Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov (background)

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova Friendship, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), Grigori Rozanov's Funeral, POV Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander Gets a Concussion, Grief/Mourning, Character Study, canon complicit, Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Collections:

ICE OUT HR 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-22 Words: 2,740 Chapters: 1/1

load-bearing walls

Summary

Svetlana shifts the other bottles out of his reach, giving him an unimpressed look when he whines. “What? I’m not carrying your 200 pound ass onto the plane, so slow down there, mister.”

“It takes more to take me down,” Ilya tells her, and he isn’t wrong except that he’s also not right because he’s mostly besides himself, Svetlana would wager. At least she had been, in his place one and a half years ago. They’ve always been too similar, in certain ways.

---

Svetlana is a there for Ilya whenever he needs her: be it during his father’s funeral, or to call him out on his very obvious crush.

Notes

Thank you to dykhotomy for prompting me with Ilya & Svetlana gen fic!

This fic sticks to show canon except for how Shane got his concussion (not 35s into the first period because he looked back).

Biggest of thanks to lotts for the beta 💛

Svetlana gets the call while she’s packing for a trip to LA, Ilya’s game against Montreal on in the background.

Alyoscha (Asshole), the caller ID says, and she swipes it away. Within seconds, Alexei is calling back. The temptation to decline again is there, but – Ilya is playing. Alexei doesn’t like her.

There aren’t many reasons for him to call Svetlana, and most of the ones she can come up with aren’t good.

She hits accept.

“Asshole.”

“Father. He’s dead,” Alexei says in lieu of a greeting, “and my asshole of a brother isn’t answering and –”

“He’s playing a game, you moron,” Svetlana cuts him off. “We’ll be there. Don’t fucking call me again.”

He hangs up instead of saying anything in reply, which is just as well.

Svetlana calls Ilya’s agent – that boy really needs a personal assistant at some point, but nooo, why should he listen to Svetlana when she keeps picking up his slack? – to let him know that Ilya will be out for a couple of days after this game, and then makes the arrangements that will get them to Russia so they can bow to Ilya’s asshole of a father one last time.

First class seats on the next flight, a car to pick up Ilya from the game, clothes for both of them; it’s a good thing she’s already halfway packed, so all she has to do is throw in some funeral-appropriate clothes and then make her way over to Ilya’s to do the same thing.

He was supposed to fly out to Nashville after the game, so he should have his passport and everything with him, but she doubts he’s packed for a rather more somber affair. At least she knows her way around his home.

Ilya had done the same thing for her when her mother had died a year and a half ago, though he hadn’t been able to accompany her because of his schedule. Still, she remembers how relieving it had been that all she’d had to do was get into the car he’d sent, her packed bags already in the back. That she hadn’t had to think.

Grigori hadn’t been a kind man, or even a nice one, but he’d still been Ilya’s father. And he may not have been a load-bearing wall of Ilya’s life like Svetlana’s mother had been of hers, but he’d still been a pillar, and knocking that out would be reverberating through Ilya’s life even so.

Ilya is silent on the way to the airport, silent as they wait for their flight to be called. He’d showered after the game, but his hair is a mess, the curls flat from where he’d jammed his beanie over them without letting them dry. He puts his beanie back on as they leave the car, doesn’t take it off even inside.

“Did you book return flights?” he asks her in the first class lounge, a handful of empty, minuscule vodka bottles in front of him.

“Didn’t know how long it would take us.”

“A week,” he says decisively, twisting open the next tiny flask and gulping the vodka downwithout hesitation. “A week, and then I’ll be back here.”

“Let’s see what the plans back home are before we book anything.” Svetlana shifts the other bottles out of his reach, giving him an unimpressed look when he whines. “What? I’m not carrying your 200 pound ass onto the plane, so slow down there, mister.”

“It takes more to take me down,” Ilya tells her, and he isn’t wrong except that he’s also not right because he’s mostly besides himself, Svetlana would wager. At least she had been, in his place one and a half years ago. They’ve always been too similar, in certain ways.

But either way, he doesn’t make another grab for the alcohol, so she probably will escape without blowing out her back in unfun ways.

On the flight, Ilya doesn’t keep drinking. He stares out the window, face harsh and empty, flipping his phone absentmindedly in his hand. Waiting for a message from his Jane maybe, for all that Ilya insists that he doesn’t even exist, that Ilya is like Svetlana, slipping from one bed to the next without looking back.

She’d only ever looked back at him, her oldest friend, an extension of her own body in some ways. It had taken her longer to realise that someone else had captured his attention, someone secret. Someone dangerous. Someone unattainable except for how Ilya is incapable of letting them go.

And still, sometimes Svetlana wishes she could be like Ilya in this regard, too, heartbreak and danger be damned.

