โ @soulebbed / shane hollander's nightmare comes true
โ โ โ Catastrophic events were supposed to happen on dark days when lightning split the sky and the bitter cold grasped all the pretty flowers in a death grip. They weren't supposed to happen on beautiful summer mornings like this. When Ilya awoke in his apartment in Moscow, it felt like any other morning. The sun was shining, the air was warm, even the birds were singing. Sure, he was back in Russia, which wasn't ideal. Now that he'd had a taste of freedom, a taste of the western lifestyle, he loathed having to return to the staunch and domineering way of life his father instilled.
It was the sixth summer that he'd had to return, which meant he was well used to the routine now. At least this time, his return home had been rather triumphant (not that Grigori could see it that way). While the Olympics on home turf had been a disaster, Ilya went on to win the Cup along with MVP. Despite the disapproving glares from his father, who could barely remember why he disapproved, the star Boston center felt on top of the world.
When he went for a run, he barely looked at his phone. There was a missed called from Svetlana, but since she was still in Boston, there was no point in calling her back now. It only one in the morning her time. Putting the phone in airplane mode, he turned up the volume, and let himself get lost in the rhythm of some European trance music.
It wasn't until Ilya was back home, toweling off the sweat and starting to put together breakfast that the first inkling of something wrong came through. As he turned his phone back on, missed messages began to trickle in. It started with just a couple of pings, but soon everything downloaded and his phone wouldn't stop. Abandoning his mission of making eggs, he picked up the phone and saw a barrage of notifications far to deep to even scroll through. Svetlana's was a name that appeared frequently, along with his agent. Cliff's was surprising, but most surprising of all was Jane. Not the name itself, but the time stamps. Hollander had texted and even attempted to call him about ten different times, spanning the whole night in the Russian time zone. He knew Ilya would have been asleep but kept trying anyway.
Ilya's body froze as though his blood were replaced with ice, knowing instantly that something was terribly wrong. He opened his phone and went to a search engine, but didn't even need to type anything. The top suggested headline painted a nightmarish picture.
๐๐๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ฌ, ๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ข๐๐ข๐๐ง๐ฌ, ๐๐ง๐ ๐๐ญ๐ก๐ฅ๐๐ญ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ฆ๐จ๐ง๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ญ๐ข๐ฆ๐ฌ ๐จ๐ ๐๐ก๐จ๐ง๐ ๐๐๐๐ค๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ข๐ง๐
He typed only his name in the search bar and the results made his stomach drop.
๐๐ฅ๐ฒ๐ ๐๐จ๐ณ๐๐ง๐จ๐ฏ'๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ง๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐๐ฑ๐ญ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ฒ
๐๐ฅ๐ฒ๐ ๐๐จ๐ณ๐๐ง๐จ๐ฏ'๐ฌ ๐๐๐๐ค๐๐ ๐๐ก๐จ๐ญ๐จ๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ซ๐ ๐๐๐ฆ๐ ๐๐ก๐๐ง ๐๐ฑ๐ฉ๐๐๐ญ๐๐
๐๐ฅ๐ฒ๐ ๐๐จ๐ณ๐๐ง๐จ๐ฏ: ๐๐ก๐จ ๐ข๐ฌ "๐๐๐ง๐"?
๐๐ฌ ๐๐ฅ๐ฒ๐ ๐๐จ๐ณ๐๐ง๐จ๐ฏ ๐๐-
He closed out of the app, his hands shaking as he stared at the dark screen. The screen that had become his own betrayer. For a moment, he just stood there, listening to his breath, trying to tell himself that it wasn't as bad as he thought. It could all be a misunderstanding. And even if he was outed as queer, what's the worst that could happen? His government would fine him. That was the law. Something about spreading propaganda, he'd get fined a hell of a lot of money. But money was something Ilya had. That was no big deal.
The pit that began to eat away at his stomach told him that it would be worse. Growing up in a police household, he'd heard of people disappearing mysteriously. Often times it was when those people were in a position to embarrass the government. Being a prominently celebrated Russian figure who was also directly tied to the police with both his brother and father, could he be one such person? Would they do that to him? Could they do that to him?
As though to answer his questions, there was a loud, sharp knock at his door. "<Mr. Rozanov? This is the police. We would like to speak to you,>" came the curt, Russian voices on the other side.
Running a hand through his hair, Ilya only had a moment to whisper an explicative to himself before he was in action. Hurrying to his bedroom, he ignored the knocks that continued to rain down on his front door. Dropping his phone, he quickly stomped on it. Then he grabbed his backpack and stuffed it hastily with necessary items. It wasn't difficult since he never really spread out in his Moscow apartment. The place never felt like a real home to him. All of his money, important documents, and other essentials were within reach. He pulled on a plain black hoodie that had nothing identifying on it. All the while, the threats from the police were becoming more and more agitated.
Glancing around his room, he snatched up one last item: an old photo from his childhood, grinning happily with his whole family standing around him as they posed at the VEB stadium for a football game. Then he opened his bedroom window and was gone. The fire escape led to an alley that he quickly made his way down. There was no lookout to call him out which meant they must not have believed the good son of Grigori Rozanov would run. Joke's on them.
Pulling up his hood, Ilya pulled open the back door of a bakery and navigated the kitchen like he knew the place. He got odd stares but no one stopped him since he didn't linger. Following through a maze of side doors to more back alleys, he finally found a street far enough away that he felt comfortable enough hailing a cab. Resting in the backseat, dark sunglasses on, Ilya stared out the window as the streets passed by, his home getting further and further away. The only thought that pervaded his mind in that moment was Hollander. Was he okay? Was he outed? Where was he now?
