Chapter Text
Ilya didn’t know how long he had sat there, frozen in time, their cum drying on his stomach, but by the time he had finally moved, the sun was beginning to set, and his house still smelt like tuna.
He turned off the TV, stacked their plates, and grabbed their drinks, bringing them to the kitchen. Ilya hesitated before pouring Shane’s half-drunk ginger ale down the drain, following it with the eleven remaining, unopened cans that he had stupidly bought, cans that would never get drunk.
He dropped their dishes in the sink before going upstairs to shower off their dried cum.
Ilya spent a good forty minutes standing under the shower head, staring at the wall.
That night, Ilya crawled into his bed, which he was supposed to share with Shane, but he left.
Everyone always did.
__
The next morning, Ilya felt even worse. He couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. They had an evening game and practice at eleven, but he couldn’t move; he didn’t have the energy.
Is this how his mother felt, all those years ago, helpless and exhausted?
Ilya layed in bed, staring at the ceiling until he was brought out of his daze from the sound of his phone ringing, coming from downstairs, on the couch, where he had left it. Where Shane left him.
Ilya groaned and rolled over to check the time.
11:10, he was late. He's never missed a practice, not when he had a fever, not when he tore his ACL, not even on the anniversary of his mother’s death, yet today, he couldn’t even get out of bed.
Ilya buried his head in the covers and ignored his phone when it rang for a second time.
Eventually, there was a soft knock on his bedroom door, and a small part of him hoped that it was Shane, that he had come back, but the spark of hope quickly died when he heard the familiar voice of his teammate.
“Roz, you okay? You missed practice,” Marlow asked wearily, sensing something was wrong.
Ilya responded with a groan, not bothering to look at his friend.
“Are you sick? Can you play tonight? Should I call coach? Have you been to the doctor? I can call the team doctor,” Cliff offered, approaching his seemingly dying teammate.
Ilya sighed before forcing himself to sit up, before his friend asked any more questions. “I’m fine, Marley. I don’t need doctor, I will call coach and apologize for missing practice, I am just tired.”
Cliff gave Ilya a concerned look, “You don’t look fine, shit man, you never miss practice, ever. Did something happen?”
Ilya debated lying, but he was too tired to think of an excuse. “Is Jane, she left me,” he said quietly. “Is my fault, I… fucked up, I said wrong thing, and now she’s gone.”
Cliff gave his friend a sympathetic look. Although Ilya refused to talk about her, it was clear that he had loved her for years. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. Whatever it is, you can apologize; you've been talking for years. She can’t stay mad at you forever,” he tried to reassure.
“No,” Ilya sighed. “She is gone. She said she can’t do this anymore, I fucked everything up.”
Cliff slowly sat down on the bed next to his best friend. “Why don’t you explain to me what happened? What did you say?”
Ilya stayed quiet, trying to translate what he wanted to say in his head. “I invited her over, and asked her to stay the night,” Ilya began, before pausing to try to find the right words. “I made us lunch using boring ingredients that fit her boring diet, and bought him his favourite drink,” Ilya continued, not noticing the change in pronouns. “And then we… but then I said his name, and he got off me and left. He didn’t even stay the night… he said he would,” he explained, hurt evident in his voice.
Cliff took a moment to take it all in, feeling sympathy for his heartbroken friend. “Ilya, it’s not your fault he left. It sounds like the perfect day. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Maybe he just needs time,” he offered, not blinking at the different pronouns.
“No, no. He said he couldn’t, not anymore; he couldn’t even look at me. I broke agreement, just sex, no feelings attached... I thought maybe he liked me back, but it was just sex for him; he made that clear,” his voice cracked as he spoke, whether from a lack of talking or hurt, he didn’t know.
“I’m so sorry, man, but you can’t blame yourself. There are more people out there, people who would love a chance to be with The Ilya Rozanov. Why don’t we go out clubbing tonight, drink, dance, meet people, take your mind off of Jane?” Cliff suggested, trying to hype up his best friend.
“I have been with many people, but none compare to Jane,” His said quietly.
“I know,” Cliff nodded, understanding. “Have you eaten today? Why don’t we order takeout from that Russian place you love?”
“Okay,” he agreed, his comfort foods ranged from Russian staples that his mother would make for him as a child to McDonald's meals, and Cliff knew this.
--
Cliff forced him out of bed and downstairs to the dreaded couch, not that he knew that his couch was to be burned. They ordered takeout, and while they waited for it to arrive, Cliff made them coffee.
“Do you think you’re playing tonight, or should I tell coach you’re sick?” he asked. They were slowly running out of time; soon, their coach would be banging on his door, checking whether their star centre had suddenly passed away since their last game.
Ilya let his head fall back on the couch with a groan, before jolting up as he pictured his head falling back with Shane straddling his lap.
“You good?” Marlow asked, concerned.
“ ‘m fine,” he mumbled back. If he didn’t go to the game, Shane would know, Shane who was with him yesterday, who knows he’s not sick, who left him feeling like the world was ending. Maybe Shane would be concerned, maybe he would feel guilty and come back, or maybe he’d realize the extent of his feelings, the ones that he didn’t return. He couldn’t tell Marlow this, so he shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Cliff said, leaving it at that. “I’ll tell coach that you’re sick, and not sure you’ll make it, so he can start preparing, but if you ‘suddenly feel better,' you’ll be there,” he stated, pulling out his phone.
Ilya nodded a few times in response before picking up his own phone that had fallen between the couch cushions.
He had many missed calls and unopened texts, but none of them were from the one person he wanted to hear from.
---
He didn’t go to the game that night, nor did he go clubbing with Marlow, but that didn’t stop him from watching it from the comfort of his own home. He told himself it was to check on how his team was doing without him, but he secretly knew that it wasn’t his own teammates he was watching.