They make it to Moscow. Ilya has a place here, a tacky, ostentatious, gaudy thing that’s quite possibly the furthest from both his Boston apartment and house as you can get while still sticking to the formula of four walls and a roof.

“I hate this place,” Ilya murmurs as they lug their sore bodies up the stairs, because neither of them trusts the elevator in this building. He snorts. “Home.”

Svetlana brushes her hand down his arm and presses a kiss to his shoulder as she pushes past him. “Will you have a reason to come back?”

“Hm.”

The rooms are exactly as stifling as Svetlana remembers, but at least they won’t be here for long, that much is certain. And it beats staying in her childhood bedroom, much as she likes her father a whole deal more now than when she was a child. It helps that they’re no longer living under the same roof, and so she’s not overly keen to get back to that.

Ilya throws his duffel into the master bedroom and then wanders over to the window, looking at the grey street down below. With one lingering look, Svetlana drops her own bag on her side of the bed, checks her messages, and then figures she might as well stop delaying.

“Family calls,” she tells Ilya’s back. He doesn’t turn away from the gaudy curtains. “I’ll be out for a couple of hours. Don’t wait for me with dinner, do wait for me with seeing Alexei.”

At this, Ilya snorts. “I sent him all the money he needs for the arrangements. Like he’ll want to see me before he has to.”

“Still.”

Ilya sighs. “Fine.”

“And – call me if you need me, okay? Or… use the time to call someone else.”

“Who would I call?”

Svetlana doesn’t even dignify that with a verbal response, raising both her eyebrows. To his credit, Ilya deflates.

“I will be fine on my own. Not looking to join my dad now that he’s finally gone.” A muscle in his jaw jumps, his eyes hard.

“Didn’t think you would.” He’s weathered worse over the years, but she remembers the yawning abyss in her chest after her mother’s death well enough. “That doesn’t mean you have to be alone.”

“I will be fine.”

“Well, then – see you later.”

Svetlana blows him a kiss, and then goes to fulfil her own obligations while she’s here in Moscow.

The funeral and reception are exactly as stifling as Svetlana expected: the oppressive, disapproving silence of people connected through the recently deceased. Next to her, Ilya grows harsh and quiet, like a breathing, moving statue of marble.

When they finally close the casket on Grigori’s still form on day three, she feels it like an inhale, holding her breath at Ilya’s side through the stilted dinner, and finally exhaling when Ilya and Alexei come to blows.

That wasn’t a question of if but when, and it’s a relief that Svetlana is there to supervise before either man does something he might regret.

“Where did that little shit go?” Alexei asks under his breath when Svetlana makes her way back to the table alone.

She raises one eyebrow at him as she slides into her seat again. “That is none of your business.”

Alexei scoffs, though Svetlana ignores him. She’ll give Ilya half an hour; in this weather, that seems like a very reasonable length of time to call someone before she comes to collect him. He seems to think he is slick and mysterious, still, and she hasn’t yet had the heart to tell him he isn’t. She won’t do it today, either.

So she clears her plate bite by bite, drinks the mediocre wine – even with Ilya’s money, Alexei has always been a cheapskate – and finally excuses herself. By all rights, Ilya should be here himself, should say his own goodbyes. But who is here to hold onto him? Mother dead, father dead, ties to his brother just about cut; who is here for him to care about?

So she takes her purse and jacket, collects his beanie, and then slips out into the cold. Ilya might be anywhere, but she’s known him since before either of them could walk or speak, and so she follows her hunch.

And sure enough, she finds him in an underpass a hundred or so meters down the road, phone dangling from his hand and head bowed as he is leaning against the wall.

“You’ll catch yourself a cold,” Svetlana tells him as she takes the phone from his icy fingers and replaces it with the beanie. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Okay,” he says, small and quiet for once. His eyes are red rimmed, and his voice is bleak, and she meant to wait until they’re back in his apartment to hug him. He isn’t dressed for this weather, and neither is she, both in their funeral-appropriate clothes, but his arms have always felt warm and safe around her. She can only hope that she can provide the same thing to him.

“How is Jane?” she asks, conversationally, once they part so Svetlana can actually call them a cab.

“I don’t know.”

When she glances at him to call his bullshit, he gives her a tiny, sad smile. “It was mainly me monologuing.”

Oh. Oh.

Svetlana slips her phone back into her pocket and leans back into him. “I’m glad he knows how to listen.”

Ilya huffs, just a little, but for the second time tonight, he doesn’t contradict her choice of pronouns.

And despite everything, she can’t help but feel that that is progress.

Two days later, Ilya has grown antsy enough that there is no keeping him in Moscow.

“Go.” Svetlana gives him an exasperated look. “You are driving me insane, and I can pack up the final bits of important stuff on my own.”

“But –”

“Ilyusha. I love you, but I am not above murdering you when you so clearly want to be anything but here and yet insist on staying here.”

