Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Roommates, Nightmares, Male Friendship, Panic Attacks, Sleep Deprivation, Childhood Trauma, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Dementia, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of hard conversations

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-24 Words: 9,128 Chapters: 1/1

can we just go home now

Summary

Marlow knows better than to push. Everyone’s got their own shit, especially on the road. But there’s only so many nights you can wake up to someone falling apart before it stops being something you can ignore.

// Ilya hasn’t seen his mother in over ten years. Lately, he sees her every night.

Notes

Hi! I hope you’ll like it. English is not my first language so sorry for eventual misspellings and mistakes.

They’ve been away a lot lately.

Too many games stacked too close together, too many flights where everyone’s half-asleep and sore and quiet. It makes things blur. Makes people a little off.

Marlow doesn’t usually mind the road.

What he does mind is getting stuck with guys he doesn’t click with. Bad roommates can make a trip feel twice as long.

That’s never been an issue with Ilya.

They’ve been rooming together long enough that it’s easy now. No awkwardness, no overthinking it. They’ve got a rhythm who takes which bed, who showers first. It works.

Usually.

Marlow drops his bag by the wall and rolls his neck, loosening it after the flight. The room is already warm, a little stuffy, but he doesn’t bother with the thermostat yet. He kicks off his shoes, lets them land wherever, and glances over.

Ilya’s by the window. Phone to his ear.

He’s talking fast.

Russian always sounds sharp to him, like everything is said with more force than necessary. Like there’s no space between words.

He watches for a second from his bed, not really hiding it. There’s something almost entertaining about it, the way it sounds like an argument even if it isn’t.

Or maybe it is. Hard to tell.

Ilya drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. Says the same phrase again. Then, abruptly, he stops.

“Da,” he says, flat. And he hangs up. Then he exhales through his nose, drops it onto the bed, and rubs at the back of his neck.

“You guys always talk like you’re about to kill each other or what?”

Ilya turns his head, blinking at him like he just remembered he’s not alone.

“What? Shut up.”

Marlow grins, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Can you even talk normal in that language?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, already turning away. “I was talking normal.”

“No, you weren’t,” Marlow says immediately. “Say something normal. Calm. Like…” he thinks for a second, then waves a hand, “…like you’re ordering coffee or something.”

“Fine,” he says.

He says something in Russian. Slower this time. The words roll out smoother, less sharp around the edges.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “Still doesn’t sound very nice. What’d you say?”

A beat.

Then, with just enough of a smirk: “That you’re an idiot, Marly.”

“Unbelievable,” Marlow mutters, shaking his head, but he’s grinning.

Ilya doesn’t answer. Just reaches for his jacket instead, already shrugging it on.

Marlow raises an eyebrow. “Going again?”

“Yeah.”

Marlow leans back, watching him. “You’re an idiot, you know that? Smoking like a chimney during the season.”

Ilya pauses mid-step, turns his head slightly. “Smoking like a chimney,” he repeats. “That sounds so stupid.”

Marlow snorts. “It’s a saying.”

“It’s a bad saying,” Ilya says immediately. “English is a very stupid language.”

“Yeah? What is it in Russian then?”

Ilya considers that for a second, then says something in Russian.

Marlow stares at him. “That didn’t help.”

Ilya shrugs. “It’s like… smoking like…” He pauses, searching for the word. “I don’t know. A train.”

Marlow blinks. “A train?”

“Yes.”

“That’s even worse,” Marlow says, laughing now. “Trains don’t smoke.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Chimneys don’t smoke cigarettes either.”

“Yeah, but there’s smoke,” He argues, pushing himself up a little. “That’s the point.”

“So it’s in trains,” Ilya shoots back.

“Like a locomotive?” Marlow says, gesturing vaguely. “They’ve got those, what do you call them… like, the stacks. Chimneys. Same thing.”

Ilya stares at him for a second, completely unimpressed. “Marly,” he says, flat. “Who cares?”

Marlow grins. “I do.”

“It’s stupid,” Ilya says. “In every language.”

“Yeah,” Marlow says easily. “I’m gonna start saying ‘smokes like Rozanov.’ That’s more accurate anyway.”

Then Ilya lifts his hand and flips him off without even looking at him properly, already turning toward the door.

Marlow laughs. “Yeah, there it is. Smoking like a train,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. “What the hell.”

Ilya shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite himself, and pulls the door open.

———

The alarm goes off like a punch to the head.

Marlow jerks awake with a groan, fumbling blindly for his phone on the nightstand. It takes him too long to find it, the sound drilling straight through his skull until he finally smacks it silent.

He’s exhausted.

He drags a hand down his face and forces one eye open, blinking against the gray light leaking through the curtains.

Then he turns his head. Ilya is still asleep. Completely out.

Face half-buried in the pillow, breathing slow and even like he hasn’t been a complete menace for the last six hours.

Marlow just stares at him.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters.

Of course now he’s sleeping.

Last night flashes back in pieces. The window. Opening. Closing. Opening again.

That faint scrape every single time, just loud enough to pull Marlow out of sleep but not loud enough to fully wake him.

The bathroom door. In, out. In, out. Water running. Too long. Stopping. Starting again.

Then the door. Again. The hallway. The smoke breaks. The cold air every time he came back in.

Marlow had stopped checking the time after a while. Didn’t matter. Every time he drifted off, something else pulled him right back out.

At one point he’d actually sat up, half-ready to say something. He didn’t. But Jesus Christ.

He leans over and nudges the mattress. “Rozy.”

Nothing. Ilya doesn’t even flinch. Just shifts slightly, pulling the pillow tighter under his head.

Marlow lets out a short, humorless breath. “Yeah, okay.” He leans closer this time, voice louder. “Hey. C’mon.”

A groan. Low. Barely there. Marlow rolls his eyes. “Wakey wakey, you demon.”

That does it. Ilya lets out a rough, half-asleep laugh, voice muffled against the pillow. “Fuck you.”

