#we hate him

As soon as the event was done, they entered the first taxi they managed to find and started going to the hotel. Thankfully, the event organisers had booked two different rooms for Ilya and Grigori, as he had no interest in hearing his father’s lectures and rants. The second the car stopped Ilya was already out of it and putting his hand in his pocket to feel for the hotel room card he held there. Pressing the elevator he turned to wait for Grigori to walk up to him. Silence held itself between them. They had nothing to speak for. In the blink of an eye they reached their floor and entered their respective rooms.

All his father had said to him today was move here, go there, don’t speak, listen, nod, do this and do that and this is about Russia, Ilya. It’s always about Russia and Rozanov. His mama would’ve been proud. She would’ve been so proud and she would’ve hugged him and told him she loved him and he’d tell her how much he loved her and that he did everything up until now for her. A ping from his phone caught his attention, as he inserted the card so the lights of the room would finally open. Taking off his jacket Ilya threw his phone on the bed and then himself. He wasn’t entirely sure how long he spent there, before finally turning to look at his phone.

Alyona: 

I knew you could do it! I am so proud, Ilya!

He stared at the message as the phone turned off from inactivity, his heart finally feeling the flutter of a beat.

 Alyona:

She would’ve been so proud of you Ilya, her little prince.

And if his heart felt raw and his brain felt heavy and his eyes teared up, no one would know but Ilya.

Soon after, he undressed and dug around his suitcase for something comfortable to wear. A tanktop and sweatpants, no matter what the people said, were just about the most comfortable thing anybody could wear and it had nothing to do with Eastern Europe. 

And his intentions after laying down were to sleep and be ready for tomorrow, but his brain just wouldn’t shut up. Suddenly Ilya remembered that a sports organization booked this hotel, so there had to be a gym here. The popcorn ceiling could be entertaining only for so long. Filling his water bottle with tap water, because apparently people trusted the officials here, Ilya quickly wore his sneakers and pocketed his phone and key card before going to the elevator. Walking to the receptionist who looked like a tired young man not much older than himself, he just roughly asked, “Gym?” and the guy immediately pointed at the sign in the corner.

Going down the stairs that lead underground, Ilya kept following the signs until he saw the gym, taking notice of the open light and the sound of a machine running. Someone else was here. As if life was taking the piss, his eyes catch onto the hunched back of Shane fucking Hollander on the bicycle. Letting his eyes drag down the body of the other player Ilya thought that actually, this was exactly what he needed. 

Sitting down on the bicycle right next to Hollander, Ilya started upping the speed. He doesn’t think the other boy has noticed who he is yet, but he’s definitely recognized the challenge. 

Up, up, up. The only sound that could be heard was the whirring of the pedals and panting. When one of them would go faster the other would catch up and go even faster, until it became a cycle of positive feedback. Finally, as if Hollander had enough, he abruptly closes the bicycle and jumps off of it, sitting himself down on the floor, Ilya deciding quickly to follow suit.

Letting his legs stretch out, Ilya opened his water bottle and started chugging. His eyes never strayed from Shane’s as the other boy finally got the courage to keep the contact. If Ilya was right, and Ilya was never wrong, he could see a clear thread of attraction from Hollander. Pushing his water bottle towards Shane he could see his eyes tracking it, but made no move to take it. A quick shake of the swishing liquid made him prop up. Pushing himself to catch Ilya's bottle allowed Ilya himself to drag his hand across Hollander’s. He could clearly see a spark of confusion from the other man but that was about it. Hazel eyes followed the path of the water as Shane’s Adam's apple bobbled with every chug. When he let his hand fall, probably scared to finish the whole bottle, Ilya mouthed a small ‘more’.

Deep, curling satisfaction warmed him. Hollander didn’t even hesitate, he just acted pulling the bottle to drink the remaining water, already so trusting and pliant.

When the water bottle was reached out to him, Ilya dragged his hand atop the other boy’s finger one more time. It’s as if Ilya was flirting with a dense, adorable rock.