He exhales in a huff, though he does pull his phone out when she kicks at him. They wouldn’t fly back together anyway; there is no way Ilya will miss his game in Montreal, and Svetlana was planning on a two-week-stint in Boston before she has to go back to LA.

It’s not like he’s ever had a lot in this apartment anyway. Summer clothes, yes, and some workout gear, plus a few heirlooms. But there hadn’t been much he’d taken from his childhood home in the first place, and less that’s stayed here in the past decade, so it’s mostly finding the few things that are worth taking.

She would wager she knows him well enough to find those on her own, too.

“If I leave tomorrow morning, I can make the game in Toronto,” he tells her.

She fixes him with a look, and then tilts her head for good measure. “Well? What’s keeping you?”

“Fine.”

They don’t even sex on their last night together in this flat. They slide under the covers, down to their underwear because Svetlana does not like sleeping without at least panties on and because it’s nothing they haven’t yet seen of each other. But she doesn’t instigate, and it’s not surprise that he doesn’t offer, and so they just curl into each other and breathe together, like they used to before puberty hit.

“You won’t get rid of me. No matter what. I’m here for you.”

“I know.” His lips brush her hair. “And you know the feeling is mutual.”

They’d been in this same position – plus sex, back then – one and a half years ago. It was never a question, and he doesn’t make it one. “I do.”

“Good.” He squeezes her once, and relaxes into sleep far sooner than she had expected.

Svetlana is in a sports bar when she watches Shane Hollander go down on the ice and not get up again.

“Ooooh,” the room murmurs, dismayed even though it’s their biggest rival’s captain.

Svetlana only has eyes for Ilya.

Ilya, who’d been focused, a smirk hoveirng in the corner of his mouth all game. Ilya, who is now looking like his world has ended in front of his eyes.

Do you need me to come to Montreal? Svetlana texts him, even though he won’t see it until the game is over. There is a late flight she might still be able to make if he does need her, and she can always drive. Five hours on the road won’t be nice, but they’ve both done stupider things for each other.

By the time the game ends, Svetlana has managed to find out the hospital they’ve taken Hollander to, and texts the address and visiting hours to Ilya. He hearts the message, replies, no, I will be fine to her offer, and then goes silent.

Well. She orders another cocktail for herself, and tries to find a distraction from Ilya’s face on national TV, looking more shell-shocked than he’d been at any point during their stay in Moscow.

“How is he?” Svetlana asks as Ilya climbs into the passenger seat of her car, his duffel tossed carelessly into the backseat. At least he packs neatly; his bag won’t ruin the beautiful leather of her car.

“Was very loopy,” Ilya replies in English, and then grimaces and switches to Russian. “Concussion, broken collarbone. Out for the rest of the season, but could have been worse.”

“It looked bad enough even on TV.” Svetlana gives him a look and pulls out of the parking lot. She’s inviting herself over to his place, but that is not something she needs to comment on.

For a minute or two, there is silence in the car. Then, Ilya sighs. “Are we… going to talk about this?”

Svetlana smiles. “Do you want to?”

“You are not surprised?”

“Ilyusha,” she says, her voice soft. Traffic is slow, so she chances another glance at him and takes his hand with her right one. “I know you. I love you. I find it adorable you think you can hide something like this from me.”

Ilya chuckles and squeezes her hand. “How long have you known?”

She gives him another look, which is probably horribly indulgent. “For certain? Two words, Ilyushenka. Two words: Rose Landry.”

Ilya makes a half-choked noise, before he lets his head drop back against the backrest. “And not-certain?”

“A secret Jane. From Montreal. Probably male. Strangely around whenever you were playing the Metros, no matter the city. It wasn’t rocket science, I’m afraid.”

“Hm. Lucky me that none of my teammates are scientists, hm?”

“Lucky you indeed. And lucky Jane.”

“If he wouldn’t have an absolute aneurysm knowing you know, I’d introduce you two.”

“You still should,” Svetlana tells him. “I would love to meet him.”

“Never mind.” Ilya drops her hand so he can raise both of his in surrender. “You will never meet, you would only pick him over me.”

“Oh darling,” Svetlana purrs, and if they weren’t still in her car, she’d snuggle close to him. “A little fun with someone else won’t change what we have.”

He laughs, reaches for her hand again, and presses a kiss to it. “I love you.” Another kiss. “And I think he’d love you, too. But… Let me see how this summer goes. I… I might visit him. Maybe.” I shouldn’t, she hears in his voice. I want to.

She squeezes his fingers. “I can’t wait.” It’s all the blessing she knows how to give. “But first, you have some hockey to play anyway.”

Ilya laughs and gives her hand one final kiss before he relaxes back into the car seat. “I will,” he promises, and they both know it’s not only about hockey.