“Up,” Marlow says, straightening.

Ilya drags a hand over his face, slow, like it takes effort just to exist. He pushes himself up onto his elbows but doesn’t go any further, head hanging for a second like it’s too heavy to hold up.

Marlow watches him. He looks like absolute shit.

Paler than usual. There’s a dullness to him, like something’s been scraped out. His hair’s a mess, damp at the edges, and there’s this tightness in his face that doesn’t go away even when he exhales.

“What’s gotten into you, huh?” he says, trying for casual, but it comes out edged.

Ilya doesn’t look at him. Just rubs his face again, harder this time.

“Nothing,” he says. Flat. Immediate.

Marlow studies him for a second longer. Doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t say that.

Ilya swings his legs over the side of the bed and just sits there for a moment, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s trying to catch up with his own body.

Then he stands. Moves past Marlow without another word. Straight to the bathroom. The door shuts. The lock clicks.

———

Then comes the morning skates.

Ilya’s there, but not really. Slower through drills, missing passes he usually takes clean without thinking. Coach says something once and Ilya just nods. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t joke it off like he usually would.

After that, the day kind of slips.

Lunch, meetings, quiet bus ride. Ilya on his phone more than usual.

Marlow catches pieces of few calls. Russian, fast, low, sometimes sharp. Once or twice Ilya steps outside for it, like he doesn’t want it overheard.

They don’t talk much. Not like they usually do.

Game comes and goes.

They win. Marlow scores once. Assist on the second. Solid night.

Ilya - nothing. No goals. No assists. A couple missed chances. Late reactions.

After the game, Ilya doesn’t stick around long. Shower. Change. Gone.

By the time Marlow gets back to the room, he’s already there. Phone in hand. Again.

Marlow doesn’t say anything. He scrolls through his phone, lets the TV fill the space between them.

Another call. At some point, Ilya leaves again. Comes back smelling faintly like smoke and cold air.

They don’t talk.

———

Marlow is almost asleep when it starts again.

Movement. The faint scrape of fabric. Mattress shifting.

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just listens.

Footsteps. Light, but not careful. Crossing the room. Stopping. Starting again. The window. A quiet click, then the soft rush of colder air.

Marlow exhales slowly through his nose, still not moving.

Fine. Whatever.

A minute passes. The window slides shut again. More movement. The mattress dips, weight settling. Silence.

The sound comes back. Sudden this time. Sheets shifting fast. Feet hitting the floor.

The window again. Open. Close. Open again. That’s it.

Marlow pushes himself up onto his elbows, turning his head sharply.

“Roz,” he says, voice rough with sleep and irritation. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Ilya freezes. Just for a second.

Then his shoulders drop slightly, like something in him deflates. “Sorry,” he says.

His voice sounds wrong. Marlow sits up fully now. “You alright?”

Ilya doesn’t turn around right away. One hand still resting against the window frame, fingers curled there like he needs something to hold onto.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat.

Marlow doesn’t believe it. “Rozy.”

Ilya finally turns. And, yeah. Something’s off. His eyes don’t quite settle, like they’re trying to focus and can’t decide on what.

“You sick or something?” he asks, quieter now.

Ilya shakes his head quickly. “No.” Too quick. “It’s just hot,” he adds, like that explains it.

Marlow glances around the room automatically.

It’s not hot. If anything, it’s cooler now with the window being opened every five seconds.

He looks back at Ilya. There’s something in the way he’s standing: tense, shoulders tight, chest rising a little too fast even though he’s trying to keep it normal.

Marlow exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he says after a second. “Okay.”

A beat. Then, softer: “Just leave it open, then.” He nods toward the window. “For the night.”

“Yeah,” Ilya says. Then he moves back to the bed and sits down, slower this time.

Marlow watches him. “Try to get some sleep,” he says.

Ilya doesn’t answer. Just lies down, turning onto his side, back to the room.

Marlow stays sitting for a moment longer, eyes on him, like he’s waiting for something else to happen.

Nothing does.

———

Sleep doesn’t feel like rest anymore. It feels like a trap.

Ilya lies on his side, eyes open, staring at nothing. He knows Marlow is there. He can hear him breathe, slow and steady now. Asleep, or close enough.

Ilya doesn’t have that.

His body is begging for it. He can feel it in the heaviness of his limbs, the ache behind his eyes, the way his thoughts keep slipping, catching, slipping again. He’s so tired it almost hurts.

But the second he lets himself drift it starts again. So he stays awake. Being awake doesn’t make him see her.

He presses his fingers hard into his eyes, like he can erase it anyway. It doesn’t work. It never works. He can still see it. Clearer now than it used to be. That’s the worst part.

For years, it had faded. Softened at the edges. Like something his brain had decided to blur out for him, something too sharp to keep in full detail.

He thought that meant it was over. That he was over it. He was wrong.

When he was twelve, he didn’t fully get it. He just knew something was wrong. That she looked wrong. That the room felt wrong.

That she didn’t move.

Now he knows why her body was stiff like that. Why her skin felt cold in a way that didn’t make sense. Why her lips looked like that. Pressed together, slightly off, like something had been taken out of them that couldn’t be put back.

Her face. God. Her face.

He swallows hard, throat tight. He wishes he could forget that. The exact shape of it. The way her eyes looked: closed, but not like sleep.

He hates that he wants to forget it. That was the last time he saw her. His mother.

His mom, who sang to him when he was sick and laughed too loudly at things that weren't funny at all, just because he said them.

That face is the last thing he has. And he wants to erase it.

The guilt sits heavy in his chest, familiar and constant. But it doesn’t change anything. It’s been over ten years. And it still drags him out of sleep like it just happened. Every night now. Every single time he closes his eyes. He sees her. As she was at the end.

This happened before. He knows it did. He remembers. He was twelve when it started. And then it just… didn’t stop.

Night after night, the same thing. Waking up shaking, gasping, disoriented. Sometimes not even waking up fully.