He remembers talking and Shane answering, but the thing that stuck with him was the tension in the room. Shane Hollander was magnetic.

Russia lost the match the next day. Yet the only thing crossing Ilya’s mind was Shane’s little ‘See you in October’. He’d make sure they met before that.

It was remarkably easy to get in contact with the people in charge of marketing this season. A quick talk with the Boston PR intern had led him right into the hands of the manager, who seemed surprised by Ilya’s interest in this. Immediately after, he’d fallen right into the lap of the newest marketing stunt. It was no wonder really, the hockey world was eyes and ears open for anything regarding Rozanov and Hollander before the start of the season, so a few strings being pulled here and there, a phone call away and a signature down, Ilya Rozanov was about to do a joint photoshoot with the one and only, Shane Hollander. 

It was relatively dark outside when Ilya arrived there, they could only do this after practice and there was no way any of the boys would be willing to skip training when this is their debut season. So having a quick shower, he quickly towel dried his hair and got moving. Walking through the ring a man quickly flags him down and starts speaking something about the new prospects and expectations and something about playing right into their hand and gaining some sort of view of a ship. Nodding in intervals Rozanov understood that the photoshoot was to be filmed in uniform so he set out to get dressed in a fresh set of clothes. The changing rooms were different in any stadium but their formula stayed the same, it was fairly easy to find where he was pointed and get dressed. He wondered when Hollander would be coming. 

He’s probably super early and already dressed, is the assumption Ilya made about the other man. He seemed the type to have everything about his day set out and follow it religiously.

Keeping his helmet in his hand, Ilya set out to ask if he even needed it on. Don’t they care about hair and stuff in photoshoots? That’s what he saw from Sasha anyways. 

Feeling the ice underneath his skates brought a feeling of relief to him. His shoulders untensed as he confidently made his way to the corner where a man with an obviously big camera was wildly gesturing, “Rozanov! You’re ready, that’s perfect, “ the man started pointing at the middle of the ring, “Shane should be here in 5 minutes.”  With a curt nod Ilya skated alongside the edge of the rink to wait. And he didn’t have to wait for long before his vision filled with blue, white and freckles. Brown eyes scattered around as if taking in everything the rink could give even when there was no match at play. He’s felt those eyes before during the game, he had to get them to look over. 

The man from before quickly beckoned both boys towards the camera, the swooshing of blades cutting the ice following. A small explanation later and both players were center ice in front of each other, in the position of a face-off. As soon as they lowered Ilya searched for big brown eyes but instead of meeting them, they seemed to be focused somewhere below. Quickly following the direction the only thing that met him was the neutral line on the ice.

“You look pretty.” Even Ilya could hear the accent trailing after him. Immediately on the defensive Hollander piped back “You’re wearing make up too.” Chuckling a bit, Ilya let his shoulders hike into a shrug. He couldn't get over how dense this boy was. “Yeah but I don’t look pretty.” A gorgeous and frankly insultingly charming red backgrounded dark freckles and Ilya felt himself fighting a smile.

A loud voice cut the air, making both boys slightly flinch. “Okay guys, we need rivalry and heat. We need tension. People want to look at this poster and immediately pick up their remote to watch the newest match. Yeah?” a clap followed, “Let’s do this!”

And so the photoshoot dragged on for hours, different positions and plays followed every now and then with a make up crew right on their heels. By the end Ilya honestly felt himself becoming delirious as laughter spilled out. He would've been more annoyed at himself, if he hadn’t seen Hollander’s face slowly break into small laughs that seemed to spill out uncontrollably. 

It must be sunny in Russia.

As the photoshoot ends Ilya follows Shane into the lockers to shower and change into the clothes he came in with. The warm water quickly fogged up the tiles as both boys showered with practiced movement. Feeling eyes on him, Ilya turned to look. He is always right after all. And well he’s also just a man. 

Shane Hollander may have said not here, but he sure as hell didn’t run away. Not when Rozanov walked in on him dropping his shoe the second their eyes locked in the dressing room, towel hanging low.

