Chapter Text
Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, Cliff never had much of an opportunity to care for a little before he was drafted by the Boston Raiders.
Cliff’s mom is a caregiver and his dad is a little, but his dad sort of grew up with that old school belief about trying not to let your kid see you while you’re little. Cliff got glimpses, obviously, but it’s not like they really talked about it much.
Cliff also knows the lengths that his parents went to to support his early NHL career. He knows it wasn’t easy, because they were never exactly made of money. A part of him also knows that his dad must’ve made a lot of sacrifices in relation to his little headspace in order to support Cliff. Cliff still feels a little guilty about that, but he tries to take care of his parents now that he has the money to. His dad has a little room in the house that Cliff had bought for them, and it’s well-stocked. His dad never had a dedicated room for his headspace in their old house.
One of Cliff’s buddies in high school was classified as a little, the same year that Cliff himself was classified as a caregiver. It had been an adjustment at first, learning how to manage his instincts and how to care for a little. Cliff had helped his buddy out a few times when he needed it, but Cliff eventually ended up leaving high school early to focus on hockey. After that, they’d slowly fallen out of touch.
When Cliff thinks about it now, he realises that his buddy had it pretty tough when it came to his classification. Among a group of teenage dudes, being a newly classified little was unfortunately a pretty easy thing to poke fun at for some people, which pissed Cliff the fuck off whenever he heard it. It really pisses him off when it comes from another caregiver, too. How the fuck would your instincts not be screaming at you when you’re making fun of a little about their classification?
Cliff’s instincts certainly scream at him whenever one of the littles on the team gets that kind of shit on the ice, but he’s been told that he has pretty strong instincts, even for a caregiver.
They’ve had the occasional asshole traded to Boston who’s had shit to say about littles and caregivers getting the accommodations they need, but they’ve pretty quickly realised that they should shut up and stop sulking about it. Maybe Cliff has had a little something to do with that. Who’s to say, really.
Either way, Cliff is happy with his team, and he’s happy he gets to care for his teammates. He has good relationships with the littles on the team, as well as the caregiver staff members. He works pretty closely with all of them and spends a good amount of time with them in little rooms after games. At this point in his life, he’s content to fulfil his instincts and keep himself stable by caring for his teammates, rather than having a little of his own. Maybe that’ll change one day, but it works for him now.
Caring for different littles with different headspace ages over the years has given Cliff a decent amount of caregiving experience. In particular, it’s given him the experience to know when a little is fighting a drop like their life depends on it.
To be fair, he gets that impression from Ilya a lot.
Ilya has never been the most forthcoming guy about a lot of things, unless he’s talking about his latest hookup. But he hasn’t even been talking about that for the past year or so. Cliff has kind of pieced together that he must be seeing that chick from Montreal, based on his text messages and the way he disappears whenever they play a game there.
If Ilya is evasive when it comes to his relationship, he might as well be a fucking brick wall when it comes to his classification. Like, seriously. Cliff has tried to prod over the years, but he’s been reluctant to push too much when Ilya gets all defensive about it. Not that Ilya would admit he’s getting defensive. Ilya would just say that you need to mind your fucking business and focus on scoring a goal for once, Cliff. While grinning, of course. Bastard.
Still, Cliff recognises that there must be something deeper happening for Ilya when it comes to his headspace. He’s seen that kind of shame before in littles, including in his own dad. It doesn’t seem to impact Ilya’s performance on the ice, so Cliff knows Ilya must be dropping to some extent. But Cliff really wonders sometimes, especially about Ilya’s caregiver. He doesn’t really know anything about them. Does this Jane chick from Montreal care for him? Hell, he doesn’t even know how young Ilya drops.
For almost ten years, Cliff has watched his friend scramble to leave games and practices early, brush off any attempts at care, and avoid the little rooms like a plague. It’s honestly a little heartbreaking. Cliff would love to care for Ilya while he’s little.
Over the past few weeks, Cliff has noticed that Ilya seems more tense than usual. A missed pass during a game here, some fumbled stick handling there. He’s restless and withdrawn, his usual stupid antics and rousing speeches missing from the Boston locker room. He seems startled whenever Cliff tries to talk to him, like his head is somewhere else entirely.
Today has been especially bad.
Boston is playing Ottawa tomorrow. Cliff knows that Ilya can’t be nervous about that, because Ottawa is a pretty shit team. Some of the guys there seem nice enough, but there’s no avoiding that fact.
