Chapter Text
Fabian's hands were warm and smooth and so small in Ryan's that he feared to squash them unintentionally. But he also couldn't quite keep himself from holding on tightly. Or from squeezing. Or smiling.
Ryan knew he looked silly right now. And he couldn't care. Not even the little mean man in his head had something nasty to say. Perhaps he was disgusted out of words. If so, Ryan wanted to pledge to be his silliest. Because just like so, without that critic, he was fine. There were still a few anxious whispers floating around his mind, but without a leader no thought was confident enough to actually step forward and say something to him.
If Fabian had known of Ryan's busy inner life, he might've not been smiling back so giddily. Ryan didn't care about that either. Decidedly not thinking about it. Nope. Tonight was a boyfriend night. The second boyfriend night since Fabian had said the magic words yesterday.
Could Ryan believe his luck? Hardly. Were they just on their way to make him believe it? Absolutely.
As they reached his apartment and Ryan started typing in his code, Fabian slid his hands up Ryan's back, right under his jacket but above the shirt. Ryan shuddered a little as the door sang its melody and unlocked to let them inside.
Ryan Price was prepared for many scenarios. Among them: Sex with Fabian. Ruining sex with Fabian. Possibly un-ruining sex with Fabian. His apartment being the only one out of the entire building to have burnt down or been hit by a pipe disaster flooding and them not getting to have sex at all. A surprise alien abduction of Fabian as he was taking off his clothes and him thus leaving Ryan - because Ryan had chosen to believe Fabian when he said he wasn't. His brain converted that to: Well, at least not voluntarily. But be prepared for external affairs.
What Ryan Price was not prepared for - and he really could not have seen this coming unless he'd checked his phone in the last six hours - was–
“Pricey! There you are!” Ilya Rozanov sounded awfully cheerful and sweet for a man who was holding up a knife to greet Ryan.
It looked like he was wearing sweatpants that clearly belonged to Ryan, unless Ilya had made a surprise trade to Toronto. With an apron and nothing on top but his cross necklace. And the fucking knife of course.
Ryan froze into his own doorway. What the actual fucking hell?
For a moment they were staring in silence, Rozanov still with that ridiculously bright smile in his ridiculous outfit. Ryan wasn't sure if this was a visit or a threat.
Both.
Possibly.
“Rozanov,” he said flatly. “Did you break into my apartment?”
“I sent you a text. You gave me code - is invitation,” Ilya explained. Although his choice of order made it sound as if he'd sent Ryan a text saying he was breaking into his apartment and Ryan texting back the door code. Fuck, he regretted telling Rozanov. And regretted more not ever changing it.
“Was cold out. Your neighbors kept staring at me.” Ilya shrugged like he’d been left without a choice. “And 1234 is not even code, is factory setting.”
Behind him Ryan believed to hear the onset of a surprised snort and he quickly cleared his throat to cover Fabian vocally.
It had been one drunken evening, when Ryan had been so tipsy that his huge fingers kept pressing multiple buttons at once and he was in danger of permanently locking himself out of the apartment. Ilya had stepped in to help. And Ryan had deemed changing the code unnecessary. Just as he had underestimated his friend’s level of unhingedness.
Ilya came closer and something in his expression had shifted. Meanwhile Ryan wasn't sure what was going on on his face or with his posture; he'd hardly moved a muscle since spotting Rozanov and he was still somewhat in shock. But Ilya coming closer was not what Ryan wanted him to do.
“Look I–” Ilya started and then stopped himself immediately. Glancing at the still opened door. Ryan knew what was up. And he panicked even harder. This voice of Ilya's had only been heard by a select few. While Ryan did not know who the others were, he was aware it was a small club and Ilya embarrassed enough, he might murder any of the members to keep it that way.
Which meant that Ryan was no longer solely mortified over the prospect of Ilya teasing him in front of Fabian. Nor the mortification he felt on behalf of Fabian having to meet one of Ryan's hockey friends when he'd been lured here with the promise of sex. No. Now Ilya, too, would be mortified to meet Ryan's pretty boyfriend mid mental breakdown. Or whatever he was having. Because Ilya usually did not greet in that voice. It took hours, persistence and food and occasionally alcohol to get Ilya to loosen up enough.
This was, in all honesty, pretty worrying.
“Are you… cooking?” he asked and hoped that it would make Ilya return to the kitchen. That was just a few steps to the side, but enough to get out of sight and immediate earshot.