Sometimes the wet sheets. The cold realization in the morning. The panic. The shame. Twelve years old and suddenly not in control of his own body anymore.

He didn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t. What was he supposed to say?

He just dealt with it. Quietly. Cleaned it up. Hid it. Learned how to move around it.

It went on for months. Almost a year. Then it got better. Slowly. Less often. Less intense. By the time he was fifteen, it was rare enough that he could pretend it was gone.

And when he moved to the US and it was gone. Or close enough.

New place. New life. Hockey. Structure. Focus. He had something to do. Something to pour himself into. It stayed buried.

Until now.

Ilya stares at the ceiling, eyes burning. He knows why it’s back.

His phone is on the nightstand, screen dark now. It won’t stay that way. It never does. His father calls all the time now.

It’s like talking to someone who keeps slipping away mid-sentence. Forgetting things they just said. Forgetting they called. Forgetting her. Or remembering her in the wrong way.

“Where is she?”

The question comes in different forms, but it’s always the same. When is she coming back. Did she go to work. Why isn’t she answering.

At first, Ilya didn’t know what to do. He still doesn’t to be honest.

Sometimes he lies. She’s busy. She’ll call you later. She’s out.

The words feel wrong in his mouth every time. Heavy. Like he’s doing something unforgivable.

But it’s easier. Easier than the alternative. Because sometimes he tells the truth. And that’s so much worse.

His father doesn’t react the same way every time. Sometimes he doesn’t believe it. Gets confused. Frustrated. Sometimes he remembers, just enough, and gets angry. At her. At the situation. Sometimes at Ilya.

Sometimes he remembers fully. Like yesterday. He told him again. He didn’t want to, but the questions wouldn’t stop, circling back over and over, sharper each time. So he said it.

And this time his father cried.

He never did that before. Not like that. Not back then. But over the phone, his voice broke, completely, like something inside him finally caught up after all these years.

And Ilya just sat there, listening to it, frozen. Not knowing what to say. How do you comfort someone who’s grieving something you’ve already spent years trying to survive yourself?

It felt like it was happening all over again.

He presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he can physically hold himself together.

He can’t do this. He can’t keep doing this. He’s on the road. He’s supposed to play. Focus. Be sharp.

And instead he’s tired. Distracted. Split in half between two places, two times.

He doesn’t even remember half of their conversations anymore. They blur together, just like the cities, the games, the days.

Everything is blending into one long stretch of exhaustion. He wants it to stop. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe. His eyes burn. He blinks hard, staring up at the ceiling, willing it away.

He wants to cry. God, he wants to cry.

Feels like it’s sitting right there, stuck in his throat, heavy and sharp and impossible to swallow down completely. But he can’t.

He hasn’t felt like this on the road before. Not like this. Usually, the road is easy. Simple. Just hockey, routine, noise to drown everything else out.

Now it’s the opposite. Now there’s nowhere to hide. No space to fall apart properly. He feels trapped in it. Trapped in his own head. In his own body that won’t sleep, won’t shut up, won’t let go.

He exhales shakily, staring at nothing. He doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. He really doesn’t.

A thought slips in before he can stop it. He wishes he could just get injured. Something small. Enough to take him out. So he could go home.

The word feels wrong immediately. Home. His chest tightens. He doesn’t even know what that means anymore.

Another thought follows, darker, heavier. He just wants to get injured badly enough to die.

His breath stutters. He swallows hard. He drags a hand over his face, pressing hard, like he can ground himself back into something real.

He’s so tired. So fucking tired.

———

They win again.

This time, Ilya scores twice, one of them messy, the kind you don’t celebrate too hard because you’re not even sure how it went in. Still. It counts.

The guys tap his helmet, shove him around, loud and easy in that post-win way. Someone yells something in his ear, something about finally waking up, and he smiles.

He reaches for his phone without thinking. The screen lights up. Seven missed calls. His stomach drops so fast it almost makes him nauseous. All from his father.

His hand tightens around the phone immediately, a sharp, familiar tension snapping into place in his chest. Something must’ve happened. Something always does now.

He’s already standing before he fully decides to, weaving out of the locker room, away from the noise, away from the bodies and voices and everything pressing in on him.

He calls back.

It doesn’t even ring twice before his father picks up. And he sounds happy. Warm. Like this is a normal call. Like nothing is wrong.

There’s no mention of the missed calls. No urgency. No panic. He greets him like this is casual. Like Ilya called just to talk.

And then he asks how he’s doing. How he’s feeling. If he has a proper jacket, because it was cold today.

It hits wrong. His father was never like this. Never asked those things. Never cared about things like that, not out loud. Their conversations used to be short, practical, sometimes tense, sometimes nothing at all.

Ilya knows what it is. Knows it’s not real in the way he wants it to be. Knows it’s something slipping, something misfiring, something that won’t even exist in ten minutes.

But, God, he wants it. Just for a second.

He wants to pretend this is real. That this is how it’s always been. That this is just his dad, calling him after a game, asking how he is like it matters.

So he lets himself fall into it. He leans against the wall, shoulder pressing into it like he needs the support, and he starts talking.

Not much at first. Just small things. The game. The travel. The usual.

But his father listens. Responds. Sounds interested.

And Ilya feels it, sharp and embarrassing and impossible to stop. The way something in him lifts just slightly. Like a kid being asked a question he’s been waiting his whole life to answer.

He can hear someone in the distance calling his name. Something about press. He ignores it. Just one minute. Just one normal conversation.

He tells him they won. He tells him he scored. Says it like it matters, like he needs it to land somewhere, like he needs to hear it reflected back at him.

And his father sounds proud. Happy. Genuinely happy, in that moment. It hits harder than it should. Because Ilya knows it’s not going to last.

But right now Ilya takes it.

Even if it makes him feel pathetic. Small. Like he’s just a boy again, standing there waiting for something he never really got.

He can hear his name again. Closer now. “Rozanov, press is waiting.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

He just keeps talking, holding onto this fragile, borrowed version of something he’s not supposed to need anymore.

