Chapter Text
The atmosphere in the locker room was sour. It felt like being back in the Metros when they'd lost a game, everyone full of ugliness Shane had never known how to reach. It was his fault this time as well.
Ilya had been quiet on the way to the rink. He’d been late up and hadn’t eaten breakfast—Shane had assumed he was just tired from the game and then having been out all evening, but now he was starting to wonder if he was ill. That was the only explanation for how badly he’d done in practice, missing pretty much everything Shane had sent his way.
He tried not to watch too obviously as Ilya disappeared into the showers. His gait was fine and his weight was about the same as it usually was in the middle of the season.
“What the fuck was that?” Marleau hissed at him in French, leaning over Shane’s cubby. He’d only taken off his skates, the sleeves haphazardly pushed up to reveal freckled forearms. Shane was down to his compression pants and top, one sock balled in his hand.
“I don’t know, he’s been in a shitty mood all morning.”
“Not that. Practice: what the fuck were you doing?”
Shane met his eyes head on, aware of Marleau’s size. “I was skating,” he said tightly.
“Listen, we don’t do that. When the captain is like this, we help him, not fucking show off!”
“Like what?” Shane asked, baffled. He’d been accused of showing off so often it didn’t even register as an insult any more. He was good: he couldn’t help that.
“He always brings everything to a game: everything. So when he can’t bring everything to practice, you simplify, you fucking help, you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand,” Shane agreed, mainly to get Marleau to back the fuck off.
“Good,” Marleau said, back in English. He took Shane’s stick and slotted it neatly into place and turned to take off his gear just as Ilya came out of the shower, a towel knotted around his waist and his hair dark with damp.
Shane watched him out of the corner of his eye as he began to get dressed.
“You showering?” Laine asked and Shane snapped his head around.
“Yeah,” he agreed, reaching for his other sock. Ilya was slowing down, likely having noticed that Shane wasn’t even undressed yet. He finished stripping and went to the showers, sluicing sweat and soap suds off in the hot water, someone laughing two stalls down.
When he got out Taz and Cade were chatting to Marly, Ilya nodding occasionally. Shane got dressed and threw his bag over his shoulder, his hair still dripping into his collar. He nodded goodbye to whoever caught his eye, Ilya standing and following him out.
“Your hair is still wet,” he told Shane, as if he hadn’t noticed.
“It’s a one minute walk to the car, I’ll be fine.”
Ilya didn’t reply, silent all the way as he drove from the rink to the river.
“What was up at practice?” Shane asked, scrolling through his phone without really looking.
Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “Tired.”
He’d seen Ilya tired—seen him when his knees gave way as he stood, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he’d never seen him miss a tape-to-tape outlet pass.
“I will be better for the game tomorrow,” he added, as if that was the thing Shane was worried about.
“I know,” he agreed.
Shane’s black eyes looked ugly, but he could pretty much breathe through his nose well enough that eating wasn’t such a chore. He’d eat after sorting out food for the week though: he hadn’t had a chance to do it yesterday with his parents there and it was nagging at him. His spreadsheet was on his laptop, but he could take notes on his phone and copy them over later. Starting with the chicken, he weighed each portion before putting it in tupperware to freeze. Rice came next. He opened a drawer, looking for the neon orange lid he used when washing his rice and caught Ilya standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring blankly at the line of tupperware along the side.
“Hey, want me to make you something?”
“No.”
He turned and opened the fridge and Shane went back to his rice. When he’d been young his grandma had made zosui for him when he’d been sick, using the last of the soup from nabe to cook the rice, adding some grated ginger and warning him to be careful because it was hot. Ki o tsukete, atsui yo!
Ilya got a pizza out of the back of the freezer, something with sausage on it, and flicked the oven on. Shane ran the numbers automatically, effort versus intake, and knew the pizza didn’t come close to meeting Ilya’s needs.
“Want a protein shake with that?” he offered.
“No, I want to eat real food.”
“I eat real food,” Shane replied, stung. The Metros had always joked about his birdfood, but Ilya had never mentioned it: none of the Raiders had.
“Not food for when sick, not food for when in pain.”
“I’m fine,” Shane insisted. He jumped at a sharp noise behind him, turning to see the oven off again, the pizza abandoned on the side and Ilya already heading towards the stairs.
Shane put the chicken in the fridge and the pizza back in its box and in the freezer before following Ilya upstairs. He was lying on the bed on his side, the light of his phone reflected on his face. Shane sat by his knees, but Ilya just kept scrolling.
“I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“I’m fine,” Ilya replied, his tone making it clear he was parroting Shane.
He half turned, bringing a leg up and putting a hand on Ilya’s thigh. “Ilushenka,” he tried. “Please.”
