Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov-centric, Character Study, (kind of), homesickness for a place that can never exist as it once was, Self-Doubt, Angst, how can you find a home when you're hollow inside, Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), pre-cottage, when you're so in love it hurts to think about it a little bit, the struggles of mental health when you're alone in a world that's moving too fast and too slow, Texting, Hopeful Ending, i love to stick a man in a snowstorm and make him upset, professional yearner ilya rozanov, bad family relationships, POV Ilya Rozanov, Loneliness

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of heated rivalry masterlist

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-11 Words: 2,953 Chapters: 1/1

i wanna know peace again, wanna be singin' a different song

Summary

He thinks it cannot be healthy to be pacing the streets of Boston, an empty, hollow ache ricocheting up his spine. It does not make sense that he feels as though he is a bird caught in the mouth of a dog, the world appearing through tightly clenched, slobbering teeth. He is no fragile-boned creature, no docile lamb for any slaughter; he is the wolf on the prowl, the shadow that hunts from above. He is fear that haunts the world; he does not have it.

OR: Ilya wants: home, Shane, freedom—it does not matter. It is all selfish in the end. He is sure he does not deserve it.

Notes

sorry in advance for the obscene amount of italics used. enjoy!

Snow is falling; thick, fat flakes drifting down from the slate grey skies. A storm has rolled in over the course of the afternoon, the sun getting distant, the world dampening, everything softening under the blanket of ice that has smothered the city. Under his pacing feet, the crunch of it soothes, little noises that remind him he’s real. The smell of it curls under his nose, sharp and welcome and raw; a blade dragged down his throat. 

I am alive, he tells himself. It is more convincing when he cannot hear the waver in his voice. And that is enough. 

It brings back memories of home, of that distant place that stings so sweetly under his skin, a place he can never really be free of, despite his thrashing. 

Mama, he wants to say, stupidly honest to a fault. He knows if he were to ever voice that word again, he would not need to say the rest of his sentence; the longing would be clear without it. In his head, though, he finishes what he must say, an earnestness to his own thoughts that he hates; I miss you. 

Muffled shouts of children echo off bare trees and brick walls in the distance, a Saturday bloated with fun, a white sheet for them to scribble on, a whole new world for them to reckon with. 

Ilya is not quite sure what to do with himself. 

He thinks it cannot be healthy to be pacing the streets of Boston, an empty, hollow ache ricocheting up his spine. It does not make sense that he feels as though he is a bird caught in the mouth of a dog, the world appearing through tightly clenched, slobbering teeth. He is no fragile-boned creature, no docile lamb for any slaughter; he is the wolf on the prowl, the shadow that hunts from above. He is the fear that haunts the world; he does not have it. 

As quickly as his bristling righteousness appears, it fades, sliding out to an icy oasis of apathy. 

It’s not right that he feels this way; he has a nearly perfect life.

He has his hockey, his wins. His Shane. It cannot matter that the rest of his time is nothing more than dead leaves whistling through the air, a void that beckons from right around the corner. 

Selfish, he thinks, a familiar refrain from childhood. You are reaching for stars that would burn your hands. You are asking for more than you are given, more than you need. 

Of course, he cannot return home, ever, but that is not his fault. That is how it is to grow; to shake free from the nest that burns, the nest that would clip his wings. He has become too large for the world of his home, too large for everything he wants. 

He imagines Andrei, his face set into a near-permanent scowl, his shirt collar always crooked, the thump of his knuckles into a wall close to Ilya’s face, the hiss of his voice as he slurs out insult after insult. 

He can picture the two graves of his parents, solemn markers to lives that were better apart than together, yet entwined all the same. His eyes burn. His mouth smarts from where he's chewed one of his lips raw. 

No, Ilya cannot return. 

Under his feet, the snow is muddied, hundreds of footsteps packing it down, despite the city’s best effort to clear it off. It’s oddly comforting to be walking this path, to see the ghosts of others stepping with him. 

Going home would bring no comfort. 

It aches to hold that truth, and he finds himself reaching for a silent phone, before he freezes, coming to a complete stop. 

Stupid, he tells himself. You are a wretched creature. You poke at wounds for fun. You spit blood on the ice, and you say it is love. You know nothing of yourself, and you think you are somehow better?

He imagines the look on Shane's face if he were to voice any of this, and flinches.

If you wanted, you could come to the cottage, echoes through the air, as Ilya stares at nothing, his heart beating wildly. He feels as if a spooked horse, some wildness leashed to unsuspecting hands. 

If he were to go to the cottage—

But that's madness, he's sure. 

He is being stupid, regardless, that slow burn of longing sinking through his body; it would not feel as home does, if he were to return. What he misses, he has been searching for since he was twelve; to return could never satisfy his softest and most secret desires. 

Returning could not bring his mother back. 

He forces himself to start moving, the wind whistling straight through the streets, another dash of cold against him as if even the weather knows that he is being silly. 

Oh, but how he misses his country sometimes. 

The spires set against the sky, gleaming and beautiful. The pond that he played on in the winter, back when he was a true child, clumsy on skates, only a hint of the tantalizing whisper of speed within. The murmurs of his neighborhood, the wide, unrelenting press of gorgeous winter, the vast swell of home that comes to mind. 