Ilya had barely said a word to Cliff as they prepared for practice. Cliff noticed that Ilya’s hands were trembling as he laced up his skates. Ilya had spotted Cliff looking and had quickly fired off a quip about Cliff’s, admittedly pretty wild, night in Vancouver the previous week. Ilya’s smile had looked a little weird, like, maybe strained, or something.
Coach Reilly runs a tight ship usually, but even he’s pretty relaxed at the prospect of facing Ottawa tomorrow. He’s not a total hardass during practice for once, but Ilya still seems to be half a step behind regardless.
Cliff skates over during a break, knocking his stick against Ilya’s. “You good, man?” he asks.
“Fucking great,” Ilya returns. His jaw is clenched, and he’s looking somewhere beyond Cliff’s shoulder. Not super convincing. “Are you going out after?” Ilya asks.
“Nah, not tonight,” Cliff says. “Maybe after we win tomorrow. I was gonna stay in the little room with Steph and Victor for a bit after we’re done, I think he said he’s due for a drop. I sussed the room out earlier, looks pretty nice.”
Ilya just nods, still staring somewhere past Cliff’s shoulder. He sort of looks like he wants to set the wall on fire. Maybe the whole training facility.
Cliff clears his throat, leaning up against the boards. He tries to seem casual as he looks out over the ice. “You going out after?” he asks.
“No,” Ilya says. “Will sleep early, probably.”
Cliff nods, pausing for a moment. “It’s just gonna be Victor, Steph and me in the little room, probably.”
“Okay,” Ilya says.
“Just so you know. It’ll be quiet,” Cliff says.
Cliff knows he’s been a little persistent lately, but Ilya had come into the Boston little room a month ago and had actually said that he’d keep Cliff’s offer to help “in mind.” That’s more than Cliff has gotten from his friend in years, so yeah, maybe he’s a little optimistic about it.
“Cool. I will make sure to feed Victor ten chocolate bars from the vending machine, then,” Ilya snarks.
Cliff sighs internally. Subtlety is not working here.
“You could drop, too,” Cliff says, because fuck it. “I can look after you. Standing offer, remember?”
Ilya’s expression tightens slightly, something like conflict rippling across it. He clenches his fingers around his stick, then taps it against the ice a couple of times.
When Ilya doesn’t say anything for a few moments, Cliff continues.
“It seems like it’s been a while,” Cliff says.
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Ilya’s expression hardens again, that ripple of conflict vanishing. Like shutters pulled tightly closed.
“Why do you think that?” Ilya asks.
Cliff shrugs. “Just a feeling.” It’s not exactly true, but he’s still trying to be cool here.
“Do the others think that?” Ilya questions, nodding towards the rest of their team, scattered along the boards and chatting to one another. “Have they noticed anything…” Ilya trails off. Cliff gets what he means.
“No, dude. Chill. No one’s saying anything. You just seem a little…I don’t know. Less like a fucking asshole, which is weird for you,” Cliff says, grinning slightly.
Ilya huffs, the faintest ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “Go fuck yourself,” he says.
A brief silence falls between them as they look out at the ice. A few of the guys are being herded back towards the rink, so it looks like their break might be over soon.
“I don’t think you know what you are offering,” Ilya says suddenly.
Cliff blinks at that, taken aback for a moment. What does that even mean? Cliff feels like he knows pretty well what he’s offering. He does it for all the other littles on the team.
“What—“ Cliff starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of Reilly’s commanding voice from the centre of the ice.
“Alright guys, break’s over! Get back here!” he shouts.
Ilya is gone in a flash, quickly skating over to the group. Cliff watches his retreating figure for a few moments before pushing off from the boards and skating after him.
—
Little things start to pile up. Eventually, Ilya fumbles an easy pass from Victor during a practice formation, and Reilly pulls Ilya aside. They all know what’s happening — Ilya is being chewed out, but it’s a bad look for the coach to yell at the team’s captain in front of everyone, so Reilly is trying to be discreet about it. Cliff subtly inches closer to them on the ice, trying to listen in on what’s being said.
“Where’s your fucking head, Rozanov? You gonna be like this tomorrow?” Reilly demands.
Cliff grimaces slightly.