“No, knife is for stabbing you so I take over your life,” Ilya replied flatly, shooting him a look. As if it were normal to find him at random in Ryan’s apartment preparing dinner for them.
But to Ryan’s relief, Ilya strolled back in the direction of the kitchen as he said it.
Quickly seizing his chance, he turned around to Fabian, who’d been well hidden behind Ryan’s huge frame. As if they were in agreement, he’d also remained entirely silent over the course of the conversation. Which, Ryan knew, wasn’t Fabian’s default.
“Ilya Rozanov is in my apartment and he’s making food,” he said, voice as desperate as he felt.
“Caught as much,” Fabian answered breezily. A smile curved up the right corner of his lips. “Is he a friend with no boundaries?”
“He's Ilya Rozanov,” Ryan answered. It was pretty much self-explanatory. But then he realized that Fabian might not know who Ilya was. Actually he absolutely would not. “God you have no idea who he is.”
“No,” Fabian shook his head. “A hockey player then?”
Ryan nodded.
“That's hilarious,” he whispered. “You two must absolutely meet. His ego could use some humbling.”
Thinking of Ilya’s odd behavior he added, “Just maybe… not–”
“Tonight?” Fabian guessed.
Ryan nodded. He could kiss the man for his quick wit. And for the fact that at times, and those times were almost scarily common, he seemed to understand Ryan without words.
“Price?” Ilya sounded irritated. And like he might come to check on Ryan.
“I’m leaving,” Ryan grumbled back.
Ilya laughed. “Come inside, your neighbors will complain. They never like foreign food smell.”
Ryan sighed and gave Fabian a kiss that was over way too quickly. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Fabian approved.
Ryan was so thankful for him, that he pulled him in for another quick kiss. Then hearing footsteps nearing he twirled around on his heels and almost slammed into Rozanov.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Ilya eyed him. “You are acting weird.”
Coming from the guy who broke into Ryan’s kitchen, that was rich. But he bit his tongue, not meaning to argue on the doorstep.
Behind them he could hear the little ding of the elevator and Ryan was so tempted, so close to turning around and stealing one last glance at his gorgeous boyfriend. Ilya must be seeing him as well, but to Ilya he’d just be some guy from the village, a neighbor of Ryan’s.
“Hm,” Ilya made. “Pretty neighbors. Maybe we should leave door open. Like venus trap.”
Ryan’s face changed to tomato and he hurried to throw the door shut before Ilya could seriously consider that plan.
“Nope,” he said. Just so they were clear.
Ilya shrugged and went back to the open kitchen. Ryan could only catch a glimpse over the tall bar, but it looked like he’d not been shy about putting it to use. At least it was getting some attention now. Ryan wasn’t sure he’d made himself a single meal since moving in. Well, aside from reheating stuff and packet soup. But seeing that made Ryan want to learn cooking for the first time in his life. And if only to wife up Fabian. Because Ryan wasn't one hundred percent sold that he'd already done it. And even if he wanted to keep it that way.
While he shrugged off the coat, he tried to assess how bad the situation was. So, to recount: Rozanov had broken into his apartment. Taking out the phone from his coat, Ryan could see the message, which simply announced that Ilya was at the train station and that he would be coming over now. As if they had planned this visit. Then the voice of course. And now he was also cooking. Ryan had not ever seen Ilya Rozanov cook.
“Look I made food,” Ilya said at that moment, with the pride of a child holding up the image of a wonky tree they drew at daycare.
Ryan was good with kids, but he wasn’t sure if Ilya would respond well to the popular educational methods. Most likely, he’d clock what Ryan was doing and get mad or make fun of him.
So instead Ryan settled on asking, “You can cook?”
“Of course I can cook. You know I don't like to do things I'm not good at.” Ilya gestured at the counter in front of him. It was full of flour, ingredients stacked onto each other and wobbling dangerously close to toppling over. It was the perfect chaos of things Ryan hadn’t even known he owned. Maybe he didn’t.
“Not good at. What would that be?”
Ilya grinned, apparently glad that Ryan asked. “I don't play piano. I don't write book…,” he trailed off, looking out the window.
“Actually, I should write a book,” he reconsidered.
“Title being, ‘Shame you're not me’?”
“Or: ‘Shane you’re not me’.” Ilya’s eyes twinkled and he chuckled. “That's why I like you, Pricey. You're always funnier than I remember.”
“You should stop giving compliments, according to your own philosophy,” Ryan replied dryly. Because nobody was worse at being nice than Ilya. Not even Ryan. And Ryan usually ranked himself last. Most of the time because he believed it and the remainder of the time to be polite. Even when the ranking entirely played out in Ryan’s head.