Shackles of memories he knows well bite at his mind, crisp, sharp pain of what he could be; of the ways in which he disappoints. 

Did you win? rips through his mind, and he ducks his head, tears slipping from his eyes.

Win what? he wants to ask the empty streets, the ghost of his father lingering over his shoulder. The heart of the man I love? The hopes of a city? The disappointment of a family that could not love me as I am?

He cannot—this is all too much. He is a fool, some lovelorn idiot who thinks that he can save himself by being in love. What a stupid dream, to want for more. What a horrific blade, to cut himself on. What a beautiful thing, to be able to. 

He shoves his hand in his pocket, his ungloved fingers brushing against his cold phone. 

Did you win?

Come to the cottage. 

Snow blurs across his vision, falling faster. The wind howls, a scythe of a nor'easter barreling straight through him. For a moment, he can almost hear a voice in the rush, a shivering wail that rises with the air. 

There is nothing here, he realizes suddenly. Nothing but the whistle of shallowness, the curve of a knife straight to his heart. 

Home cannot be found here; not in Boston. 

He is bones and sinew, muscle and blood, but he is far more than that; pulpy, wet emotion shoved into a body that cannot house him well. He feels too much, too fast; a blunt instrument when a delicate touch is required. 

Moy solnyshko, his mother whispers under everything, the image of her face worn and tired in his mind, her dark eyes serious as she had zipped him into his coat, time and time again, a familiar refrain from his childhood, her hands steady even as the rest of her trembled. I would have you be happy. I would have you be loved. 

Ilya breathes out, fogging the world around him as snow sends the world into white. Even the children have stopped laughing; the streets are quieting as the storm intensifies. 

Come to the cottage.

Ilya's heart beats faster. 

He reaches for the phone. 

You're such an asshole, greets him as soon as he manages to unlock the screen, an old message from last night. Flurries of snow land on it, melting slowly, the words smearing under the droplets. 

Is nice to be an asshole, no? is what he'd written out, complete with the smiling sunglasses emoji, and Shane had sent three tomatoes; something he'd learned from Rose recently. 

He stares at the messages. 

He is a selfish, greedy bastard. He should not want so deeply, should not cling so tightly. What if one day he becomes the home that strangles, the unrelenting love that nips at heels, that cannot see the pain in smiles? 

What if—

He shudders, shoving his phone back in his pocket. 

What if. 

I love you, he wants to say; wants to pull out his phone and call. Let me build a home with you.

I love you, he wants to whisper against Shane’s skin, into the hollow of his throat; he wants to breathe it into him, wants him to soak up the love and devotion Ilya has for him, the delight and joy they can share. I miss you.

I love you, he thinks, tipping his head back, his eyes closing. Snow lands on his lashes, his nose, his lips; winter's most delicate kiss. The touch stings against his raw skin, a welcome burn he soaks in. And I do not know if it will be enough. 

The bare truth of it lingers, underneath it all; Ilya does not know if he will be enough. He does not think he has ever been enough; not for his country, not for his brother, not for his father; not even for his mother. 

He has ascended beyond dreams; a king atop a throne so many people hope for and never, ever, reach.  

And yet—

Did you win? 

Ilya inhales a flurry of snowflakes and exhales a curtain of flimsy smoke. For a moment, there is nothing in the world but him and his ghosts.  

He straightens his shoulders, shaking his head; being maudlin suits him too well. He is a gift that keeps on giving, a whirl of self-flagellation, a sorry sight for all who stumble upon him. 

No. Nyet. 

He refuses to hold that self-given crown. 

His phone is still cold when he pulls it out of his pocket, his thumbs hovering over the tiny keyboard. 

you are like tiny baby kitten, he types out slowly. He feels insane. He doesn't even know what he's doing. He's standing on some godforsaken street in the middle of an empty city texting the man he loves, and he's falling to pieces, and all he wants to do is curl up with him forever. so fierce and yet so weak. if I threw three tomatoes at you, i would kill you. do not make me kill kitten hollander with tomatoes. 

Delivered turns to Read immediately, as if Shane was just waiting for him to text. 

It warms some cold, distant part of him. 

Oh, fuck you, Shane sends back. Three tomatoes would not kill me. 

Ilya waits, certain he has not finished, a grin curling the corners of his mouth. Already, he feels lighter, the storm a little brighter as he crunches over the snow, heading back to his apartment. 

And I'm not a kitten! Shane writes after a beat. I'm—I'm a normal man. A human man. 

you protest a lot for normal, human man, Ilya says, ignoring the way his screen blurs. His fingers hurt a little, cold cramping in the knuckles, a slow burn in his joints. is definitely what kitten-man would say.

You're ridiculous, Shane texts. It's almost embarrassing how much you make me laugh.

is whole point, no? Ilya sends, shouldering in through his door. He stamps his feet, snowy prints on the rug as he steps towards the elevator. to make you laugh. 

Bubbles pop up, three dots of typing and typing and typing. 