It might be a trick of the light, but Ilya’s eyes seem a little shiny as he skates back to the group. Cliff is surprised when Ilya skates directly over to him, hovering beside him with his shoulder brushing against Cliff’s. Ilya definitely isn’t afraid of being affectionate with the guys, especially after they’ve scored a goal or stopped the other team from scoring one. But…this seems a little different.
Comfort seeking, his caregiver brain supplies.
Cliff feels that familiar prickle inside of him, his instincts rearing to life and latching onto the thought.
He looks over at Ilya as Reilly starts to address the team again, and finds that Ilya is looking stubbornly ahead, his jaw clenched. Cliff nudges his stick against Ilya’s calf, trying to show some silent support, but Ilya just keeps his eyes trained forward. His shoulder is still brushing against Cliff’s, though.
Fuck. Ilya looks like he’s fighting it hard. No two ways about that. Cliff wonders if he should even be in practice right now.
Reilly calls Ilya up to run the next drill, and Ilya hesitates for a moment before skating to the front of the group.
Things are a little tense after that.
Practice finishes, and Ilya retreats to the locker rooms without so much as a glance at the team. Ilya keeps his head down as he showers, and is already gathering his things by the time Cliff is towelling off and pulling his shirt over his head. He’s keeping half an eye on Ilya and half an eye on Victor, who seems to be speaking with Steph near his locker.
There’s something a little frantic about Ilya as he gathers his things together. He’s already changed into sweats and a Boston hoodie, and he seems to be hellbent on getting out of here as soon as possible. Cliff sighs to himself as he watches Ilya shove his phone into his pocket and sling his duffel bag over his shoulder. It seems like Ilya’s probably not going to be coming to the little room today. Not that that’s unexpected, obviously. But still, it seems like he needs to drop, and his caregiver probably isn’t in Ottawa if Cliff had to take a guess.
Things are always a little hectic in the locker room after practice. Jokes and chirping being thrown across the room, guys heading in and out of the showers, someone’s questionable music playing somewhere.
Cliff is glancing over at Ilya as he hurries toward the exit. In Ilya’s rush, he doesn’t seem to notice someone’s bag lying on the floor by the bench, and as he cuts around a small group of guys, his foot catches on one of the bag’s straps. A loud thud reverberates through the room as Ilya goes down, his arms flying out to brace his fall.
Cliff feels a wince twist across his face.
All of the bustle in the locker room comes to an abrupt halt, like someone has suddenly squeezed the air and the sound out of the room. Whoever was playing their music quickly pauses it.
“Oh shit,” Brad says somewhere to Cliff’s left. There’s a hint of disbelieving laughter wound through his voice, like he’s on the cusp of chirping something at Ilya about being a clutz. A few chuckles break out across the room, like they’re expecting Ilya to jump back up and playfully yell that none of them had seen that. Cliff is kind of expecting that, too.
Except…Ilya isn’t getting up. His legs are still folded underneath him, and his foot is still caught in the bag strap. Cliff can’t see his face from where he’s standing.
“You good, Roz?” Ryan asks. He’s standing near Ilya, tilting his head a bit like he’s trying to get a look at Ilya’s face.
Louis takes a few hesitant steps toward Ilya, looking concerned. “Ilya?” he questions.
Cliff slowly sets his own bag down on the bench, his gaze now fixed on Ilya. His heart pretty much stops beating when, between one second and the next, Ilya suddenly bursts into tears. Not just any tears, but hitching, choked sobs, punctuated by rapid, wet breaths. Fuck, those are definitely not the cries of an adult. Ilya sounds…young. Like really fucking young. Like seriously, what the fuck. Shock grips Cliff, locking his body into place and stealing the breath from his lungs. Silence falls over the locker room again, pierced only by the sound of Ilya’s gasping sobs.
Carlos and Rowan, two of Boston’s caregiver staff members, seem to have the same realisation as Cliff. Both of them manage to unfreeze themselves faster than Cliff does, though. Rowan makes a beeline for Ilya immediately, while Carlos roots around in his bag for a moment and grabs a pacifier. Once he has the pacifier, he quickly follows.
Ryan is already crouching down in front of Ilya now, frowning slightly. “Hey, hey, Roz…it’s alright, buddy,” he says, a little uncertainly. Cliff doesn’t blame him for the uncertainty. None of the team have ever seen Ilya dropped before.
Ilya continues to sob, almost as if he doesn’t hear Ryan at all.
Rowan crouches down too, and Carlos hovers beside him.