“What are you making?”
“Don't look so anxious, Pricey. Of course I can cook. How many good Russian restaurant you think there is in Boston? Or worse, Ottowa?”
“So this is…?”
Ilya sighed, like Ryan was a particularly difficult case. “Piroshki.”
And his expression Ilya promptly commented with, “See? You are not any smarter now.”
“What’s that?”
“Their eyes.”
Ryan looked at Ilya in confusion.
“They are little pigs, they need eyes,” Ilya explained like it was obvious and Ryan was being a dumbass.
In general he’d been treating Ryan like he was the weirdo here since he'd unlocked the door. And it almost worked. Once again he admired Rozanov’s talent for turning a situation around, on it’s head and basically in any direction he wanted. For someone who wasn’t even talking in his native language, Rozanov sure knew how to wield speech like a weapon.
“It is cute. So I made them be little pigs.” Ilya grinned. “You work with kids, I thought you might have, how do you say, developed back.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “By the way I will take my beer with a glittery unicorn straw so you’ll have to take the panda one.”
“Is okay,” Ilya replied. “I have my own unicorn straw.”
While Ilya finished cooking Ryan wanted to get useful so he set the table, but was stopped by a horrified looking Ilya. Shaking his head at Ryan with the utter disgust of someone who couldn’t believe their eyes.
“No no no,” he said, clicking his tongue. “Not like that. On the sofa.”
One look was enough to confirm he was serious about this. And Ryan was not about to argue, especially when Ilya's tone left no room for it. If he wanted to have this home cooked dinner - that looked like Ilya had been preparing with love and attention - like fast food on the sofa, fine. Fine by him. They could chomp it down and pretend like it was nothing worthy of attention. Usually that would make Ryan uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time. Uncomfortable because it felt disrespectful. Comfortable because it meant he could wiggle out of taking bites under scrutinizing looks gauging his reaction. Ilya for sure would like it better if Ryan insulted the food than complimented.
But Ryan wasn't here to fulfill every single one of Ilya Rozanov’s wishes. That had been the biggest thing Ryan worried about when befriending Rozanov. That and not being fun enough as a clap back partner. But Ilya could be pretty different. Shockingly so.
Although Ilya had started their friendship by asking Ryan for dick pics. Which had been a joke. Obviously. He'd told, no warned, Ryan. “I don't know how to be friends with someone.” And he'd told Ryan about Svetlana. “Is different. She's from childhood. And sometimes we fuck.” And then he'd looked Ryan up and down and asked if he had childhood photos, or no, even better a dick pic for Ilya.
Ryan had no idea why he’d agreed to be friends with him after that. His top guesses involved: He was lonely. He was amused by Ilya. He felt somewhat flattered. And he was happy that another hockey player knew Ryan was gay and he was comfortable to joke around like that. With no need to emphasize that it was indeed a joke.
They sat down, put on the TV, Ilya selected a random channel. On the screen were two women who did home decor. Ryan hadn’t meant to pay attention, but they were committing what Ryan could only guess Fabian would describe as crimes against furniture. Even Ryan with two unsuspecting eyes and an apartment full of random Ikea buys, could see as much.
For a while, Ryan and Ilya watched Joan and Nancy ruin people’s homes in silence as they ate. The Piroshki were really fucking good. So Ryan told Ilya as much.
To his surprise Ilya beamed. Honestly. And he said, “Not as good as my mother's. But she would say mine are better. She knew how I liked to win. So she wanted me to win always.”
Ryan just smiled. Imagining it. It was cute. Little Ilya just being happy to win at… whatever. And his mom picking up on it and feeding into it. Yeah, some players might say she created a monster that day. Ilya, ragebait demon, Rozanov. But Ryan decided to stick with cute.
Ryan had been Ilya’s friend for two years already when he'd first heard of his mom. So it was nice to hear him speak of her with ease and pride. Since then Ilya's tolerance of talking about anything that wasn't a joke had greatly improved. He was no longer wincing his way through “happy birthday” for example and he even managed a small pause before rounding it out with a curse or an insult. An affectionate insult.
“If she could see her son now,” Ilya groaned dramatically, throwing an arm across his face. “Losing every game he plays.”
“In your case losing is a team effort,” Ryan remarked.
Ilya just sighed again. So deep and so dramatic, one could think he was forced into this. And truly, no matter what Ryan had asked, he’d never gotten a single believable answer out of him as to why Ilya would fucking go to Ottowa.
