Summary:

Ilya is jealous and lashing out. Shane goes after him. A tentative kind of fix-it fic for Episode 4. He didn't want to admit that he was seething with jealousy. Seeing Hollander had only made it worse. He hadn't looked at Ilya, not once the whole game. He’d barely even been present. They’d both had probably the worst game of their entire careers, and Ilya tried not to read too much into that. It didn't matter. Hollander was just distracted by his fucking movie star girlfriend. It was Ilya who was fucking miserable and heartbroken and furious with himself. Of course, it only got worse when he realized that of all fucking bars they could have picked to commiserate in, it's the one where Shane Hollander and Rose Landry are, her smiling up at him with her pretty smile while she dances. And it hurt. But it also made him want to lash out, to be mean. He grabbed his drink from the bar, stalking closer. Like a second sense, Shane looked up at his approach, stilling like a deer in headlights. Ilya smirked, dropping his eyes to where Rose Landry had her hands tangled in the white shirt Hollander was wearing. “Well, well, well,” Ilya said, eyes glittering maliciously. “I guess the rumors are true after all.” Shane looked startled. The “fuck off, Rozanov” was automatic, though his eyes were intense as he looked up at him. Searching. Just a little bit scared. Of what he might do. Or say. And Ilya was an asshole. But not that much of an asshole. He looked down further. “Hello, Rose Landry,” he said. Her smile was friendly but confused, and when she offered her hand, removing it, Ilya noted, from Shane's abs, he took it, kissing the back of it and winking at her. This, he can do. The flirting. Just Rozanov being a dog, as usual. His teammates were probably watching and pissing themselves laughing. “Hi.” She looked, he thought absently, very beautiful in her dress. “This looks very cozy, mmm?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at them both. “Didn't know you had it in you, Hollander.” He sounded as bitter as he felt, probably. Rose's brow furrowed at that, and she looked back at Shane. He could see her putting two and two together. Ilya smiled. “You two have fun, now.” He winked at Shane. Shane glared back. Cold laughter dripped from his lips as he turned away. “Shane?” he heard Landry say. “Ignore him, Rozanov is just an asshole,” Shane muttered back. Ilya paused. He shouldn't look back. He could feel his eyes stinging. Orpheus at the entrance back to the overworld, Eurydice behind him. He closed his eyes. Around him, bodies moved to the loud thrum of the music, happy, laughing, dancing, a buzz of energy that couldn't penetrate the cold, empty, gaping cavern that was his chest. It was inevitable. He couldn't have stopped himself from looking even if he wanted to. He was weak, undisciplined. He glanced back. Rose Landry was dancing again, pressed to Shane's front, eyes closed as she moved to the music. But Shane was still. And he was looking back. And his eyes. Ilya shuddered at the look in his eyes. Desperate. Lost. Sad. Ilya drank his fill, and gave the opposing captain a single nod. Acknowledging the distress, filing it away as hope choked him. Shane’s lips thinned. He needed to get out of here. He needed to go and get so fucking obliterated that he didn't remember his own name, let alone Shane's. Tearing his eyes away, he sought out Cliff, telling him he was leaving. The team made an assumption, a wrong one, but Ilya didn't correct it. The vodka was cheap, burning the whole way down because America could do nothing right, certainly not making a vodka that was drinkable. But he was too fucking heartbroken to care, inconsolable in his grief and anger and self-loathing. It was, of course, when he was two-thirds of the way through the bottle when his phone lit up with a text. Ilya set the bottle aside on the damp tile of the shower floor, standing up on shaky knees and scrabbling for it. The case was slippery in his hands, and he almost dropped it. And then he was staring. Jane: I hate this. Me fucking too, Hollander, he thought bitterly. He brought the phone to his forehead, squeezing his eyes closed. It was fucking three in the morning. Why the fuck was Hollander