“Oh no…hey sweetheart,” Rowan coos, with the sort of lilting tone you’d normally use with a baby regressor. Which…fuck.
Is Ilya a baby regressor?
Cliff’s head is starting to spin slightly, processing and piecing together this sudden onslaught of information.
“Shhh, shh, oh poor thing. That was quite a tumble you had, hm? Shhh, shh, you’re okay, Ilya…it’s okay, sweetheart,” Rowan says gently.
Rowan is starting to inch a little bit closer to Ilya. Cliff gets why — tone of voice and physical contact like swaddling, rocking or skin-to-skin contact are the most important things for soothing a baby little. But the movement seems to alert Ilya, who finally starts to notice all of the people crowding around him. Ilya’s head whips around as his gaze darts between them. He recoils immediately, kicking his leg out to try and free himself from the bag strap as he shuffles backwards. The bag drags with Ilya as he crawls over to the bench behind him, his movements clumsy and slow. He ducks his head, trying to wedge himself underneath the bench, but he seems to underestimate his own size and starts to cry harder when he realises he can’t crawl underneath. He seems terrified out of his mind, trying to hide away from all of the people around him.
Shit, okay. This isn’t working.
Cliff’s shock is quickly crowded out by his caregiver instincts, which suddenly fill every cell in his body with the urge to soothe. He can hear a low murmur of chatter among some of the guys near him, but everything except the sound of Ilya’s cries seems distant right now. Fuzzy. The sobs are almost physically painful to listen to, piercing Cliff’s ears and burning inside his chest.
He finally unsticks his feet from the ground and crosses the room, approaching Rowan and Carlos. “Hey guys, you mind if I try?” he asks. “Think he needs to be alone with someone for a bit.”
Rowan hesitates for a moment before nodding, casting a pained glance in Ilya’s direction. Thankfully, he seems to trust Cliff after years of working with him to care for the littles on the team. “Yeah, alright. Poor thing,” he says.
Cliff nods in agreement, then turns towards the team. “Alright guys, time to clear out,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm. He doesn’t want to startle Ilya any more than he currently is.
Everyone hurries to oblige, grabbing their things and clearing out of the locker room. Louis lingers by the door on the way out, casting a worried glance back at Ilya before following the others.
“We’ll be right outside,” Carlos tells him, as he hands Cliff the pacifier.
Cliff thanks him and takes the pacifier, but his gaze is already on Ilya, who has somehow managed to wedge himself underneath the bench now, into the corner where the bench meets the wall. It can’t be very comfortable for him, with his head leaning sideways against the hard wall and knocking against it with every sob that wracks through his body. Cliff hears the thud of the locker room door closing behind Carlos as he exits, leaving him and Ilya alone.
Cliff lets out a long breath and lowers himself down onto the floor, onto his knees. He puts the pacifier in his pocket for now.
“Hey Rozy,” Cliff greets gently, shuffling in just a little bit closer.
Ilya lets out another wet, gasping sob, his eyes red and glassy.
“It’s just me now, buddy,” Cliff continues. “It got a little loud in here before, huh?”
After a few seconds, Ilya’s gaze darts around the room again, seemingly realising that the people who had just been surrounding him are now gone. Ilya’s eyes land on Cliff’s face, and Cliff feels a pang of relief when faint recognition flashes in them. It’s not the level of recognition that Ilya would have while big, just a vague sense of who Cliff is, and hopefully, that he’s friendly. Or at the very least, not scary. Cliff would happily settle for that right now.
Ilya sniffles, his tears slowing a little as he peers at Cliff with big, unblinking eyes from underneath the bench.
“You’re tiny, huh?” Cliff says, as he shifts a little closer. “How’d you even fit under there?”
Ilya continues to gaze at Cliff for a long moment. Cliff starts to think that the storm may have passed, but then Ilya’s shoulders hitch, a broken whimper escaping him that shudders and breaks apart into more heaving sobs. Cliff’s stomach drops immediately, his heartbeat kicking faster. His hands itch with the urge to reach out, to steady, to soothe, a sudden pull that almost feels as inevitable as gravity, but he just barely reins himself in. Cliff is still trying to take it slow here. Somehow. Shit.
“P—P—Pa—Pa!” Ilya sobs through hiccuping breaths.
