Chapter Text
The strike on his face is burning, tears springing up at the force of it. His hip is throbbing where the blow pushed him into a table, he's sure he heard a glass shatter.
Thank God for Svetlana.
"Let's go," she's murmuring in a sweet tone that is somehow convincing in this awful moment. Her hand is on his father's shoulder, rubbing smoothing circles into his now crumpled suit.
He can feel it like heat on skin. Phones are being half-raised, then lowered again. People unsure whether they're witnessing something dramatic or something private. Or something they're suddenly ashamed to look at too closely.
Ilya hates that most of all.
His father struck him, Ilya hadn't defended himself. Grigori hadn't meant to. He had simply pushed back when Ilya tried to calm him down. Why did people feel the need to record this?
Why are people watching his father like an animal in a zoo? The man who had always insisted on composure is now standing in the middle of a ballroom, being looked at as if he was the evenings entertainment. His father suddenly turns his head sharply, eyes darting across the crowd. Panic surges back in instantly, like a tide returning.
“My son,” Grigori calls out in heavily accented English, voice cracking on the words. "My Ilya," he continues, stepping forward, towards the crowd of people. “He—he is seven. This tall.”
He holds his hand up awkwardly, measuring the air at waist height. He was so certain in the gesture.
“Help me?” he asks, voice breaking further. “Is lost. Please. His—his mother is worried.”
A few people looks away entirely, like they can't bear to witness the mismatch between reality and memory. One person presses a hand to their mouth. Another turns fully, shoulders shaking once before they compose themselves again.
And somewhere in that silence, someone does cry. Ilya just refuses to believe it's him.
"Ilya."
Fuck.
Does the idiot not see how public this is going to be? Does he not realize how this will look?
"Hollander, go." He tries to snarl, but it comes out small, comes out garbled and wet. Of course the asshole doesn't listen, just rushes to his side like he's damaged. But he's not and he won't be treated like it. Not when so many people can see him.
But the moment Shane Hollander is in front of him, kneeling, Ilya can't think. It's like the room has been reduced to just them two. Like there is no press, no blood, no aftermath, no consequences stretching out in every direction like a web they’re already caught in.
When Shane reaches out, Ilya grabs his hand without thinking. Clutches onto it like it's a lifeline.
His hand closes around Shane’s with sudden force, like if he doesn’t hold on he might actually disappear. He lets Shane pull him up, and he must be exhausted because he doesn't even hesitate when Shane pulls him in far closer than they've ever been in public, off the ice. They're nearly nose to nose, Ilya breathing heavily with his head almost laid on Shane's shoulder.
"Hollander, they will see us," he can't help but whisper.
"I know," Shane says quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But I don't care."
Fuck. He loves him. Ilya has been trying to fight it. But he can't. He's so in love with Shane Hollander it hurts, probably more than his bruised hip or split lip. He wants to push away, but he genuinely doesn't think Shane will let him. He's about to try when he hears his father's muttering getting louder, Svetlana trying harder to calm him.
“Ilya!” Grigori calls out, voice rising with panic. He turns in a slow circle, looking at faces, at strangers, at cameras.
“Please!” he shouts again, more desperate this time. “Ilya! He is lost. He is—he is small, he is—”
For a moment, he just stands there, breathing too fast. And then, he turns to Sveta.
“I lost my son."
Ilya’s vision blurs again. It's the vodka, he tells himself immediately. He had spilled a glass somehow in the collision. It had gotten on his face. That was why everything felt wet. That was why his eyes burned.
“You said Ilya was this tall?”
The voice cuts through the room and everyone turns to see an older man dressed far more casually than this event would warrant making his way to Grigori.
He stops at a distance, neutral face on.
“Does he have curly hair? Blonde?”
A pause.
Grigori nods uncertainly. "Yes… yes, I think—yes.”
The man gives a small nod, letting a small smile slip onto his face. It wasn't very convincing but it worked.
“He’s with security,” he says calmly. "They’re taking care of him and keeping him safe.”
Looking back, Shane notices the man and visibly releases the tension in his shoulders. Ilya notices many similarities and he knows who this is. David Hollander.
Was Shane's father stepping in out of pity? Ilya hates the thought.
“Safe?” his father repeats, blinking.
“Yes,” David says simply. Then, softer: “Would you like me to ask someone to take you and him home?”
He sees his father nod uncertainly, but he can't hear any words because someone is walking towards them with a determination in her step that makes Ilya want to back away. Is she an event coordinator? Coming over to tell Ilya to get his father out of her event? Yet as she comes closer, it's not anger on her face, but a warm, maternal concern.
"Oh, honey," the woman says, and this time, Ilya has no trouble recognizing her.
In a daze, he lets Yuna Hollander softly cup his cheek. She stops just before the bruised side of his face, reading him without asking, then adjusts so her palm rests where it won't hurt.
"I am fine." He says, but looks down when she looks at him fiercely. Now he knows where Shane gets it. Ilya keeps his eyes firmly on the floor. He doesn't want to give these fucking vultures any photo opps. He gives his all on the ice, his smiles and smirks. The press won't get his tears.
“Mom,” Shane says, voice tightening slightly. “Could you help handle the—”
“I’m on it,” Yuna answers immediately. Ilya watches her stride away, taking control of whatever remains of the room.
He should be thinking about cameras again, about what this looks like. About the fact that tomorrow this will not stay contained, no matter how efficiently the Hollanders try to manage it. People will talk, and even if no photos surface, people will tweet or make reddit threads. He should care.
But he doesn’t. Not right now. Because he is exhausted in a way that feels deeper than muscle or bone. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from one hit or one moment, but from everything stacked on top of everything until the body finally stops pretending it can keep holding itself upright. He leans forward and he hates that he finds comfort in feeling Hollander's arm wrapped around his shoulders, pressing him into his shoulder.
"I only let you do this because my father is dying." Ilya murmurs.
Ilya has known this. He wonders how stupid he could be. Just because Alexei said his illness wasn't that progressed, and that it was okay for him to travel. He should have known better. He should be a better son.
“I know,” Shane says quietly. "But I've got you, anyways."
And Ilya hates how much he believes him. And he hates that it's those words which finally make the tears come rolling down.
Tweet
hollandershole
@kzeim21
The Hollanders just became the most loved family in hockey. Goes so much beyond the game #thehollanders
8:26 PM · 07 June 14
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Kai
@woodyoubemine
No matter how much I hate Boston, I wouldn't wish this situation on my worst enemy. Poor Rozanov #thehollanders
8:31 PM · 07 June 14
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