Chapter Text
Ilya doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at his bedroom ceiling. It had been dark when he woke, and there’s light filtering through his curtains now, so hours at least.
Fucking Hollander. His first obligation-free morning in weeks, and he can’t even enjoy it, not when his mind won’t quit replaying the disaster of yesterday over. And over. And over.
He sucks in a deep breath and rubs his eyes. He still doesn’t know how it went so wrong. It had been good, hadn’t it? He’d had Hollander in his kitchen, in his clothes, and then in his living room, actually eating the tuna melts Ilya had prepped the day before. They’d actually been talking.
Of course, then his father had called, panicking, all because stupid fucking Alexei was too busy getting high and gambling away Ilya’s money to take care of their father. That had been an unwelcome interruption to an otherwise great afternoon, but Ilya had shaken it off. He’d gone back to the living room, and fuck him if he wasn’t charmed by Shane knowing a single, simple word in Russian.
They’d started cuddling, and Hollander hadn’t pulled away. No, instead he’d initiated round two. Right there. On Ilya’s couch.
Ilya’s face splits into a smile just thinking about it. It’s always such a turn on, watching Hollander take the initiative. And god, it felt so good, so right, having Hollander in his home, in his arms. It was everything Ilya had barely let himself hope for when he asked Shane to stay, and yet it was happening, and he felt too full, too happy, and it had just slipped out.
Shane.
He’d been on the verge of panicking, even as he was on the verge of orgasm, but then Hollander had said it back.
Ilya.
And just like that, everything was good. No, fucking great. Perfect. Fuck the NHL, fuck Russia, fuck everything, none of it mattered because everything was fucking perfect.
Ilya’s face twists into a scowl, and he twists the bedsheets in his fists.
Perfect. Until it wasn’t.
Ilya had been basking in the best afterglow of his life, and Hollander was panicking. Pulling on clothes - Ilya’s clothes - and backing away. Making up excuses. Leaving.
Ilya had put out his fucking hand. Had begged him to stay. Twice.
And Shane - no, Hollander - had fucking left.
They have a game this afternoon.
Ilya grabs the nearest pillow, shoves it onto his face, and screams.
The pillow still smells like Hollander.
Fuck.
There’s no morning practice for afternoon games, a fact that Ilya is cursing as he stares at the clock in the kitchen.
It’s too early to leave for the arena. He’s a good captain, showing up for his extra duties, but he’s never gotten there before the management. If he changes that today, the Boston Bears gossip mill will be in full swing before he’s finished strapping on his gear.
He sighs and opens his fridge. It’s much fuller than usual, packed with fruit and fucking spinach he was going to use to make a pre-game smoothie for Hollander. His cheeks flame in embarrassment. What had he been thinking?
He shoves the fruit aside and reaches to the back to grab some breakfast burritos. Game day breakfast of champions.
The whir of the microwave doesn’t do anything to drown out Ilya’s angry, borderline petulant thoughts. He’s angry at Hollander for freaking out and ruining a good thing, when Ilya was finally ready to be brave.
And why wouldn’t he be ready? It’s been seven fucking years. Literally, seven years of fucking. Sure, it’s only a few times a year. In secret. And they use fake names in their phones. Sure, it was never supposed to be more, and it definitely hasn’t been committed or anything but ... seven years. They’re both idiots if they expected things to stay casual, simple, for so long, and not grow into something more.
The microwave beeps and Ilya pulls out the plate of steaming burritos. He sets himself up at a barstool - not the same one Hollander sat at yesterday - and impatiently waits for the food to cool enough. Burning his fingers would just be the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?
If he’s being honest with himself - which he tries to avoid, because what good does it ever do? - Ilya is angry at himself, too. Clearly, he fucked up and sent Hollander running. They’d had a good thing going, whether Ilya foolishly dreamed of more or not, and he’d ruined it.
He’s good at ruining things, according to his father. And his brother. And now probably Hollander.
Ilya swipes a burrito from the plate and takes a massive bite. He thinks he can feel his fingerprints burning off, but he doesn’t care.