Cliff freezes for a moment. Oh. Is…? No, that can’t be directed at Cliff, surely. Cliff knows that Ilya’s dad passed away last year, and he also knows that Ilya’s dad was kind of a piece of shit. From what Cliff has been able to piece together, anyway. So probably not him either.
Maybe Ilya’s caregiver?
Cliff doesn’t have much time to speculate. He shuffles forward a little more, now sitting right in front of the bench that Ilya is curled beneath.
“Shh, hey, you’re alright, buddy. Shhh, shhh,” Cliff soothes, pitching his voice up a bit and keeping it warm. Tone is the important thing for Ilya right now. “You want your Papa, huh? That’s alright, Rozy, I’m sure we can find him,” Cliff coos. “We gotta get you out from under there first though. That’s not a very good spot for little guys.”
“S’ane,” Ilya gasps out, sniffling. “S’ane!” The word is a little bit slurred, the syllables sticking together.
Cliff frowns slightly. “Sane? What’s that, buddy? Is it a toy, or…”
“Papa,” Ilya sobs miserably, squirming slightly underneath the bench. He hits his head on the wall by accident, which prompts a fresh wave of tears.
“Oh no, careful of your head, Rozy,” Cliff says, instinctively reaching out a hand. He hovers it near Ilya for a moment, wanting nothing more than to just scoop him up onto his lap. As he debates with himself, Ilya’s eyes latch onto Cliff’s hand, wide and wet. He hesitates for a long moment, eyeing Cliff through his tears, then slowly reaches up and curls his fingers around Cliff’s pointer finger.
Something inside Cliff’s chest immediately gives way, a small breath escaping him. Ilya’s grip is loose and uncertain, but it’s there. That’s something.
“Yeah, there we go, little buddy,” Cliff breathes, “it’s alright. You want some help coming out from under there? I think you’re probably a little too small to be on your own like that. Just a baby, huh?” Cliff coos.
Ilya’s breaths continue to shudder and hiccup, tears streaking down his face as his grip on Cliff’s finger tightens slightly then releases. That’s a good sign, Cliff thinks.
“C’mere, Rozy…let’s come out from under there, alright?” Cliff coaxes, shifting forward just slightly more.
Cliff telegraphs his movements as much as possible, keeping them slow and controlled as he extricates Ilya’s foot from the bag strap it's still stuck in, then winds an arm around Ilya’s waist and carefully helps him out from underneath the bench. Ilya is still holding onto one of Cliff’s fingers, so Cliff has to use one arm to hoist Ilya up onto his lap. It’s a little awkward, but Cliff makes it work, and he feels an almost delirious sense of relief wash over him at finally having Ilya tucked close. His instincts, which had been clawing helplessly at the sight of Ilya’s tears, finally find somewhere to land, something to wrap around.
“Poor guy,” Cliff coos. “What’s got you so upset, huh? What’s happening with my little buddy?”
Ilya’s sobs seem to be losing some steam as he lets his head fall forward against Cliff’s chest, more and more seconds passing between each shuddering breath. Clearly fatigued from the crying, Ilya starts to sag forward, leaning most of his weight into Cliff.
“Atta boy, there we go,” Cliff murmurs in praise, smoothing a palm along Ilya’s back. He shifts slightly to accommodate Ilya on his lap, bouncing his knee to try and rock Ilya a little bit. “Can’t believe you’re so little,” Cliff mumbles, mostly to himself. He really wonders how Ilya has managed his drops while being away from Boston, because he definitely hasn’t been dropping with Cliff or any of the caregiver staff. A woman in every port and a caregiver in every port as well, or something?
Cliff's mind flickers back to what Ilya had said during practice today.
“I don’t think you know what you are offering.”
Is this what Ilya had meant? The fact that he regresses so young?
Cliff feels a stab of regret at never having been able to care for Ilya like this before, for all the years they’ve known each other. He loves littles of any headspace age, but it would’ve been nice to have some cuddles with Ilya after running around after the older, more energetic littles on the team. Baby cuddles are pretty sick, and Cliff doesn’t get them very often.
He almost feels a little hurt by the idea of Ilya thinking that Cliff wouldn’t want to care for him because he regresses to a baby headspace. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
Cliff gently nuzzles into Ilya’s damp curls, taking a deep breath as his instincts slowly start to settle more, coming back down to something stable.
“S’ane,” Ilya babbles below him, sniffling and squeezing his hand around Cliff’s finger again.
