No room for error

– I have no one… well, not no one… I have Svetlana, she loves me, and I love her, but not like… not like I love you… And that’s the whole fucked-up part… I only want you, and always, only you… I love you so much, and I don't know what to do with it… Shane, I can't live like this anymore, I've lived my whole life for others, I just want to die… – Ilya… I know what the word "die" means in Russian, but I don't understand why you're saying it… You lost someone dear to you, but I don't think they would have wanted you to think like this… – You don't fucking understand anything. Ilya Rozanov, drenched to the bone, still standing in the pouring rain, dropped the call and simply sat down on the ground. He was in pain, more pain than he had ever felt in his life. Not even when he lost the cup, not even when his mother died, though perhaps a part of him died with her. He desperately wanted to say many things, to do many things, to show the whole world how he felt about this guy, about the person he loved with the kind of love one only experiences once in a lifetime. He stood up, humming a Russian love song under his breath, a song about its echoes and reverberations. How fortunate it was that no one was around. No one could see that on the curly-haired hockey player's face, it wasn't just raindrops, but salty trails of tears. Shane couldn't settle. He hadn't understood a third of what Ilya had said, only a few words whose meanings he grasped with difficulty. He understood that Rozanov had said something about Svetlana, love, and death. But putting it all together was impossible, utterly impossible. He loved him, damn it, how he loved that Russian idiot! He didn't know why, didn't know how, he just loved him, like someone loves life itself. Ilya had a way of making everything so complicated, not just for himself, but for the whole world. For that alone, Hollander hated him as much as he loved him. Tomorrow, practice started, a new season, new players on the team. None of these thoughts stopped Shane as he threw the necessary items into his bag. Only when he was in a taxi heading to the airport, buying tickets to Moscow online, did he realize what the hell he was doing. So, he’d go, and then what? Rozanov might not even let him in the door… What if he was with Svetlana? What if he loved her? Shane swore to himself that if Ilya loved Svetlana, he would simply leave quietly, Ilya wouldn’t even know he had visited. The flight was quick and uneventful. Shane constantly texted and tried to call the person he loved more than anything in this world, even more than hockey. Out of over 200 messages sent, he received only one reply – to the question of his whereabouts, he wrote a single word: "Cemetery." Quickly exiting the airport, without a thought for where he would stay, Shane headed to the cemetery where, not long ago, a song about birds, about cranes, had been heard. He was there – dirty, unshaven, and drunk. Several empty bottles of some incomprehensible Russian alcohol stood before him, along with another one, half-finished. – Ilya… Rozanov flinched sharply at the sound of his voice. He began to look around, trying to find the source of such a familiar, dear voice… When their eyes met, quite unexpectedly, the curly-haired Russian laughed, as genuinely as he could. – What the hell is this, you’re a bastard… You won't even let me get drunk in peace. I, damn it, have drunk more in my life, and I’ve never hallucinated. Angry tears streamed from his eyes. Without truly realizing it, he rapidly switched from Russian to English, which even momentarily confused Hollander. He had never seen such pure pain in anyone’s eyes. – Ilyusha… I’m real, my darling, please, look at me. – Don’t come near! Ilya suddenly yelled, grabbed one of the bottles, smashed it against a metal table, and pressed the jagged edge to his wrist. His face offered no clue as to what was going through his mind. Shane was scared. No, that wasn’t the right word. Shane was beside himself with terror. He feared death, feared it would take those he loved so dearly, the one person for whom he was ready to do anything. Lunging forward, Hollander struck Ilya's hand, the one holding the remains of the bottle neck, with all his might. He twisted it, as if they were back on the ice, and forced him to sit on the bench between his legs. – Damn it, Ilya, snap out of it. Shane slapped the guy hard across the face until a flicker of understanding crossed Ilya’s eyes. – Hollander? Are you really here? Fuck, you should be with your team, the season starts tomorrow… His tongue slurred, and his hands trembled. The understanding of what was happening washed over him in waves, and the horror pushed him closer to the brink of a full-blown hysteric. Shane yanked him towards the exit, using his other hand to call a taxi to the nearest hotel. Ilya didn't resist. As they drove, a deathly silence hung in the car, punctuated only by the occasional judgmental glance from the driver in the rearview mirror. They couldn't have cared less. Once the room was paid for and they were inside, Ilya, with an unreadable expression, began to undress and attempted to undress Shane. Shane just scoffed, "Russian idiot." He abruptly pulled Ilya towards him, causing Ilya to freeze. Shane carefully wrapped him in a towel and led him to the shower. Sitting him down on the shower floor, he gently began to wash away everything: the dirt, the tears, the pain, and the fear. His hands glided over Ilya’s strong back, muscular shoulders, and soft hair. He was everywhere and nowhere at once. Ilya moaned through clenched teeth; he truly hadn't had anyone for a long time… – No, Ilya, not today, I’m not a rapist. After rinsing off the soap and wrapping the silent blond in a stiff towel (really, Russians had everything unlike normal people), he led him back to the room, carefully tucking him into bed. Ilya’s feverish, drunk brain wasn't functioning, so he fell asleep quickly, very quickly. For a moment, Shane was scared, but seeing his chest rise and fall, a wave of relief washed over him. Sitting in the middle of the room, with the man he loved asleep on the bed, the man who had wanted to kill himself, he didn't know what to do yet, but he knew one thing for sure: he would never leave him alone again. This was the day Shane Hollander smoked his first cigarette, the day he realized he loved someone enough to die for that person to live.