And then his father asks if he told his mother already.

She’s gonna be so happy.

And just like that, it breaks. His throat closes immediately, like something physically tightens there, cutting off whatever he was about to say. His jaw locks, then trembles despite him trying to hold it still.

Marlow’s voice, right there now. “Cap, you’re up for…”

He stops.

Ilya turns his head just slightly, like it takes effort, like even that small movement costs him something.

Marlow is standing a few feet away, one hand still half-lifted like he meant to gesture, to point him toward the media room, to keep things moving like always.

But he doesn’t finish the sentence. Because he sees him. Ilya doesn’t look like himself.

His face is too still, like he’s holding it in place manually. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. His jaw is trembling.

He’s still holding the phone to his ear, but it looks like he’s not really hearing what’s being said anymore. Marlow never seen him like this.

“Rozy?” he tries again, quieter now.

Ilya’s eyes flick to him finally. And that’s worse. Because there’s something raw there. Open in a way that doesn’t fit him at all.

His throat moves like he’s trying to swallow something down. His lips part just slightly but nothing comes out.

Marlow feels something twist in his chest. He exhales quietly, shifts his weight back just a little, giving him space without making it obvious.

“It’s fine,” he says, softer now. “I’ve got it.”

Ilya is still looking at him. Still frozen.

“Take a minute,” he adds, just as quiet.

Ilya nods. Barely. Tight, controlled, like it’s the only movement he can manage without everything slipping.

Marlow gives him one last look, just a second longer than necessary. Then he walks away.

And Ilya is alone. He pulls the phone away from his ear slowly, staring at it without really seeing it. His father is still talking. Or maybe he already stopped. Ilya doesn’t know. He ends the call.

He needs to leave. Right now. Before someone else sees him like this. Before he loses whatever thin control he still has.

———

The TV is on when Marlow gets back.

Some late-night sports recap, volume low, the same loop of highlights playing over and over again.

Ilya is on his bed, phone in his hands. Scrolling, maybe. Or just staring at it. Hard to tell.

He doesn’t look up when the door closes.

Marlow knows the question is stupid before he even asks it. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” Doesn’t look at him.

Marlow presses his lips together briefly, nods to himself even though Ilya can’t see it.

Ilya’s posture is off. Avoiding. Not just the question. Him.

He could call him out on it. Ask what the hell happened earlier.

He doesn’t. If Ilya doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s fair. It’s not his business.

So instead, he exhales through his nose, glances at the TV, and says, like nothing matters: “That second goal was ugly as hell.”

“…It went in,” he says after a moment. Still not looking up.

Marlow huffs quietly. “Yeah, barely.”

Ilya’s shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Still counts,” he mutters.

Marlow goes on, settling into it, tone light, easy. “Pretty sure you didn’t even see the puck.”

“I saw it,” Ilya says.

Marlow tilts his head, squinting at him like he’s offended. “Oh yeah? Where was it then?”

Ilya finally glances up. “Net,” he says.

Marlow snorts. “Wow. Insightful.”

A corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches. “Shut up, Marly.”

There it is. Marlow feels something in his chest ease, just a little. He shrugs, reaching for the remote and turning the volume up a notch.

———

Ilya wakes up like he’s been dragged out of something. Again. For a second, he doesn’t move.

Just lies there, eyes open in the dark, heart pounding too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to get out.

He looks around. The hotel room. He just needs to breathe.

It doesn’t come easy. His lungs feel tight, his skin is burning. Sticky with sweat, shirt clinging to his back, to his chest. He drags in a breath through his mouth, slower this time, forcing it.

He thinks about opening the window. No. He’s not doing that again. Marlow has seen enough. And the fact that he didn’t say anything about it, Ilya isn’t going to push that.

He presses the back of his wrist to his mouth, breathing into it quietly, trying to keep the sound down.

Just be quiet. Just get through it. It’ll pass. It always passes.

He turns his head slightly. Looks toward the other bed. Marlow is there. A shape in the dark, turned slightly toward the wall, one arm thrown awkwardly over the pillow.

Ilya watches him for a second, eyes still adjusting, the room slowly coming into focus.

Good. He didn’t wake him. Something in his chest loosens just a fraction at that. Good. That’s good.

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself.

Then something feels off. His brow furrows slightly. Marlow usually wakes up. He has that kind of sleep. Light. Shallow.

Ilya’s been up, moving, breathing wrong, probably louder than he thinks. And he’s still asleep?

He immediately feels stupid. Of course he’s asleep. It’s the middle of the night. People sleep.

But the thought doesn’t leave. It lingers. Uncomfortable. Wrong.

Once, he looked at his mother and thought she was fine. The memory hits him before he can push it away. He swallows, throat suddenly dry. No. Stop.

He shifts slightly, then coughs. Just a small sound. Nothing big. But enough to… Nothing. Marlow doesn’t move. Not even a twitch.

Ilya stares. His heart starts to pick up again, faster this time, sharper.

He reaches blindly toward the nightstand, fingers brushing against the water bottle and he knocks it off.

It hits the floor with a dull, hollow thud. Too loud in the quiet room. He freezes. Waits. Nothing. Marlow doesn’t react.

Ilya’s chest tightens. The room feels colder suddenly. Or maybe it’s just him.

He can feel it creeping back in. That same wrongness from the dream, clinging to him, seeping into the edges of everything. The air feels off. Too still.

He stares at the shape on the other bed. He is breathing. He has to be.

Ilya’s fingers curl into the sheets. His mind won’t stop. What if…  The thought hits fully this time, sharp and immediate.

What if… His stomach twists. He knows it’s irrational. He knows it. But that doesn’t matter. Because it feels real. Too real. The memory is still right there, sitting under his skin, fresh and vivid and impossible to shake.

The stillness. The silence. The way you don’t realize at first.

“Marly,” he says.

His voice is quiet. Too quiet. It barely makes it across the room. Nothing. His chest tightens further.