“Well if I come to 1410 tonight at 9 o’clock?”

“I might open.”

“I might knock.”

Russia has always been cold but never loud. There is a certain air that befalls the people walking its streets, it's heavy and pressuring. It sits on your shoulders hoping for you to crumble. The thing is, it's not quiet there either. There's a faint hum that glides through the cobblestones, whispers carried through it. When you enter a hockey match however, there is no hum. There is just noise. Loud and all encompassing from every direction, colliding with the plastic barriers. The people talking, the ones chanting, music fills the corners of the hall. 

Loud noises quiet the brain. There is no need to think, only go through the routine. Ilya has it memorized at this point, he’s been preparing for this his whole life. For the first time in a long while, his heart started to beat.

Putting on his gear then hearing the Raider’s captain make a speech made Ilya’s skin buzz under its surface in anticipation. They could hear the announcers yelling each team’s name, followed by each man gliding as soon as skates touched ice. The first thing you register is the cold and bright surroundings. Soon enough sound reaches you, with a slight delay. As if something is pulling his attention to the other side of the rink, Shane Hollander joins the fray, head down, deep breaths and a look of calm on his dark eyes, lashes fanning on them almost like a shield. 

Before they know it, the match has started and all eyes are on the newest rookies of each team who go in circles around each other like sharks do to prey. 

A goal scored here, a goal scored there. Every time the puck hits the net, its followed by the opposite team retaliating. 

It's 3 - 3 when Rozanov’s coach sends him out, this time for a face off. Breaths slowing down, Ilya turns to go to the middle of the rink, eyes getting caught on familiar looking freckles. If he gets flashbacks of a hotel room, brown doe eyes looking up at him and blushing cheeks, that’s his problem. Well, Hollander’s as well, he assumes.

—the last face-off of the game.Who are they sending in? This guy seems to have some ideas.

Are they gonna do this? Are they gonna give the people what they want?

Desjardins is gonna give it to them. Is Reilly gonna do this too?

Are we gonna see… Listen to that crowd! And there you have it!

It’s Ilya Rozanov versus-

“Shane Hollander, will you disappoint them?” Green orbs traced the constellations on flushed skin. He quickly felt his eyes trace the mouth guard Hollander was holding outside of his mouth, lips flush against the transparent plastic, wiggling as the man shook his head and replied, “No.” The worst part was that he didn't mean to be distracting.

No more words were needed, the whistle blew and the puck fell.

Later in the comfort of his own room, Ilya’s eyes were locked on the post game interview, where a sweaty, clearly satiated Shane seemed to glow with his stupid, perfect little french. 

As if the loss wasn’t enough, a phone ring sliced through the air. 

Alexei

Taking a deep breath in, he pressed accept.

The phone call followed a well-known and practiced script by now, demands being made and slurs thrown around. The rising tension let both men elevate their voice, tense words being thrown across continents. Except, Ilya was barely a man, he was just a boy, in another continent, in another city being thrown around with foreign words and assumptions. His older brother asking for money for drugs just as he had his baby. His dad picking up the phone, authority bleeding through harsh words followed by periods of confusion. He was a boy fighting other people’s battles when he never asked to do so. 

He had tried fighting someone’s battle once. It ended in cold fingers and bottles of pills. 

Closing the lights around the hotel room, Ilya laid down under the covers. He pulled them over his ears, over his head. If he closed his eyes and waited, he could act like the weight of the blanket would feel like his mama’s arms. 

4 months passed more or less the same. The season was going well for the Boston Raiders. Alongside that, a new matchup started to take place.

Team North America versus Team Europe. 

Ilya had woken up that day with alarms and calls coming through his phone. The second he had arrived through the door, he’d been shoved in a suit as a woman moved his face left and right to put, what he assumed to be makeup on him. Another pair of hands quickly started attaching a little microphone to his jacket while shoving him towards a loud room, with a huge camera right in front of the table he would sit in, alongside none other then Shane Hollander. 