Huh. It almost sounds like Ilya is trying to say ‘Shane,’ but his mouth can’t quite form around the ‘sh’ sound.
Cliff pulls away slightly so that he can look at Ilya’s face. His face is a blotchy red, and his eyes are slightly puffy. Cliff pulls his sleeve over his palm and carefully wipes away the remaining tears and snot clinging to Ilya’s face.
Cliff smiles slightly as Ilya's expression scrunches then smooths out again. Ilya’s eyes are still glassy, but they seem a little clearer now, like Ilya is more aware of his surroundings.
“Hey, Rozy,” Cliff greets. “That was a little scary, huh? It’s alright, though. I got you.”
Ilya squirms a little bit in Cliff’s lap, letting go of Cliff’s finger in favour of sticking his own fingers in his mouth. Probably not the most hygienic, Cliff notes.
“I’ve got a pacifier here, buddy,” Cliff says, as he leans over slightly to pull it from his pocket. It’s a purple one with a care bear on it.
Cliff holds it up close to Ilya’s mouth, trying to get him interested, but Ilya turns his head away, making a garbled whining noise around his fingers.
“No? You don’t want it?” Cliff questions, frowning slightly.
Ilya turns his head back to look at Cliff, blinking at him as he sucks on his fingers. Cliff tries to offer the pacifier again, but Ilya’s eyes start to well with tears, his expression crumpling. Cliff quickly draws it away again, shushing Ilya gently.
He hasn’t cared for Ilya before, so he doesn’t really know what Ilya is used to. Considering Ilya’s headspace age, he’s probably used a pacifier before, but…Ilya might still be feeling a little unsettled.
“Alright…we’ll try again in a bit,” Cliff decides aloud, pocketing the pacifier again. He bounces Ilya a little bit in his lap, patting his back.
“So, Shane, huh? Is that what you’re trying to say? Is Shane your papa?” Cliff asks.
Ilya’s eyes widen slightly, any trace of previous fussiness disappearing in an instant. “S’ane!” he babbles, his voice muffled around his fingers. He squirms a little in Cliff’s lap, reaching out with his free hand and clenching his fingers into Cliff’s shirt.
“Alright, alright,” Cliff says, smiling slightly. “I got you,” he says, rubbing his palm along Ilya’s back. Ilya seems restless all of a sudden, clenching and unclenching his fingers around the fabric of Cliff’s shirt.
Cliff thinks for a moment, racking his brain. The only Shane he really knows is Shane Hollander. Well, knows is a stretch. Cliff has played against him before, and had accidentally knocked him onto the ice and sent him to the hospital. Cliff often finds himself randomly wincing at the thought. He still feels really guilty about that.
But, there’s no way that Ilya is talking about Shane Hollander, so maybe this is a Shane that Cliff doesn’t know. Maybe Steph has got this guy on Ilya’s file?
Cliff absently bounces Ilya in his lap, rubbing his palm along Ilya’s back. Ilya seems sort of content for the time being, sucking on his fingers and clenching Cliff’s shirt, but Cliff knows he’ll need to get Ilya changed into a diaper soon.
Cliff frowns slightly as he continues to think. He glances around at the locker room for a moment, spotting Ilya’s phone lying on the floor a few feet away. It must’ve fallen out of Ilya’s pocket when he’d tumbled. Cliff shifts slightly to grab it, shushing Ilya when he whines at the movement.
“Shh, sorry Rozy, just grabbing your phone, alright?” Cliff soothes, as he picks up Ilya’s phone.
Cliff examines the phone carefully, turning it over in his palm. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any damage, so clearly the case had held up. Ilya had only gotten this phone two weeks ago, so Cliff knows he would’ve been pissed if it got fucked up.
“Alright,” Cliff murmurs to himself, as he awkwardly enters Ilya’s pin with one hand. Ilya seems pretty content with Cliff’s hand on his back, so Cliff doesn’t want to disturb that.
In the past, Ilya has asked Cliff to send off some text messages for him or to order an uber on his phone when he’s been especially fucked up during a night out. Cliff is thankful he remembers Ilya’s passcode from those times.
Cliff opens up Ilya’s text message conversations and starts to scroll through. “Let’s see. Shane. Shane. Shane…”
Ilya makes what sounds like a curious noise around his fingers, squirming in Cliff’s lap. He doesn’t seem to understand many words apart from ‘Shane’ right now. This Shane guy must be someone special.