Ilya does not mind the wait, as he stands in his elevator. He cannot stop the grin on his face, the delighted curl of his lips; himself of two years ago would be horrified at how deeply he has cut himself on the blade of Shane Hollander's love, but the him of two years ago does not know that he has already been slashed, that it is a slow bleed; that one day he is going to awaken and realize: he already loves this man. 

I like making you happy, too, Shane sends, and Ilya can feel it; the dazzling truth, the words he has not yet said in English. I love you, sits behind clenched teeth, a tight jaw. It flutters in his chest, unruly with joy. He forces himself to look at the screen, unwilling to see the expression on his face in the elevator mirror as he rises towards his penthouse. I can't wait to see you soon. 

me too, Ilya says as the doors chime and open, depositing him into his apartment. moy kotyonak. 

If I look that up and it says kitten, my wrath will be absolute, Shane threatens immediately. Ilya laughs, fondness filling him. Shane makes it so easy to rile him, a mere hint of a tease, and he is gone, argumentative until the end. Ilya. I’m serious. Is moy kotyonak literally my kitten? 

Ilya strips out of his jacket, throwing it over the hook as he kicks off his boots. do not know, he types out slowly with one hand as he wobbles for balance. english is hard. 

Asshole, Shane says. It’s so familiar that Ilya mouths along to it as it appears in the chain. I’m not a kitten. 

but you are so small, and you like cream so much, Ilya sends, grinning wildly. is fitting, da?

I’m not dignifying that with a response, Shane types after a beat. Ilya can picture him, cheeks flushed red, mouth set into a stern line that wavers, his eyes dark with annoyance and want. His gorgeous, pretty Shane, set adrift on a sea of his own desire. And I’m going to deliberately change the subject: I saw the snowstorm that hit Boston was pretty wild. You okay? 

Ilya pauses, staring at the words. 

Is he okay? 

The truth of the matter is clear. 

better when i talk to you, he says, stupidly honest again. It’s almost embarrassing how easy it is to say it. snow is nice, but bad for texting. 

Shane, somehow, seems to pick up on what he has not said. Yeah, he sends without pause. I miss you. 

miss you, too, Ilya sends back, before he can overthink it too badly, heading to his room to strip out of his damp jeans. i wish… 

He can’t finish the thought, sending it open-ended, a vulnerable soft spot for Shane to prod at if he wants. 

Me too, Shane says. It feels like I’m always wishing on stars these days. 

Ilya’s mouth curls into a soft, warm smile. da, he types out. It’s almost unbearable how Shane, Shane is; how sweet he can be, when he lets himself unwind, when he falls into rhythm with Ilya, when it’s just the two of them, hearts beating in sync. A whole other layer that’s there just for Ilya to explore; wonder and delight in every moment spent together. whole sky of wishes, no? 

Every single one, Shane sends, his declaration strong enough to silence the last dregs of misery that cling as Ilya climbs into bed, shivering slightly at the chill that’s sticking to his skin. It’s—Ilya, it’s always been every single one. 

Ilya can taste those familiar words again, held fast under his tongue. 

yes, he agrees, instead, and hopes it will be enough. Soon, he knows, he will have to say it, but for now, this is what he can do, what he is willing to part with. He will not say anything deeper, not when Shane isn’t right in front of him. every single one. 

Stay warm, Shane says after a beat. I have practice, but I’ll text you after. 

your wrist shot has been lagging, hollander, Ilya says, smirking slightly; he feels warmer already, though he knows it’s mostly from the smug kernel of delight that annoying Shane, rather than the blankets he’s under. practice is needed. 

Asshole, Shane says again. At this point, Ilya suspects it’s almost a petname. There’s a pause before another text slides onto his phone’s screen. I’m glad we’re texting. Even when you’re a dick. 

go, hollander, Ilya sends back, sinking back into his bed, warm, fuzzy joy curling tight around his heart. you cannot win games with sappiness. but, yes, da, i am glad we are texting. makes whole world better. 

Yeah, Shane says. Yeah—fuck, I’m getting yelled at, okay. I’ll text you later. 

Ilya doesn’t bother to respond; it will ache later, to wait for a response. It aches now, to be alone again. 

He sets his phone to the side, staring outside his bedroom window, watching the snow collect on the roofs and on the windowsill. Tears sting in the corners of his eyes. Cold water trickles across his scalp, ice melting in his curls. 

A whole sky of wishes, he thinks, feeling fragile and broken, shards of glass crushed to dust in his lungs. He is gutted by Shane’s honesty, torn asunder from his ghosts, but cast adrift to another sea of longing. Every single one.

He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the skyline as it darkens, lingering in bed for the rest of the afternoon as the blizzard softens into a gentler tempest, until the patter of snow is nothing more than another ghost for him to remember; his steps wiped clean from the paths he carved outside, swallowed whole. 

The clouds thin, lights gleaming from other buildings flickering through as he lies and waits, breathing steadily in his bed, warm under the covers. 

He hopes the storm blows out soon, taken out to the Atlantic on a cold wind. He hopes the lights die out around him until it’s just the darkened night sky above his penthouse. 

He wants to see the stars. 

He has more wishes to make.