“Marly.” A little louder.

Still nothing. Panic spikes, fast and sudden. He pushes himself up slightly on one elbow, eyes fixed on him, heart hammering now.

“Marly!”

Marlow jerks awake immediately. A sharp inhale, a shift, his arm dropping from the pillow as he blinks hard into the dark.

“…What?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “What’s up?”

Ilya’s whole body goes cold. Relief hits first. Then shame. Hot and crushing.

What the fuck did he just do? He stares at him, frozen, heart still racing for a completely different reason now.

Marlow squints at him, eyes barely open, trying to focus. “What?” he repeats, slower this time. “What’s wrong?”

Ilya opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Because what the hell is he supposed to say? Sorry, I thought you were dead?

He swallows hard, looking away immediately, the weight of it hitting all at once.

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Forget it.”

He turns onto his side, back to Marlow almost instantly, like that might hide it. Like that might undo it.

God. He’s losing his mind. Actually losing it.

Behind him, the mattress shifts. Marlow gets up. Ilya hears his steps, quiet against the carpet. The window slides open with a soft sound. Cool air slips into the room.

“It’s hot as hell in here,” Marlow mutters.

It’s not. The room was fine. But Ilya doesn’t say anything. He just lies there, feeling the air move over his skin, cooling it slightly. It helps.

There’s another small sound. Plastic against the floor. Marlow picks up the bottle. Ilya hears him take a sip.

Then a pause. And a hand appears in his peripheral vision, the bottle held out toward him. Casual.

“Here.”

Ilya hesitates for half a second. Then takes it. Their fingers brush briefly.

Marlow doesn’t comment on the way his hand is shaking. Ilya lifts the bottle, takes a slow sip. Then another. Forces himself to focus on that. His breathing starts to even out.

He hands the bottle back. “Thanks,” he mutters.

Marlow just nods, like it’s nothing, takes another sip himself. Then goes back to his bed.

Ilya stares at the wall. He’s not stupid. He knows what Marlow is doing. Pretending not to see. Letting him keep whatever is left of his dignity.

He closes his eyes, listening to the quiet on the other side of the room like it matters more than anything else right now.

———

The days start to blur after a while.

Cities that look the same from the hotel window, the same hallways, the same routines. Wake up, rink, game, plane, next place. Over and over.

There are days when Ilya feels almost like himself again. He jokes, easy and quick, says something under his breath that makes Marlow laugh. They talk like they always have. Stupid conversations, nothing important.

And then the nights come. At first, Marlow used to wake up every time. Now it barely pulls him fully out of sleep. He adjusts. It becomes predictable.

He’s roomed with worse. Snores, late-night FaceTime calls, guys who blast TV all night like they’re alone in the world. This is not loud in the same way. It’s not careless.

If anything, it’s the opposite. Ilya tries to be quiet. And Marlow’s the kind of guy who adjusts. He’s been in enough locker rooms, shared enough flights, seen enough guys go through things quietly to know that sometimes you just let it be.

So every night Marlow pretends he’s asleep. And Ilya pretends he believes him. An unspoken agreement.

It’s manageable. Until it’s not.

Thursday. Morning comes too fast.

The alarm goes off and Marlow barely wakes up to it. His head feels heavy, eyes burning, body slow in that deep, unpleasant way that comes from broken sleep.

Ilya was throwing up half the night. The sound of it was raw, violent, impossible to ignore. It dragged him out of sleep over and over again. Even when he managed to drift off, it never lasted.

Now he pushes himself up on his elbows and looks over. Yeah. Ilya looks like shit.

Marlow exhales slowly through his nose. Alright. Maybe this is where he says something.

“Hey,” he starts, voice still rough from sleep. Careful. Not pushing too hard. “You’re sick, or… just a worse night or something?”

Ilya turns his head. Looks at him like he didn’t expect it. Like Marlow just broke some kind of rule neither of them said out loud.

“It’s nothing,” he says. Then he looks away.

Marlow watches him for a second. Feels irritation prick at the edges, mixing with the exhaustion.

“C’mon, Roz,” he says, a little less patient now. “I gotta know if you’re gonna get me sick too or something.”

Ilya stands up. Grabs his hoodie, pulling it on like he needs something between them. “I just ate something bad.”

Marlow lets out a short breath. “We ate the same thing.”

Ilya stills for a second. Then he turns and he looks angry.

Marlow pushes himself up to sit properly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Rozy…”

“Don’t.” It cuts him off.

Ilya doesn’t look at him again. Just grabs his stuff, moves toward the door.

Marlow watches him go, something in his chest tightening, irritation settling in deeper now. Because what the hell.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath, jaw tight. “Alright. Fuck this.”

He’s tired. He’s been patient. He’s been ignoring it, working around it, giving Ilya space like he’s supposed to. And he’s not gonna get snapped at for asking one normal question.

Marlow exhales hard, already reaching to reset his alarm. Fuck morning skates. He climbs back into bed, pulling the blanket up, sinking into the quiet that finally, finally feels still. He lets himself sleep.

———

The game doesn’t go well. They lose. 3-1.

Ilya plays like shit. He’s late to plays, misses passes he normally makes without thinking. He spends more time in the penalty box than he should. He snaps at a teammate during a line change. Later, when the coach pulls him off the ice earlier than usual, Ilya argues.

On the bench, Ilya sits forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ice like he’s trying to burn through it.

Marlow’s irritated, yeah. Still carrying that from the morning. They don’t talk for the whole day.

Tomorrow they fly home. No more hotels. No more unfamiliar rooms. No more nights like this. Reset.

When they goes back to the hotel room Ilya looks even worse than on the ice. The adrenaline’s gone now, whatever was holding him up during the game burned off.

Marlow exhales slowly and looks away, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Long day,” he mutters.

Ilya doesn’t answer. Just nods once, barely noticeable, already turning away.

One more night, and then they’re out of this. Back home, back to something normal.

———

Marlow wakes up to the sound before he’s even aware he’s awake.