Today, he’s only going to care about winning a hockey game against Montreal.
Against Hollander.
He’s packing his bag when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Ilya ignores it. Everyone who could possibly need him will be at the rink. They can wait thirty fucking minutes. Besides, if it was an emergency, whoever it was would call.
Twenty minutes later, bag packed, game day tunnel outfit on, the doorbell rings.
Ilya pauses on his way to the garage, bag slung over his shoulder. What the fuck? Who would possibly show up, unannounced, two hours before a game?
Whatever. Ilya drops the bag at the garage door and heads for the front. Whoever it is, he’ll tell them to beat it. Really, he probably shouldn’t even answer it. It’s probably a salesman, or a missionary, or–
Hollander.
Standing there, at his front door, hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets and ... wearing the same clothes as yesterday? Or maybe the clothes are different, Ilya hadn’t exactly been paying attention to what Hollander had been wearing. Not when undressing him had been more important.
Either way, what the fuck?
“What are you doing here?” It’s the logical question to ask, and Ilya thinks he deserves an award for not shouting it, or cursing Hollander out, or slamming the door in his face. Mature. That is the word people should use to describe Ilya Rozanov.
Hollander doesn’t look embarrassed, or regretful, or any of the ways Ilya thinks he should after he ruined a perfectly good day. A perfectly good ... situation. No, Hollander has the audacity to tilt his head and pinch his eyebrows together, looking like a confused kitten.
Unacceptable.
“Did plans change?” Hollander asks. “I texted that I was on my way. But I can ... I can go, or–”
He takes a step backward, and Ilya’s speaking before he can think better of it.
“No.” He opens the door wider, gesturing for Hollander to come in. “It’s fine.”
Hollander gives him a weird look as he passes, as if Ilya is the one acting crazy. No. Ilya is being a professional hockey player and a responsible captain, getting ready to ignore the inconvenient, messy feelings in his chest and focus on the ice. On winning. Hollander is the weird one, showing up just hours before their game, as if he didn’t leave like a fucking coward.
So Ilya thinks he’s entitled to being a little mean.
“Returning the clothes you stole? Did you at least get them dry cleaned?”
Again with the weird look.
“No,” Hollander says slowly, like he doesn’t know what Ilya’s talking about. Which of course is total bullshit. “I never keep any of your clothes, Rozanov.”
Ilya rolls his eyes and starts for the kitchen.
“Not usually, no,” he says over his shoulder. Hollander is following him, his steps careful and unsure. “But you did yesterday, running out of here in my sweatpants and t-shirt.”
Ilya stops and leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching Hollander approach. He really doesn’t appreciate the way Hollander is looking at him.
“Yesterday? What do you mean, yesterday?”
Ilya snorts. “Really? We are pretending whole day did not happen? Very mature, Hollander.”
Hollander’s face scrunches up into what Ilya thinks of as his angry kitten face, and he tries not to find it adorable. He fails, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still be pissed at him.
“Rozanov, what are you talking about? I wasn’t here yesterday. Are you okay? Are you sick or something?”
Hollander reaches out, as if to feel Ilya’s forehead, and Ilya bats his hand away. He thought he was pissed before, but he’s actually seething now.
“Fuck off, Hollander, I know what this is. I hear about it online. Lighting the gas lamp? You will not make me be crazy. I cannot believe you even fucking try this.”
Hollander takes a step back, eyes wide.
“Gaslighting? You think I’m trying to gaslight you? Rozanov, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was in Montreal yesterday, I landed in Boston like three hours ago, and then I came here. Like you told me to. Fuck, I shouldn’t even be here! It was hard enough telling Hayden I was heading out, but if you’re going to be an asshole about it, then forget it.” Hollander turns and heads for the door. “I’ll see you on the ice tomorrow.”
Ilya’s stomach fills with unease the longer Hollander speaks. When the front door slams shut and the engine of Hollander’s car grows faint, he pulls out his phone. Sure enough, there’s a text from Hollander. Above that, is the time and today’s date.
Except it’s not today’s date. It’s yesterday’s.
What. The. Fuck?