“Finally I understand what feels like not liking work.” As soon as he’d said that, he looked confused, as if he hadn’t meant to. And then tried to cover it up, opening his mouth and–
Ryan was faster. “Why did you trade there?”
“Wanting to be best has made me greedy. Made me only think of being best on a team. Unrivaled. No sharing spotlight.”
Ryan huffed, as if Ilya knew what sharing the spotlight felt. He’d not have to compete on his team for his limelight spot either. He could’ve gone anywhere with little risk of it. “No need to go as far as Ottowa to achieve that.”
Instead of an answer, Ilya gave a single grunt.
Ryan decided to prod. "Besides, no chance to share anything if there's none of it. Spotlight I mean."
Another grunt, this time more frustrated. On the screen Joan had decided to stick plastic plates onto a checkered wall and called it design. Ryan wasn’t sure if Ilya was responding to him or her.
"I thought what more does team need? Has Ilya Rozanov - is good team now. Doesn't it work like that?"
To that Ryan chuckled. "You're a good liar, Rozanov. But you're not that out of touch."
Confronted with an unnerved glare, that expressed something along the lines of how dare you call out my bullshit lies, Ryan held up his hands. “Okay. I won’t poke since you clearly don’t want to talk about it. And you’re not going to give me the truth.”
“Lying to you is no fun, Pricey.” But it was a meak complaint.
Nancy started hand drawing flowers on the bathroom walls of one unfortunate couple and Ilya scrunched up his face. “No,” he wailed, “Nancy, you are drawing butthole.”
This had Ryan chuckle. The flowers indeed looked like shit, it didn’t help that they were brown on a rosy, flesh colored bathroom wall.
“Children live there, Nancy,” Ilya complained.
“You’ve seen this show before?” Ryan asked, amused.
Years of friendship had him register the tiny little freeze in Ilya’s gestures, before he covered it up, saying, “No.” In that tone, that told Ryan they were probably watching one of Ilya’s favorite shows right now.
Leaning back, Ryan smiled, but he refrained from teasing. For someone who loved to do it to others, Rozanov didn’t take it well when his “vulnerabilities” were uncovered and used against him. Even if said “vulnerability” was a home decorating show from the last century.
It was another thing they had in common. The ability to get embarrassed over pretty much everything, nothing was too silly for them. They were just dealing with their embarrassment in vastly different ways.
Well, and another distinction was that Ryan felt silly for pretty much everything. Sometimes even for breathing or blinking. So he clearly was the champion of that stupid sport.
Somewhere in the cushions and pillows to Ryan's right, Ilya's phone gave off unnerving vibrations. Ryan shuffled around to find it.
“Jane,” he said, holding it out to Ilya. “Again.”
“Nope.” Ilya hadn't even taken his eyes from the screen. “Let it ring.”
Earlier, he had handed his phone to Ryan with the remark that he'd rather not have it so he couldn't say something wrong and fuck “everything” up. Whatever everything was, it seemed a big deal. And it was getting more difficult by the minute calls to ignore the parts of his brain that wanted to put the pieces together and ask Ilya whether Ryan was right. Technically, Ryan knew that he was. He could hardly believe what he had gathered but he knew there was no other way to arrange the pieces into a picture so clear.
“At least send Jane a text.” He couldn't stop himself from emphasizing the name.
Ilya rolled his eyes. “I told you I cannot. You send Jane,” and now Ilya too said the name like it was fake, “a text.”
“Fine,” Ryan grumbled into his beard. As he started to type. Sorry I can't talk right now.
He deleted it. Talk to you later?
He deleted again. Neither would Ilya apologize nor put a question mark at the end of that.
Can't talk. My mouth is busy pouting, Ryan typed. Moreso to humor himself. Then he meant to put the phone down, yet shrieked when it started to buzz again and, well… He accidentally sent that text. With a side glance to Ilya who was decidedly ignoring both Ryan and the phone, Ryan mused that he didn't really have to know. And would find out soon enough.
Also texting Jane had Ryan remember the very real identity of his boyfriend Fabian. An excited smile was no doubt spreading over his lips as he reached for his phone and saw that a text was already waiting for him. Ryan could only hope that Fabian had not sextet him though or he would die internally and it would show in his cheeks and Rozanov would read him immediatly.
Fabian: Your friend seems messy af.
Fabian: I love him.