It cuts through whatever shallow sleep he managed to get. Rough, uneven breathing, too fast, too loud. Then a gag. Followed by a choked inhale that doesn’t sound right at all.

Marlow’s eyes open.

He turns his head just in time to see Ilya sit up too fast, like he barely makes it, and then he’s already on his feet, stumbling toward the bathroom.

The door barely closes before it starts. Retching. Violent, emptying sounds that echo in the small space.

Marlow exhales through his nose, pushing himself up on his elbows, blinking hard.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath.

He sits there for a second. Listens. The sounds don’t stop. It keeps going. Rough heaving, breath catching in between, coughing that sounds like it hurts.

He drags a hand over his face, exhales slowly. All the irritation he had towards Ilya earlier disappeared.

Another sound comes from the bathroom, lower this time, more exhausted than anything else. It’s worn out. Like there’s nothing left in him. That’s what does it.

Marlow swings his legs off the bed. Grabs the water bottle from the nightstand without thinking about it. Walks over. He hesitates for half a second at the door. Then knocks once, quick.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “I’m coming in.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Pushes the door open. Ilya is on the floor. Half-sitting, half-slumped against the floor.

Sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead, skin pale under it, lips parted as he drags in uneven breaths. There’s a moment where Ilya looks up. And something like panic flashes across his face

He’s seen.

“Go away,” he rasps immediately.

Marlow ignores it.

“Here,” he says, stepping closer, crouching down slightly as he holds out the bottle. “Water.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Leave me alone.” His voice cracks on it. Marlow doesn’t move.

“Just drink some water, Roz.”

He lowers himself down, sitting on the cold tile beside him, not too close, but close enough. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut.

He exhales, long and shaky. Takes the bottle. He brings it to his mouth, takes a small sip. Careful. Like it might come back up.

Marlow watches him out of the corner of his eye. Ilya can feel it. The fact that someone is here, watching him like this, makes everything worse.

He swallows hard, lowers the bottle slightly, still not looking at him. “Marly,” he says, voice low, strained. “Just go. Please.”

There’s something in the please that almost works. Almost. Marlow exhales, leans his head back briefly against the cabinet behind him.

“Man,” he says after a second, quieter, “I gotta say it, or it’s gonna bug the shit out of me.”

Ilya’s grip tightens on the bottle. His stomach twists.

“These nightmares,” Marlow continues, not looking at him directly, like that makes it easier, “they’re fucking you up.” A beat. “Maybe you should talk to someone about it.”

“Shut up.” Flat. Immediate. “Go away.”

“You started to worrying me, cap,” Marlow adds, softer, like he’s trying to pull it back.

That’s the wrong thing to say. Ilya’s expression hardens. He shakes his head once, sharp.

“Marlow,” he starts, then cuts himself off, anger flooding in too fast, too strong. “Fuck you. Who do you think you are?”

It comes out harsher than he probably means. But he doesn’t take it back.

Marlow lifts his hands slightly, palms open. “Easy…”

“It’s not your fucking business.” That edge is back now. Defensive.

And something in Marlow snaps with it. He’s tired too.

“Yeah?” Marlow shoots back, irritation cutting through now. “It kinda is my business if we’re losing games because you can’t get your shit together.”

Ilya goes still. “Yeah?” he says, voice low, dangerous in that quiet way. “It’s my fault now?”

He pushes himself up a little straighter, ignoring the way his body protests.

“What about the rest of you?” he continues, words coming faster now, sharper. “Always playing like shit. You’re fucking useless without me.”

Marlow shakes his head immediately. “Stop,” he says. “You don’t mean that.”

“I fucking do.” Ilya’s voice cracks, but he pushes through it.

“You all know it. I’m better than every one of you.” His lips pull into something that isn’t quite a smile. “You should be grateful you even got this far.”

Silence drops between them. Marlow stares at him for a second. Then lets out a short, humorless breath.

“You know what?” he says, pushing himself up to stand. “Fuck you, Roz.”

Ilya doesn’t respond. Just watches him.

“If you wanna act like that, go ahead,” Marlow continues, voice tight now, frustration fully back. “Lay here, be pathetic, whatever.”

He steps toward the door, hand already on the handle.

“But at least be fucking quiet, yeah?” he adds over his shoulder. “Some of us can actually sleep like normal people and would like to try.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just pulls the door open and walks out.

Marlow drops back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, eyes open in the dark.

The anger doesn’t last. It burns out almost immediately, leaves something heavier behind.

Regret settles in slow, uncomfortable, sticking to him worse than the irritation ever did. He drags a hand over his face, exhales through his nose.

Ilya’s not himself. That’s the only way to put it that makes any sense. Marlow knows him. Not in a deep, personal, tell-me-your-secrets way, because Ilya doesn’t do that, but enough to know that this version isn’t real.

Because Ilya’s a good man. Kind, in a quiet way. Not showy, not something he’d ever admit to, but it’s there. He helps people without making it a thing. Stays late if someone needs it. Pays attention.

He’s humble, too, even with all the shit he talks. There’s no real ego in it, not the ugly kind. It’s mostly for fun, for the room, for the game of it. Yeah, he’s an asshole, but in a way that makes people laugh, not feel like shit.

He’s easy to be around. Reliable. A good captain. He cares.

And he keeps his own stuff locked down tight.

Conversations slide off him the second they get too close to anything real. He jokes, deflects, shrugs it off like it’s nothing. 

This road isn’t the first time Marlow’s thought something’s there. Just the first time it’s been this obvious.

He hears the bathroom door open. The steps are quieter than usual. Like he’s trying not to exist. Not to be heard. There’s something about that that sits wrong in Marlow’s chest.

He presses his lips together, staring into the dark. He shouldn’t have snapped. He’ll fix it in the morning.

Keep it simple. Apologize. Move on.

They’re flying home tomorrow anyway. Different space, different rhythm. Not stuck in the same room, stepping around each other like this. A little distance will probably help.

