Chapter Text
Shane can't seem to get comfortable in his cardboard bed in the Olympic Village. The sheets scratch. The pillows are basically worthless. And he knows that all the athletes have to deal with the same conditions, and at least he has his own room, but it's been driving him up the wall for over a week now. Zero guesses as to why he's hit his breaking point today.
We are not anything here.
He knew Rozanov got all cagey about being in Russia. He knew the risks too - in what world does Shane Hollander not worry about being outed every second of every day? It's just . . . they hadn't texted in months. And then he saw him today at the figure skating event and he thought -
Shane groans and throws an arm over his eyes. He's such an idiot. He has a playoff game tomorrow night at the literal fucking Olympics and he's obsessing over Rozanov.
He thinks about taking another shower. Sometimes it helps to start over and pretend to go to bed all over again. Sometimes it feels like 90% of Shane's life is tricking his brain into being functional but he's not going to dwell on that right now. Rolling over, he taps his phone. The screen lights up. 1:17 AM. And, almost like he's conjured him, the caller ID buzzes: Lily.
Future Shane can be embarrassed by how quickly he answers the call.
"Hey, are you okay?" he whispers into the phone. He can't remember the two of them ever calling before.
"Shane Hollander," says a distinctly female voice. A voice that is not Rozanov.
His heart leaps into his throat.
"Do not panic and do not hang up," the woman orders. Her accent is softer than Rozanov's but still identifiably Russian. Shane chooses not to psychoanalyze why he's so quick to obey her. "I am Svetlana Vetrova, Ilya's friend. He might have mentioned me."
"Uhh." Shane obviously knows who Vetrov's daughter is - and had burned with jealousy at the casual way Rozanov mentioned knowing her dad. He remembers hearing about nights out at the club with Svetlana. What he doesn't understand is how the hell she knows he's Jane.
"Listen." Svetlana cuts through his run-amok thoughts. "Ilyusha is hurt. He needs someone to take care of him."
Shane sits bolt upright in the stupid cardboard bed. "Hurt? Hurt how?"
"You cannot repeat this, understand? The same way that I will never tell anyone that Shane Hollander goes by Jane in another man's phone."
Shane can hear his heartbeat like it's inside of his eardrum. "Yeah, of course." He agrees before he even really processes it.
"Ilya's father is not a kind man. He did not take Russia's loss in the first round lightly. Ilya knew this and avoided seeing him, but there was a State Gala tonight. He could not miss it. His father took the opportunity to teach him a lesson."
"Teach him a - what the fuck?" Shane thinks he should be shouting but instead the words escape in a desperate wheeze.
"He is hurt. Badly, but he will be fine in the long term. The problem is, I cannot leave the gala for long. It would not look good for my father, and everyone would know I left to help Ilya, which would also bring more anger his way. I need you to come get him."
"I - what?" A slow trickle of terror runs down his spine. Ilya hadn't wanted to risk being seen talking in public. And now Svetlana wants - "What about his coach? Or teammates? The team doctor?"
"You must understand that the social circles of the elites here are very small. Everyone knows everyone. His coach is an old family friend. The doctor gets paid to look the other way. His teammates, if they even cared, wouldn't risk bringing attention to themselves. I called you because you are the only person I trust with him." For the first time, Svetlana's voice wavers.
"Okay," he says, "I'll come. I just need to find a car -"
"There's a car waiting for you at the North entrance to the Athlete's village. I'll text you the license plate, and the address. He will be discreet, I promise."
Shane waits for the ping of her incoming text to stand.
"Thank you," she says, and hangs up.
He moves as if someone else has seized control of his body. Shane yanks on a pair of sweats, a jacket, and a cap. He haphazardly throws some spare clothes into a duffle, then takes them out again when he notices the huge Olympics logo on the side. He crams a spare shirt and a hoodie into a plastic bag instead, shoves on his shoes, and goes out into the brisk winter night.
*
Svetlana: Driver will bring you to the East side of the house. There's a bathroom on the ground floor.
Jane: This place is enormous. How am I supposed to know where one bathroom is??
Svetlana: Follow the brick path. I'll flash the lights in a minute.
Jane: Okay, I see you.