Relief flooded through him. Both because it was not a sext and because Fabian was so darn positive and cute. Despite knowing that he couldn't ever find it in his heart to send Ilya away, Ryan had also felt very very guilty for doing that to Fabian. He would've understood had Fabian sulked a little. But he did not and he did not make Ryan feel bad about it. Because even if Ryan had been able to send his best friend away in a state like that, he could never just have sex after. Ilya probably could do that, but Ryan knew he would not. Ilya was surprisingly loyal a friend.
Fabian: What was his name again?
Ryan: Nope
Ryan: Not gonna tell you
Partly because he wanted to see Ilya's face when Ryan's boyfriend didn't know who he was. But mostly…
Ryan: You're only gonna google him
Ryan: And then you'll hate him
Fabian: Can't argue with that.
Fabian: I miss you. What are you doing?
Ryan: I miss you too
Ryan: Watching a home decor show
Fabian: No way!
Fabian: Is my boyfriend going to learn the difference between turquoise and teal?
Ryan smiled at his phone. His fingers flew to reply but a hard Russian accent brought him back to reality. “What is that smile?”
Ryan's head flew up. “What?”
“That,” Ilya's Hand circled in front of Ryan's face. “Is your sex smile?”
And now Ryan’s cheeks were coloring red but not because of Fabian. Oh well, Ryan would've preferred owing the color to a sext over Rozanov's teasing.
“N-no,” he stammered, utterly unconvincing.
“Maybe I should,” Ilya wiggled his eyebrows, “leave?”
Blowing out some air, Ryan shook his head. “Stay put, Rozanov.”
“Because you’ll be boring and put our friendship first or because you grew fun and want me to watch?”
Ryan didn’t grace that with an answer.
“I can reschedule breakdown around your sex life.” Ilya grinned proudly. “Am flexible like that.”
Again Ryan was blushing but he hoped this one would go unnoticed in the color present on his face. Because now thanks to that, he was thinking what kind of dirty talk Ilya might employ if this was a normal conversation with a friend to him.
Trying to distract from it, he rolled his eyes and said, “Plans are already called off for tonight.”
Suddenly and with a stern expression, Ilya sat up. “You're fucking kidding me, Price.”
“No?”
“You– you called off fucking for me?”
Ryan just wanted that conversation to end. Hell. Was Ilya… mad about it?
“Shit, Price. Don't.” Ilya gestured at him like he’d usually do when challenging another player or a doubtful ref on the ice. Almost accusatory. “Get laid!”
“While you bake in my apartment?”
Ilya's eyes grew bigger and he jerked his head as if to say duh-uh! "You should've told me to fuck off to hotel."
"It's okay,” Ryan assured, hoping that would end the talk. He was tempted to fake a horrified reaction to something Joan did on the tv screen that involved cursed second hand dolls - that surely harbored cravings for revenge over getting dumped -, a curtain rod and a bathtub to redirect Ilya's attention. Not that there was much to fake. But Ryan was sure that right now not even that show, the fire or the alien abduction he’d feared for earlier could get Rozanov’s inquisitory stare off Ryan's face.
"I could've waited until you are done."
"It... was not going to... I mean..."
Ilya grinned at him. "Or until tomorrow."
Ryan huffed at that. Lie. What a blatant lie. "As if. Patience was never your strong suit."
Evidently. The man wasn't even capable of waiting outside the apartment like a normal person.
Ilya's eyes kept zeroing in on him. "You are serious about him, Pricey?"
Ryan let out a deep sigh in imitation of Ilya's theatrics from earlier, then said, "But you were always good at insisting on annoyance."
Ilya ignored that. "Is it someone I know?"
"Don't you know everyone?" Ryan replied, slowly giving up.
Ilya shrugged in mock offense. "Fine, do not share your happiness with me. Is your choice."
Then he was quiet for all but a second. “What is your type?”
“What?”
“Just trying to picture since you won't tell me who it is.”
“You don't know him.”
“So he does exist,” Ilya concluded satisfied.
Ryan felt like he just fell for a terrible trick.
“He's tall like you?”
“No.”
“No?” Rozanov had turned away from the tv. Despite the fact that right now, on Ryan’s giant flat screen, Joan was creating a curtain of unwanted dolls for a “playful touch” in the bathroom.
“I don't wanna date myself.”
Ryan could see that one getting a second life as Halloween decoration actually. Actually, that would be pretty cool. Fabian might appreciate it. He loved Halloween and was already planning their couple costumes. It was November. So he would have to wait a year and Ryan was sure Fabian would’ve presented nothing short of at least one idea per week. But it was endearing. They’d been together, officially, for a day. And Fabian was already planning couple costumes.