They’ll be fine.

———

Nothing is quite fine for Ilya.

He’s lying on his back, eyes open in the dark, staring at the ceiling he can’t see, he tells himself he’s just not going to sleep. It’s simple. Just stay awake. Just get through the night. He’s done it before. He can do it again.

His body doesn’t agree. It’s too tired. He fights it for a while. Loses. Sleep takes him fast and without warning, like a drop.

And then he’s back there. It doesn’t even feel like a dream anymore.

His mother. Cold. Still. Wrong in a way that makes his stomach turn.

He wakes up choking on it. Air won’t come. He can’t unsee it.

His eyes snap open but it doesn’t help, he’s still there, still seeing it, the image burned into the back of his skull like it followed him out.

He pushes himself up, hands going to his face, pressing hard into his eyes like he can force it out, like he can erase it.

He can see the details he wishes he didn’t remember. He’s awake. He knows he’s awake. But it doesn’t feel like it.

His stomach twists hard again. Nausea. He swallows, but it doesn’t help. It climbs higher anyway, burning at the back of his throat. There’s nothing in him. He knows that.

He leans forward and spits onto the floor beside the bed, barely thinking about it, just reacting. It helps. A little. Not enough.

His whole body feels wrong. Like it’s shutting down piece by piece.

He can still see her. He hates it. He feels so angry. How could she do that to him. Guilt floods in immediately. No. He loves her so much. That was his mom. He can’t be angry with her.

He presses his hands to his face again, harder this time. He’s so tired. What if she was same kind of tired?

His stomach drops. Because suddenly it makes a kind of sense he doesn’t want.

Maybe she just felt like that. Just wanted to sleep peacefully for once. Maybe that was her only way out.

God. Maybe it is the only way out.

He’s going home tomorrow. Maybe he can just do it. He just needs to sleep. Not wake up like this. Maybe not wake up at all.

The thought lands and settles before he can push it away. He’s so scared. His chest tightens again, harder this time. He tries to take a deeper breath. It doesn’t work. Air won’t go in properly. It catches halfway, like something is blocking it. His hands start to shake.

He can feel panic rising, fast and brutal. His heart is racing. Is he really going to kill himself? God, he’s so tired. He’s losing his mind.

He presses a hand to his chest like he can hold it down. He actually can’t breathe. The thought spirals immediately. He won’t have to kill himself. He’s going to die right here.

His body is going to give out first. Fuck. He’s losing it. He's not sure if he's more scared by the thought of dying or the fact that this is exactly what he wants.

He’s hyperventilating, his chest heaves, his hands shake. And he can’t stop it.

Marlow wakes up and immediately turns his head towards Ilya. He’s half-upright in the bed, hunched forward, hands gripping the sheets like he’s holding himself together by force. Desperate. His whole body is shaking.

“Shit.” He’s out of bed before he even finishes the word. No hesitation this time. No waiting.

Ilya looks like he’s falling apart. And something twists hard in Marlow’s chest, guilt that he adds to that earlier.

He doesn’t care if Ilya tells him to fuck off again. He crosses the room quickly, already reaching for the window, pushing it open. Cold air rushes in, sharp against his skin. Then he crouches beside the bed.

“Hey, hey,” he says, voice low but urgent. “Breathe, Rozy. You’re okay.”

Ilya shakes his head immediately. “I can’t.”

It comes out broken, barely there, like the words themselves are too much. And there’s something different in it. No defense. Raw and open in a way Marlow has never seen from him before.

“Yeah, you can,” Marlow says, softer now, steadying his voice on purpose. “C’mon. Deep breath. I’ll do it with you, okay?”

He inhales slowly, exaggerated, trying to set the pace. “Like this.”

Ilya tries. His chest lifts too fast, stutters halfway through. The breath breaks, turns into a gag instead. He leans forward and spits onto the floor again, like his body doesn’t know what else to do. Some of it drips down his chin.

Marlow doesn’t think. Just reaches out, wipes it away with his hand, quick and careless, then drags it against the sheet without even looking.

“You’re gonna be sick?” he asks, already half-moving.

Ilya doesn’t answer. Doesn’t seem like he can. Marlow swears under his breath, stands just long enough to grab the trash can and bring it over, setting it right beside the bed.

“Here,” he says. “If you gotta… here.”

Ilya leans forward and spits into it, shoulders shaking. His breathing is still wrong.

He coughs, a dry, painful sound that seems to come from too deep in his chest. “Fuck,” he chokes.

Marlow places a hand on his back. “You’re okay,” he says again, quieter now. “Try to slow it down. Just take a breath.”

Ilya’s hands clutch at the sheets again, knuckles going white. He tries. Fails. Tries again. Then finally he takes a breath. It’s shaky, uneven, but it goes deeper this time.

“Yeah,” Marlow says, quick, encouraging. “That’s it. Just like that. C’mon, again.”

Ilya drags in another breath. Still unsteady. And then, out of nowhere:

“Have you ever seen a dead body?”

The words come out rough, voice shaking, like they were dragged out of him without permission.

Marlow blinks. “What?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Have you?”

There’s a sound from Ilya that almost resembles a laugh. It’s wrong. Tired. Hollow.

“Yeah,” he says. “My mother’s.”

The words sit heavy in the air. Marlow stills. His hand is still on Ilya’s back, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t know how to.

“I can’t stop fucking seeing it,” Ilya continues, voice thinner now, unraveling. “Every time I close my eyes…” His breath catches again. He gags, spits into the trash.

Marlow swallows hard.

“I’m sorry, man,” he says, and it feels useless the second it leaves his mouth. But it’s all he’s got.

“I was twelve,” Ilya says. The words come fast now. Like once they started, they won’t stop. “She killed herself.”

Marlow’s chest tightens. “Fuck, Rozy,” he breathes.

Ilya shakes his head weakly, like that doesn’t even matter.

“She overdosed,” he goes on, voice uneven, breaking around the edges. “There was no blood, no anything. She was just there.”

