because no, he had not been listening.
"What about Montreal?" he asks, surprising even himself as the words come out.
Svetlana huffs. "Hopeless," she chides.
She's been trying, Ilya knows, to lighten the mood. To tease. Now that she knows - Jane is Shane. And Shane is Shane Hollander. A fact the rest of the world would know sooner rather than later.
The sheer panic of it makes him feel reckless. If everyone is going to know, why shouldn't he go to Shane then. What do they possibly have left to hide when audio of Ilya saying how in love with Shane he is will be publicly consumed before Ilya can even board a plane.
"Canada might be better," Svetlana concedes though. "US is sometimes…" she leaves the sentence unfinished, Ilya knows the end. They both do.
"You'll have to run," she says, fingers typing away on her phone as they slow to a stop so she can book the ticket. She hugs him, tight. Ilya makes a umph noise, but presses his lips to the top of her hair.
"You are the bestest friend I could have ever had, Sveta," he says softly as hundreds of people pass around them.
"Ew," she replies with a laugh, but it's tight. Laced with the panic and worry Ilya knows won't ease up until he is safe. "Text me when you are past security," she demands and he nods. There was a prepaid sim now in his phone, the only thing they had stopped for as they rushed to the airport, to replace the one they had flushed.
"Tell Sasha thank you," Ilya murmurs as he lets go of Svetlana.
"Tell him yourself," she says and reaches to pat the side of his face. "Gate 15. Be safe." His phone pings with the incoming text from Svetlana, containing his boarding pass.
Ilya is a nervous wreck as he goes through security, as he shows the boarding pass and then hands off his passport while his carry-on goes through the xray belt. Sasha had given them a heads up, but Ilya wasn't sure how much time that bought him. How long it would be until something was flagged and putting his name into a computer at the airport ended with him being stuck in a room somewhere.
He hopes the fact that he just has to clear security right now, and not customs will help. He is sure that by the time he reaches Canada he will be detained. Charges laid against him for promotion of non traditional values. But he would much rather be detained on Canadian soil than Russian.
The guards eye him, faint recognition in their eyes. He holds his breath and only lets it out when the guard hands back his passport with a cutting it a little close aren't we. Ilya just nods, curtly, and starts running towards Gate 15 as a final boarding announcement rings out, thankful for the years of cardio training.
He barely makes it. The attendant is already starting to close the gate as he runs up, out of breath. "My apologies," he says to them as they check his boarding pass and passport.
He says it again as the flight attendants at the gate give him a dirty look, and once more to the attendant who shows him to his seat.
Ilya stows his carry-on in the overhead, backpack under the seat and then sinks into the business class seat, another thing he'll owe Svetlana for, though he's sure it was more to do with availability than her not wanting him to sit in economy. He turns his phone off for take off, and keeps his eyes on the front of the plane. He knows it is maybe paranoia, but he can't help the mental image of police barging in, picking him up and dragging him from his seat. He taps his phone against his leg, nerves alight.
The plane taxis and Ilya has never been more grateful for a take off than he was as he felt the plane lift then. They were in the air. No one could barrel in last minute and haul him away, and for the first time since Svetlana barged into his room takes a full breath. He knows everything is not okay. It is so far from okay he would laugh if he wasn't surrounded by people. But he is on a plane.
In nine hours he will be in Canada.
In nine hours he will, maybe, be with Shane.
His head falls back against the seat and he just breathes as the plane ascends. Slow, steady. In and out. He's only tangentially aware he might look like a crazy person, but assumes anyone will just chalk it up to being a nervous flyer. The background noise of the flight attendants going through the same safety speech he's heard a thousand times is nice. Grounding.
He presses his thumb into pinky, ring, middle, pointer finger. The tips are tingly, but he can feel the press of his nail. Better.
Ilya waits until the seatbelt sign dings off through the cabin, and an announcement is made that they've reached their cruising altitude, and then turns his phone back on. He connects to the plane's wifi, paying the exorbitant charge with Svetlana's card. He chews on his thumbnail as he stares at the screen. He knows he should check twitter. Check his email. See what has gotten out.
Instead he pulls up his texts with Shane and tries to do the math on the time difference. He thinks that maybe it is late, but not too late. He runs his hand down his face and then types.
Ilya has to blink hard and fast against the tears forming in his eyes, the words in the texts going blurry as he breathes in and out. He really doesn't want to start crying in the middle of an airplane, but Shane's words are doing something to his heart that he can't quite wrap his head around.
All I'm worried about right now is you.
Not hockey. Not the Metros and their dickhead players. Not the MHL. Not the internet. Him.
Ilya's breath catches and he has to take a moment to look out the window, collect himself.
He bites his lip, hard. But it's no use and Ilya can feel the hot streaks of tears running down his face. He pulls his cap down lower, sinking in his seat, trying to hide his little breakdown.
Shane is not mad. Shane is maybe freaking out, probably freaking out, but trying to keep Ilya calm. Shane will be there when he lands.
No matter what happens when he gets off the plane, Shane will be there.
He wipes at his face, not even sure why he is crying. This was not a bad thing, this was a good thing. More than he could have ever dreamed of, but here he is crying. Maybe it is too good a thing, more good than Ilya even knows what to do with so it is coming out as tears. Like his feelings about it all are too big for his body and have nowhere else to go. He wipes again, lets out a slow breath and when he feels like he's not about to burst into tears anymore he lifts his head back up.
Ilya smiles a little. His Shane, worried about his lack of sleep. He closes the texts and lets out a little sigh. He knows Shane is right, he had barely slept more than a few hours before everything happened and he's been running on adrenaline since. But he feels restless, his knee jostling, his body vibrating. He will sleep, he will. He just knows he won't even be able to think about it until he looks.
He finds it easy enough. Two anonymous accounts. One in Russian and one in English, but clearly from the same people.
The Russian one is more firm in denouncing him, and Ilya isn't sure how to feel about that. Tucks it away to be dealt with during some nebulous time labelled later.
The English one does not have as much traction as the Russian, but it has enough. Enough to start something. Enough that by the time he lands in North America it will be a story.