Touching the tie around his neck, Ilya moved it around. It felt borderline suffocating, right against his neck as his eyes involuntarily blinked when flashing camera lights suddenly activated. 

Press conferences were on Ilya’s top 3 list of most hated things he had to go through in life. The environment was stuffy and loud and the English was long and confusing. Aimed at him like a gun rather than a helping hand. Cocked and loaded, ready to shoot the moment silence filled the air for too long. 

Dark eyes turned at him, almost as if asking for permission. Seeing the out Hollander gave him, Ilya replied with a small nod. Hollander’s calm cadence quickly filled the space, allowing him to breathe. He spoke confidently, as if he had been trained to do this his whole life. He shook his head, gave a small smile that exuded charisma as his shirt was slightly unbuttoned, no tie in sight.

A small shuffle and an accidental bump later, Ilya let his shoe knock on Shane’s more deliberately, immediately feeling Shane press completely against him.

The ice was breathing on Ilya’s face during the shot accuracy competition. Eyes locked on the pucks at his feet, he made quick work to shoot them as soon as the buzzer hit his ears. 

“Давай!” a grin stretched across his face as he saw the blinking numbers on the screen. He had just broken Scott Hunter’s record. Not for long however, as Shane Hollander quickly followed in his footsteps and broke Ilya’s newly broken record. He let his eyes follow the other man as he skated to the side and waited until Hollander sat down. 

Ilya reckons that no matter how many years pass or whatever the future holds for him, nothing will exhilarate him as much as Hollander’s averting eyes and blushing cheeks. 

“1221.”

A knock followed as soon as the game ended. A door opened and was promptly pushed as Shane Hollander entered the room, with what Ilya presumed was annoyance, which he had no interest picking up on as he saw the furrowed eyebrows and glaring eyes. They’d had a kitten that lived in the neighborhood when he was young, that would follow you, meow once or twice and then stare into the depths of your soul for you to feed it. Shane reminded him of it.

And Ilya can’t really be faulted for getting caught up in the moment and allowing time to slip through his fingers as he felt those same fingers caress Hollander's unfairly soft skin. 

Looking at the other man slowly unfolding his clothes and getting dressed, he felt a small grin pull at his lips. When Shane finished getting dressed and turned to look at the space next to Ilya, he let himself walk towards him, beckoning for his phone.

Lily and Jane came to life.

Quickly writing down the contacts to send a message to his own phone, so they could save each other's numbers, Ilya could feel the heavy gaze fall on him. He let himself not catch it, it seemed Hollander wasn’t too comfortable with eye contact. As if he couldn’t get more endearing.

The next few weeks were filled with stupid promises and lots of unreciprocated, one sided sexting. If it was anyone else, Ilya thinks he’d have given up after the third ‘if I was there what would you be doing?’, but something about Hollander’s genuine replies and innocent confusion had utterly captured Ilya’s dick. No heart involved of course, they were casual after all.

The back and forth texting never seemed to stop, but it started dwindling a bit the closer the Rookie of the Year award seemed to be approaching, and with it so did Russia. 

From the moment Ilya stepped foot in the stuffy building rented by the MHL, he knew he had not won. It wasn’t necessarily a surprise either, between their goals, assists and general public persona it was relatively obvious who was winning tonight. In the quiet of the rooftop, as he smoked a cigarette, he could admit to being proud almost, for Hollander. He was probably downstairs getting hugged by friends and family, that seemed to be set on being there for all of his accomplishments and more. The older players probably had pulled him in for drinks and even more celebrations. Which is why he was only a bit confused, when he heard the door open behind him and saw Shane approaching on his left.