He sucks in a breath that almost works.

“Do you know how weird a dead body looks?” he asks, voice going sharper, more frantic. “She was so stiff. Not…” He gestures vaguely, fingers trembling. “Not like a person. Not like…”

He gags again, spits.

“I can’t stop fucking seeing it.”

Marlow’s hand moves slightly, rubbing slow circles against his back without thinking.

“Just keep breathing,” he murmurs.

Ilya drags in another breath. Shaky.

“I don’t know what to say,” Marlow admits quietly. “That’s…”

“Nothing to say,” Ilya cuts in immediately. “My father fucking forgets she died.”

Marlow blinks. “What?”

“He has dementia,” Ilya says, words tumbling now, breath picking up again. “His brain is fucking useless. He calls me and asks where she is.”

His voice cracks. “He doesn’t even remember he made her life so miserable she had to kill herself.”

His breathing speeds up again, slipping.

Marlow tightens his hand slightly on his back. “Hey, slow down,” he says. “Deep breath, Rozy.”

“He’s gonna make me do the same.”

The words come out quiet. And Marlow freezes. Completely. For a second, he can’t breathe.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters immediately after, like he realizes what he said. “Forget it. I’ll be fine. I’m…” He drags a shaky breath. “I’m just so fucking tired, Marly. I’ll be fine. Just forget about it.”

Marlow swallows hard. Forces himself to move again.

“Do you have someone?” he asks carefully. “When you go home. Someone you can stay with?”

Ilya shakes his head, then nods slightly, like even he doesn’t know.

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s… complicated. They’re busy.”

“Okay,” Marlow says, steady. “Yeah. I get that. But you can talk to them, right?”

Ilya hesitates. Breathes.

“I think so,” he says finally. “I don’t know if I want to.”

Another breath. “Yeah. I think. I’ll try.”

Marlow nods. “That’s good, man. That’s… yeah. That’s good.”

Ilya’s breathing is slower now. His shoulders drop slightly, tension easing.

“Sorry,” he mutters after a moment, not looking at him. “For… that.”

Marlow shakes his head immediately. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Please just forget it,” Ilya adds quickly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Marlow repeats, softer. A pause. Then, more serious: “But don’t be alone, okay?”

Ilya doesn’t respond right away.

“You can call me,” Marlow continues. “Or just come over. Hang out. Whatever. Okay?”

Another pause.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” he adds, quieter now. “And I won’t bring this up again.”

Ilya lets out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he says.

Then, after a second, barely above a whisper: “Thank you.”

Marlow gives a small nod. He reaches for the water bottle again, hands it over. He stands after a moment, taking the trash can and setting it back where it belongs, like resetting the room might help reset everything else too.

Then he sits on his own bed. Grabs the remote. Turns the TV on low. It’s almost morning anyway.

Neither of them says anything else.

———

Ilya wakes up to the sound of the door clicking shut. The TV is still on. Low volume. Some early morning show he didn’t mean to fall asleep to.

Marlow is by the door, shrugging off his jacket. “Fucking Minnesota,” he mutters. “Traffic everywhere. And the Uber guy looked at me like it’s my fault.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Man, that’s your job. Your fucking traffic city.”

Ilya lets out a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. It surprises him. He pushes himself up slowly, body heavy, head a little foggy. He didn’t realize he fell asleep.

The last thing he remembers is sitting there, the TV humming, his body still buzzing from everything that happened. Now it’s quieter inside his chest. Better.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, stretching slightly. Marlow has already moved on, like nothing unusual happened at all. There are two coffees on the table.

Ilya just nods faintly to himself and heads to the bathroom. He looks like shit. He splashes water on his face. Cold, grounding.

When he comes back out, Marlow is sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone. Ilya walks over, picks up one of the coffees, takes a careful sip. His stomach turns slightly, but not enough to stop him.

They sit in silence for a moment.

And then Marlow reaches over to the table. Places something down. A small pack of pills. Ilya’s eyes flick to it immediately.

“I went to the doc,” Marlow says, casual, like he’s talking about nothing important. “Told him I’ve been sleeping like shit lately.”

Ilya stays still. Doesn’t interrupt.

“He gave me this,” Marlow continues, nudging the pack slightly across the table. “Said it should help.”

Now he glances at Ilya. Just once.

“I told him I don’t want anything heavy,” he adds with a small shrug. “’Cause, you know… I’m not sure how I feel about heavy stuff.”

A pause.

“He said it’s basically the kind of thing you give kids. Motion sickness or whatever. Makes them sleep on long car rides.”

Another small shrug. “So it’s… safe. But it should help.”

He looks away again, like that’s the end of it. Like it doesn’t matter. But the pills are still there. Between them. Ilya feels something twist in his chest. Uncomfortable. Too much and not enough at the same time.

He nods, slow. Still not looking directly at Marlow.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Marlow shifts slightly, like he’s debating something.

“He also said,” he adds, a little more careful now, “that if it’s something more serious, I should maybe see the team psychologist or, you know. Any psychologist.”

Another shrug. “I think it’s not a bad idea.” He glances at him again, quick. “But it’s just an idea.”

He leaves it there. Doesn’t wait for an answer.

That’s what makes Ilya finally look at him. Marlow’s expression is neutral. Giving him space to take it or leave it.

Ilya reaches for the pills. His hand hesitates for half a second before he picks them up. Then he leans over and drops them into his bag.

“Thank you,” he says.

Marlow snorts immediately, leaning back on his hands.

“For what?” He says it so easily. Ilya huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head slightly.

“I mean it,” he says. “You’re a good friend, Marly.”

They fall back into something normal after that. The coffee gets colder. Marlow starts complaining about something else entirely, and Ilya listens, occasionally adds something.

They’re good.

It’s quiet, simple in a way Ilya doesn’t really trust yet, but he lets it be. He didn’t think anything decent could come out of this road, not with how bad it got.

But he’s actually glad he ended up rooming with Marly on this one.