“Why not? You're not too bad.”
Ryan gave Ilya a look.
He was so damn in love, he couldn’t even take himself serious sometimes. He was considering gathering haunted dolls, one doll a week and turn his apartment into the perfect studio for a horror movie, just so he could recreate this decoration thing and impress Fabian. For what? A second. Then they’d have to put it down. Because it would get in the way of shower sex. And Ryan liked shower sex far too much.
“I might've kissed you.”
“Might've?” That just took Ryan right out of the Halloween daydream.
“Yeah.” Ilya shrugged. His shoulders said, No big deal. Stop freaking out.
“Impossible,” he laughed.
“What? I can stand on my toes.”
“You wouldn't have liked me. I am boring,” Ryan defended.
“I like boring.”
That brought a snort out of Ryan. As if. Ilya would have no idea since he sure as hell didn’t date boring.
“And awkward. How'd you say? Painfully awkward,” he reminded.
“Awkward is my type.” Ilya grinned, then added, “So what's yours?”
Smooth. Ryan’s smile disappeared back into his beard. Obviously he wanted to tell someone about Fabian. He was dying to tell everyone about Fabian. It was just that… Ryan had never done that. He’d never gushed about boyfriends before. He’d never had friends that were comfortable with him being gay. And once he found them in Ilya and Wyatt, he had other problems and no sex life.
Ilya misinterpreted his silence in his own ways, because the grin grew wide enough to split his face and he prodded, “Is it cocky nosey russian man?”
“Are you here to flirt with me, Rozanov? Cause a cocky nosey Russian man breaking into my apartment and making me food is the weirdest flirt I have experienced then.”
Ilya sighed. “You could at least flirt back. As thank you for good food.” He nudged Ryan with his elbow. “No need to look so grim. Is just fun.”
“You'll meet him tomorrow,” Ryan grumbled, even grimmer if possible.
“Who? Fun Price?”
“My boyfriend.” By now Ryan’s head had been replaced by a tomato and was hot enough to be soup.
The light went on in Ilya's eyes, genuine for the first time tonight. Grin tackled into his cheeks, Ilya sat up. Ryan had to admit it, it was adorable. No one had ever looked so excited about him dating anyone. And Ilya hadn’t even met Fabian. Well, not that he knew at least.
“Wait!” Ilya exclaimed. “I have nothing nice to wear!”
Ryan huffed. “What? Didn’t bring your good sweats?”
Again, Ilya jerked his head in a duh-uh.
“What for? Want to swipe my boyfriend?”
Ryan half expected Ilya to joke and pretend like he’d decide when they met, but Ilya said, “You're right. Is better I look like shit. Make you look better.”
“Talking to you is like that shower in my first apartment. Hot and then cold.”
Ilya smiled innocently. No idea, how he did it, but he looked convincing every time.
“I am excited to meet your boyfriend,” he said, sounding more truthful now. “I hope he's good enough for you.”
“He's fucking fantastic.”
“Good.” Ilya looked back at the TV, like that was all he needed to know. Joan and Nancy had moved on from the horror doll curtain and were painting a rug on the floor. Ilya was shaking his head in silent disbelief. Complaining about tv was his favorite thing, Ryan had noticed. Ilya watched two kinds of things: The unrealistically happy stuff, preferably children movies. And things he had contempt for, so he could yell at the screen.
“Just… he's different,” Ryan tried to sound casual. “So don't stare too much okay?”
“Why? Is he shy too?” Either the tone had worked, Ilya was too fascinated with the painted rug fringes or he was being gracious not to direct that laser stare at Ryan. It had taken Ryan a bit getting used to talking to Ilya. His eyes were so intense, his gaze direct. He’d make a fantastic bad cop in an interrogation scenario.
“No,” Ryan chuckled, imagining a shy version of Fabian. They would’ve never gotten together. it would’ve taken Ryan until they were old an in a senior home and he’d just survived his third heart attack and finally - finally! - found the courage to say “fuck it, I’ll try before I die”.
“What would I be staring at?” Ilya inquired calmly. But Ryan could see the effort to make it casual on his end, as well. He was draping an arm behind his head, his feet were shuffling almost unnoticeably. But Ryan’s nervous system noticed everything. Probably why they made such good friends. Neither ever accepted the other’s weak cop outs.
“He… is very pretty.”
“You're blushing, Pricey.”