Turning to give him a quick look, he was met with prominent freckles and glassy, brown eyes. Hair slightly askew, as if he’d run his hands through it, face pinched tight and tie let loose. He looked good. And drunk. It would’ve made Ilya laugh and tease if it had been any other day. The buzzing under his skin made it pull tighter across his body as Shane raised his voice. On a bad day Ilya Rozanov felt like a mannequin with a skin suit over it to convince everyone he was normal. On a good day, he didn’t think. And he knew, that no matter how many times he insinuated Russia to Hollander, he wouldn’t get it. Yet, every time he still tried. Both men had barred their teeth and Ilya had retaliated in a harsher manner, and Hollander, sweet and naive Hollander, had stayed there and left his underbelly unprotected, so Ilya thought he could have one more thing before he had to go and fight and scratch in the Russian winter. As Hollander’s fancy shoes clicked on the tiled floor, he threw away his cigarette, followed down the stairs and pushed Hollander onto the wall. 

He was gonna miss this.

It had been some vorns since Jazz had been kidnapped- enough that he had not only gotten his final upgrades, but had gotten a procedure to bypass his optics for visual feed. He still had them, of course. He didn’t want them removed just because he now had a specialized visor to see the world. And what a beautiful day it was to wake up from the surgery and see Ricochet’s face for the first time since he was a youngling. It made them both cry, but neither would admit that.

Now? Now Jazz was an enforcer, helping others the way he had always wanted to, the way he’d needed to be helped when blind. Unfortunately, the glitch he’d inherited from Punch had only gotten worse after the surgery. While it had previously only been triggered at extremely high levels of any emotion, now it triggered not only then, but whenever he got too excited. He had learned that rather quickly when he’d been told the medics were discharging him and he got so excited to get out and see Polyhex that it had triggered the crash. A couple rounds of testing and even more crashes later, he had been released and now had ways to manage his glitch.

But that didn’t stop Jazz! Not like he’d let it, anyways. He was one of the best on the force, and everyone knew it, though he heard whispers about his glitch constantly.

That was enough for reminiscing. Jazz stood with his superior officer, the Chief, and two other officers to wait for the new transfers from all over Cybertron- part of a program the Senate put out to show the enforcers of different city states how others worked, in order to promote cooperation between city states.

The transport pulled up, then opened their doors, letting out an Iaconian, a Kaonite, a crystal city mech, a very carsick Vosian, and—

Jazz gasped softly, “Praxian!”

He could barely wait for his superior to finally allow him to drop the formalities and welcome the transfers with the sunny happiness that Jazz had very quickly become known for in the precinct, and bounded over to them, greeting each enthusiastically and getting varied reactions, from disgust from the Vosian to just as thrilled from the Iaconian, his excitement growing as he bounded over to the Praxian, excited to meet one of the frametype who’d helped save his life vorns ago, even if he never got to know who exactly had saved him.

Only too late did he notice the growing crash, until he stumbled and went down hard, not even registering hitting the ground before he was out.

Both the Chief and Jazz’s superior officer lunged for the collapsing mech, but the Praxian was closest, catching the Polyhexian before he could hit the ground and then standing there awkwardly.

Prowl stared down at the ‘Hexie who’d just crashed and fell into his arms. He looked familiar enough that he dug up all memory files with Polyhexians until he realized this was the blind mech he’d saved back in Iacon during the emergency transfer, though it appeared he had gotten a visor to allow him to see.

“Sorry about that,” the blue, white, and obnoxiously orange mech that seemed to be Jazz’s superior officer said, taking Jazz out of Prowl’s arms and hauling him unceremoniously over one shoulder, “that happens.”

The Chief sighed, “get him to Medic Pharma so he can make sure Jazz didn’t fry parts of his processor again.”

“This is.. normal?” The Iaconian asked. Dartox, if he remembered correctly.

“Unfortunately,” the Chief said as the blue mech took Jazz to the Medic, “he’s got a medical condition. He’s a good officer, even though this happens.”

Hm. Prowl thought, I’d better keep an eye on him, then. Just in case.

Jazz woke up in the Medi-center, though feeling oddly detached from his emotions. Then the logic hit, along with his memories and the readout from the crash and what the medic had done while accessing his symptoms. He frowned softly, unable to worry about what he was reading, but displeased with it. Logic dictated he should still have access, but there was a medic lock on it keeping him out.

Why did Pharma turn off his emotional center?