Ilya sat up, pushing himself up to standing so fast his phone fell to the floor. “Nothing!” he snapped, throwing one arm out to one side. “Nothing is wrong. Except you have two black eyes and you don’t let me help! No, I can’t give you nice food; no, I can’t stay with you while your parents are here. I can’t come to the hospital with you, can’t even get on the fucking ice when you’re bleeding. Fuck!”
He dropped back against the wall, sliding down it as quickly as he’d stood, bent over with his head bowed, his breathing ragged. Shane was already moving, crouching next to him to place a hand over the vulnerable bend of his neck. He didn’t know what to say, what words would make everything better.
“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I didn’t know you were upset. I—I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t stay.”
“Shouldn’t stay where?”
“With me. You shouldn’t stay with me, you should get your own apartment.”
Shane hooked a hand into the bottom of Ilya’s sweatshirt, worrying at the ribbing along the edge. “I want to stay with you.”
Ilya shook his head. “I’m no good, don’t you see? Lazy and selfish.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
He got only silence in reply. “Come on,” he urged, easing Ilya up. Ilya went with him without resistance. Shane lay back on the bed and pulled him close, his weight a comfort against the idea that he might want Shane to leave.
Ilya buried his head in his shoulder, his breaths stirring as wetness gathered at Shane’s neck. He felt sick with sadness, like he could feel what Ilya felt, like their hearts were beating in the same painful rhythm. It made sense: he always knew where Ilya was on the ice, maybe he was learning to know where he was off it as well.
“Don’t go,” Ilya breathed.
“I won’t.”
Ilya was fine for the game. They lost, but not for lack of effort. Plenty of chances, but New York’s goalie was a brick wall. They clawed it back to one-all, pulled the goalie late, and watched it slide into their own empty net.
Media was predictable: there was something to be said for not being captain. No-one expected him to have an original thought in his head, though for once he wished he could go crash Ilya’s media, if for no other reason that to stop him being asked the same question about finishing plays six different ways. Thankfully Jen stopped them early, while Shane was just heading out to get iced.
Laine caught up with him in the corridor, falling into step at his shoulder. “How’s the captain?” he asked.
“Fine,” Shane replied, but Laine’s silence felt loaded.
“Next month I’ll have been playing for the Raiders for eight years.”
“Congratulations,” Shane told him, unsure why this was a conversation they were having.
Laine touched a hand to his arm and Shane stopped. “I don’t think Roz is fine.”
First Marleau then Laine: everyone was lining up to tell him he was fucking up this week. “You all know him better than me, I guess.”
“Will you listen to me or do you want to sulk some more?”
Shane opened his mouth then closed it. “I’m listening,” he allowed.
“It is depression, I think. He gets like this sometimes, but he can always play. You didn’t know?”
Shane shook his head, trying to place what Laine was saying with the Ilya he’d known all these years. Or not known, perhaps. “No, he’s always so—”
“Loud? Annoying?”
A laugh fell out of Shane before he could stop it. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That.”
Laine tilted his head, considering. “Not an easy thing. Not everyone could live with someone who struggles like that.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” Laine clapped him on the shoulder. “Need you to beat Cade at Fifa later.”
Shane turned the word over while the trainer iced the bridge of his nose. Depression was something for writers and artists—Van Gogh, battling to paint. Ilya was so bright, so full of energy and motion, it was hard to imagine him being so sad it would need a name. He’d have to Google it, find out the right things to say, how to help.
At the hotel, Laine made good on his threat. He claimed the biggest room, stole Taz’s PS4, and told Shane to bring Ilya along.
Ilya didn’t want to play, instead sitting on the floor in front of the seat Shane was on, leaning against Shane’s leg with one hand wrapped warm around his ankle. Cade was sitting on the sofa with Laine next to him, Cade leaning forward so that both of them would fit. He was also probably leaning forward in a desperate attempt to prevent Shane from trampling his team into dust, but that wasn’t going to happen.
He grinned as he scored again, Cade swearing at him while Laine laughed. “Kid, you’re playing Shane Hollander, did you think you would win?”
“Is there anything you’re bad at?” Cade asked, pressing X repeatedly in an effort to get the ball out of his own half.
“He is very bad at chirps,” Ilya offered. He wasn’t even watching the game, instead he had his eyes closed, his head resting against Shane’s knee.
“I’m not,” Shane countered. He scored again.
“What?” Cade yelled, standing up.
“That’s true, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Hollzy chirp anyone.” Laine leaned forward to peer around Cade.
“I called you old man last week!”
“Was that supposed to be a chirp?”
“Yes!”
On the screen Cade’s goalie flung himself left, a full second too early, leaving the right side of the net yawning open. Shane sent the ball to the right.