“Yeah, I’m looking, buddy,” Cliff assures him. “We’ll find him for you.”
Cliff scrolls for a little while, but can’t seem to find a guy named Shane. He tries to look up ‘Shane’ in Ilya’s contacts, but nothing comes up.
Huh. Does Ilya actually mean ‘Sane’? Is Sane even a common first name? Cliff has never met a Sane, but maybe there are some Sanes out there in the world.
He tries to search ‘Sane’ in Ilya’s contacts for good measure, but nothing comes up for that either.
Cliff scrolls back to the top of Ilya’s text message conversations, frowning. The top conversation is with Jane, which Cliff knows is Ilya’s probably-girlfriend from Montreal. Maybe Ilya has mentioned Shane to her?
Cliff feels like a bit of a dickhead going through his buddy’s texts with his girlfriend, but…look, he’s a little desperate here, alright?
He opens up the conversation and scans over the most recent text messages.
Ilya: [image attached]
Ilya: What the fuck Shane
Cliff blinks for a moment, taking in the image. It looks like a black-and-white still from a photoshoot that Hollander did for a magazine. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with the top few buttons open and rolled-up sleeves. Plus, some pretty tight pants. Damn, Hollander’s got some muscles. But why is Ilya sending this to his girlfriend?
Cliff blinks again.
Also wait, why is Ilya calling his girlfriend Shane?!
Cliff keeps reading.
Jane: Oh yeah. I did those ages ago.
Ilya: Why have I not seen them before?
Jane: Idk, pretty sure my team posted them when I first did the shoot.
Ilya: You look so fucking hot
Jane: Do I?
Cliff forces himself to stop reading, not wanting to pry anymore than he already has.
Holy fucking shit.
Jane from Montreal is Shane Hollander. Ilya is dating a dude, and that dude is Shane fucking Hollander.
There’s a mixture of shock and a little bit of pride tangling inside Cliff. On one hand, Hollander is the last person on earth who Cliff thought Ilya would be seeing, or fucking. Because yeah, Hollander is technically the enemy or whatever. On the other hand, though…damn, how much game do you have to have to pull Shane Hollander?
That’s my fucking boy right there, Cliff thinks to himself.
At that moment, Ilya makes another small whining noise, tearing Cliff away from the whirlwind going through his head. He tries to set his shock aside to deal with later. Right now, Ilya needs him. And probably needs Hollander. Cliff slides Ilya’s phone into his pocket.
“Alright. Let’s get you changed, then we’ll go back to the hotel and call Papa, okay? How does that sound?”
“Bah,” Ilya babbles around his fingers. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth, which are now shining with spit, and curls his fingers into Cliff’s shirt. Cliff doesn’t bat an eye. You kind of get used to that sort of thing as a caregiver.
“Agreed, buddy,” Cliff says sagely. “We’re gonna go up now, okay?”
Cliff wraps his arms around Ilya and slowly raises himself onto his knees again, standing up from the floor. Ilya’s fingers tighten in Cliff’s shirt, a soft whimper escaping him as his eyes fill with tears.
“Shhh, it’s okay, Rozy,” Cliff soothes, gently hiking Ilya up his hip a little bit.
Cliff stands in place for a moment, gently swaying Ilya back and forth. Ilya lets out another whimper, squirming a bit in Cliff’s arms. It seems like he’s trying to get closer, but he doesn’t quite have the strength to pull himself towards Cliff.
Cliff softens immediately. “Oh man, you’re tiny, huh? Still can’t believe it. So little,” he coos, as he gently guides Ilya’s head towards his chest.
Ilya settles once he’s got his head against Cliff’s chest, his grasp on Cliff’s shirt loosening. He drops one of his hands from Cliff’s shirt in favour of bringing his thumb to his mouth, gently sucking on it.
Cliff stays in place for another minute or so, letting Ilya fully settle. Once Ilya seems like he’s comfortable again, Cliff casts a glance over at both of their duffel bags. Ilya’s is sitting on the bench in front of them and his own bag is sitting on the bench at the opposite end of the room.
Eh, fuck it. He’ll either come back for them, or just ask one of the guys to take it with them.
“Alright, Rozy, let’s go to the changing room. There’s gonna be some people out there, but you don’t have to worry about them. I got you,” he says.
Cliff knows that Ilya won’t understand most of what he’s saying, but he hopes at least part of the sentiment comes across.