“Oh god, am I? It's gonna get way worse tomorrow.” Maybe he could start feeling embarrassed for himself now and hopefully by tomorrow he’d run out of that emotion.
Ilya laughed. “Don't worry I’ll make conversation. I'm good at it. Even with pretty people.” He mused for a second before adding, “Especially with pretty people.”
Ryan suppressed a laugh thinking about Ilya trying to talk hockey to Fabian. And the face he’d make the moment he would realize that Fabian despised it.
“And he's gonna wear makeup,” Ryan blurted and was angered by the fact that he sounded so nervous about it. He had no problem with it, loved it actually. But he figured he'd better warn Rozanov. That mouth had no filter and he didn't want Fabian to get the wrong impression because Rozanov fumbled his English. He wanted Fabian to like his best friend and that seemed unlikely enough and way too likely at the same time. As in, why wouldn't Fabian fall for Ilya's weird charm?
“Okay, if he is pretty and wearing makeup I am definitely staring.” Ilya said and shrugged like he wanted to emphasize that it couldn't be helped.
Ryan fiddled with his hands in his lap.
“I really don't know what he sees in me.” He admitted, while he was already feeling brave - and pink.
Ilya shot him a look. “No! Come on, Pricey. Look in mirror.”
“I did and that's kinda the problem. Um, aside from me being boring and awkward and weak–”
“You need better mirror,” Ilya decided, sounding scandalized. “What weak? You're a mountain of muscle, no?”
“I mean… mentally?”
Another look hit Ryan. He couldn’t totally place but he guessed that it meant, Don't trash talk my best friend, asshole.
“Ryan,” Ilya rarely used his first name, “your pecs have pecs. Is like pec family. You look like Viking from Hollywood movie ready to plunder village. But you are teddy bear looking for hug. Is cute. Very charming. Who wouldn't fall in love?”
Ryan glanced away nervously. He wasn't comfortable getting complimented, although in Ilya’s strong accent, it sounded less… glaring. Somehow.
“Nothing weak about you. You never run away from fear.”
“Oh you have no idea, my friend.”
“Okay, you never run away when I can see.”
Ryan chuckled, feeling a bit lighter. It was rare that Ilya dropped the entirety of his act. Just, what was he going to say to that? Because he was shit at giving back compliments, but receiving them always felt like he owed some.
“Come on, Pricey. I have never given that many compliment.” Ilya gestured grandly. “Not even to man I am sleeping with.”
They both froze.
Ilya’s lips parted as if to add something, to deflect.
He closed them again, empty mouthed.
Ryan struggled too. Finding the right words wasn't his strongest suit. He just went with, “Did you just come out to me?”
“Am bisexual,” Ilya shrugged. “We don't come out, we just kiss woman, then we kiss man, then we are happy.”
“I'm pretty sure bisexuals do come out.” Ryan remarked.
Ilya said nothing, he kept staring at the TV.
“I am not coming out in Toronto tracks,” Ilya finally said. "Wipe that from your memory.”
Ryan held up both hands. They both had turned their attention back on the screen. And despite their joking, Ryan could feel it. All of that anger Ilya had cooked with earlier had evaporated and left him sad. Deeply so. Not that he'd admit it, but it was loud and clear in their silence.
“You already know I was bi before this,” Ilya said quietly. It was not a question.
Of course Ryan had known. Not officially, but it wasn't hard to conclude. The thing with Ilya and him and this friendship was that they were both not so great talkers. And they never made each other talk. Unless a topic needed addressing.
“Let's not fool each other. You saw.”
Ryan froze into his seat.
Fucking hell he had. And none of them had acknowledged it.
Ever.
Slowly he turned his head toward Ilya.
Were they fucking talking about it?
Because Ryan felt a rush of relief flood him.
Hollander. A few months ago at the camp. Pressed against a wall by Ilya, lips clearly swollen from hard kissing, eyes wide with fear at the sight of him. And it was not because he feared a beating. If Ryan had only seen Ilya's face, and not known him, maybe he would've bought some lame excuse. But he didn't have to know Shane Hollander to know that was his fucking shit, I just got discovered kissing Rozanov- face.
To Ryan that fell into the category of “doesn't need addressing” so long as Ilya didn't raise the topic himself. Who Ilya kissed was his own kind of deal. All Ryan ever pondered over was what to make of it and how to react if Rozanov did ever want to talk about it.