Jane: You're sure this isn't a prank? Feels like a spy movie.
Svetlana: Welcome to Russia
Svetlana: Now climb through the window
*
It's a challenge to clean the blood off Ilyusha and text Hollander at the same time. She's mildly impressed by how quickly he got here. As awkward as he seems in TV interviews, Hollander knows how to buckle down and get a job done. She supposes that should be obvious from his hockey playing.
A quiet knock sounds at the window. Svetlana rolls her eyes. The window is already propped, only a Canadian would knock before climbing through it. There's the rustle of some plants and a soft grunt before Hollander's shoes land on the tile floor of the truly gaudy, and massive, bathroom. She looks up from where she's leaned over the bathtub, dabbing at the blood on Ilya's forehead. Sees the moment Hollander's gaze lands on Ilya and those panicked eyes harden, just like they do during a face off. The little Canadian is angry.
Good.
"Rozanov." He beelines to Ilya's other side. Hollander's eyes jump from the blood at his temple to the purple on his cheek, to the awkward way Ilya arranged himself in the tub before falling unconscious. Finally, he meets Svetlana's gaze. "What the fuck did he do to him?"
She tries to sound detached. Conditioned to violence and unflappable. "Beat him. Stomped on him, I think. His father and also his brother. I did not see it. I only know what he told me when he called. He was already unconscious by the time I made it to his hiding place." She gestures to the room. Tries not to think of how Ilya made it from the upstairs offices to this ground floor bathroom, alone. Bleeding. She is endlessly grateful that her Ilyusha is so strong.
"Here," Hollander takes the towel from her, "Let me finish cleaning him up."
"There is no time. You need to take him now."
"Why? What else could they possibly want to do to him?" It's almost a growl.
"I don't know," she says, frustration leaking into her voice. Not at Hollander, but at life. "His brother is a drunk coke addict who maybe comes back just to tease him? You want to find out?"
"No. I'm not letting anything else happen to him." With that, Hollander climbs fully into the bathtub. He scans for the best angle before crouching and deadlifting Ilya into a bridle carry. Svetlana feels a small vindication watching it. Hollander has very nice hands.
Then, a pause. A crack in that steely resolve. "Where should I take him?"
Svetlana prepares herself for a fight. "You have your own room at the Village, yes?" She checked, earlier. Before calling. Ilyusha has a hotel not far from the stadiums, now that he's out of the games, but Hollander is stuck in the athlete's village for at least another few days. Five, she would bet. He's going to get that gold medal. Which means that he won't be able to sneak off to Ilya's hotel room multiple times a day to make sure he isn't dying or having a seizure or in one of the black holes he sometimes falls into after "lessons" from his father. Ilya needs someone constant. Someone close.
Hollander looks at her like she's suggested ritualistic murder. "I can't keep him in my room! I can't even sneak myself in and out of the Olympic Village after curfew! It's a miracle I managed it this time without getting caught."
"It wasn't a miracle, it was me."
"And?"
"And he needs someone to check him every four hours for concussion symptoms. And wrap his ribs, probably." And kiss him better, she almost adds. "You can't dump him in a hotel and leave him there."
The steel is back. "I wasn't going to dump him anywhere." Still, he hesitates.
Svetlana holds back her response for a long moment. She can see in the way Hollander holds Ilya, gentle but unrelenting, that there is something good and trustworthy there. She doesn't know exactly what they are to each other, but she knows Shane cares about her Ilyusha. She has to hope he can care for her friend better than she could herself. In the minefield that is Russia, she wants to give Ilya a moment of tenderness. Of peace.
"He needs someone to take care of him," Svetlana admits, "Not just physically. He needs someone who cares. And I can't be there without making it worse for both of us."
As if sensing the tension in the air, Ilya stirs. He murmurs incoherently into Hollander's shoulder. Instantly, Hollander pulls Ilya in closer, shushing him. "I've got you, I've got you." He waits for Ilya to settle. Then, to Svetlana, "You'll make sure we can get back into the Village unseen?"
"You have my word."
Hollander adjusts Ilya once more. His lips brush the soft hair at his temple. "Okay. Help me out of the bathtub then."