“Are you… are you still coming to the camp? Next summer,” Ilya asked. He was scratching his neck behind his ear. Clearly a bit embarrassed and unsure of the situation. And Ryan's non-reaction. But technically, he still had not told Ryan. And Ryan wouldn't say it for him. That felt like too big a deal for him to take on.
“Sure,” he said with the certainty of someone for whom nothing had changed with that little slip of information Ilya had granted. “But don't expect protection from Hollander from me. Not even for your pride.”
Ilya smiled, it was almost not sad. “Wouldn't want to miss the chance to argue with Hollander myself.”
And he said that so affectionately that it squeezed Ryan's heart a little. What a fucking mess. He didn't envy Ilya.
“So,” he said. “On a totally unrelated note. It's not heartbreak?”
It was up to him to gesture toward Ilya this time.
“Of course not,” Ilya huffed. “Who would break up with me?”
But his voice lacked that specific arrogance that usually sold the act. Instead he sounded tired.
Ryan felt as if maybe. Just maybe. Ilya actually wanted him to ask more. He tried. “Relationship problem then?”
Ilya sighed. “Let's not talk about it, Pricey. I cannot tell you anyway.”
Ryan didn't argue with that. Or just a little. “You know you suck at the whole best friends thing though?”
Ilya smiled lazily. “Okay fine, sometimes I do thing I suck at. Don't tease. I'm rookie.”
“Oh I know, it's your fifth rookie season.” Ryan rolled his eyes. “Just saying, you don't actually have to keep everything a secret from me. I sure won't do that for you. Even if you don't wanna hear of it.”
“Ryan,” Ilya turned to him with a congratulatory smile. “I like your boyfriend. Gives you new confidence.”
“Him and lots of therapy,” Ryan shrugged. Because he couldn't let Fabian take all the credit. He was working hard as hell too.
It earned him a sideway glance from Ilya. “How is that? Like you lie on couch and they tell you what is wrong with you?”
“No, I mean, yeah. If your therapist sucks maybe. But when you find someone good, they listen, mostly. And then they ask uncomfortable questions and give you a new perspective. And sometimes they will request you do things you don't want to do. And eventually you do it. And it works. And then you really hate your therapist. Cause you have to keep doing it.”
Ilya laughed. “Sounds great. I can shift blame to them.”
“You- you think of actually going?”
Ilya didn't lift his gaze off the TV.
“Holy shit,” Ryan mumbled. “You're like the opposite of me. Never thought a guy like you could need therapy.”
Then he realized how stupid that sounded. It was not Ryan Price, friend of Ily Rozanov for five years who was talking. It was Ryan Price from 5 years ago, who had just met the younger player in Boston and was intimidated by his persona. Of course now he saw beyond that and knew that Ilya had ample problems that could benefit from some professional attention. Ryan doubted he was much better talking to others than him. Was keeping it all very private. Between he and himself. All bottled up. Ryan could see how that had been necessary growing up. But he could also see how it was no longer serving Ilya right.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling ashamed.
"That's a dollar for the "sorry" jar." Ilya wiggled his fingers at Ryan. "Come on, Pricey. Pay the guilt tax."
Ryan chuckled, but he got up and got his wallet to pay Ilya the apology fine owed. Ilya had invented that during the first year of their friendship, to show Ryan how many times he said he was sorry to other people. And that was just the times Ilya would be present to hear. But it made Ryan more aware of it too. And it had actually helped a little.
Ilya placed the dollar on his bare chest like a fig leaf, then sighed and said, “Is my mother, right? I think maybe is good to talk about all that with someone. And…”
“Almost there. Starts to feel like a friendship,” Ryan teased since he knew Ilya well enough to know he didn't like things to get too… real. Mabye Ryan should invent the 'avoidance jar' for his friend.
“And maybe I am… is genetic, right? Depression. Can be. I should go. Like how do you say? Go to doctor before you actually have problem?”
“Prophylactic.”
Ilya turned to him. “Shut up.”
“No, truly. Prophylactic.”
“I am not repeating that,” Ilya grumbled.
“Okay,” Ryan conceded. “I think that sounds like a good plan.”
“Thank you.” Maybe Ilya had aimed for sarcasm, if so his voice missed the target.
“I already know what they're gonna say first.”
“What?”
“That you need to talk more to people.”
Ilya grinned and tossed a pillow at him. “Shut up. Is what you gonna wish for, Pricey. You'll regret day Ilya Rozanov got therapy. I will talk your ears bloody.”
Ryan grinned and tossed a pillow back. He'd like to see Ilya try. “Promises, promises.”