Bright lights in his eyes. Microphones shoved in his face. His too-tight tie at his neck.
A long, rambling question, asked in English spoken far too quick for him to decipher. Ilya has no idea what to answer, his brain floundering to translate the question and put enough of the pieces together to respond in time.
He can hear his father’s voice in his mind.
Idiot, stupid, slow. What did I pay for all those English lessons for if you’re going to make a fool of yourself the first chance you get? This is why I tell you not to speak, you know, easier to pretend you are not an embarrassment that way.
Who is he kidding, his father doesn’t care enough about him or his career to watch something as trivial as the All Stars Game press conference; there’s no chance he’ll see this particular humiliation. But maybe that indifference hurts worse.
Ilya feels his face go hot. Already he knows he’s taken too long, the silence stretching into something excruciating.
He doesn’t dare to look at Hollander, waiting for him to enjoy this moment of weakness, to take the power Ilya has so stupidly relinquished and wield it over him, to use this opportunity to make himself feel big and Ilya feel small. He regrets his cockiness from the question before – antagonising people like always, Ilya, you’re never smart enough to think ahead.
“Uh, sorry, not to jump the gun here, but with Rozanov’s permission–“
An unexpected tap against his foot. Hollander giving him back control, returning the knife he could have used to stab him in the back to him hilt first. He risks a glance to the side, sees concern, not contempt, on Hollander’s face, no evidence of the gloating he expected. Ilya grants his permission the smallest nod of his head he can, trying to keep the confusion and panic he feels inside from showing to the cameras.
He listens, slightly outside his body, as Hollander gives a eloquent, thoughtful answer to whatever bullshit question the reporter had been asking, deflecting attention away from Ilya’s fumble and back onto himself in a way that also manages to be humble. Ilya doesn’t know how to process someone having an opportunity to humiliate him and yet not taking it, especially someone with as much to gain as Hollander. Since his mama died, not even his own family would do what Hollander is doing right now.
“Ilya?” The reporter asks when Hollander finishes speaking, returning attention to him.
He pauses for a second, leaning in towards the mic, reaching for the mask of ironic detachment he uses for these things. “What he said,” he says, slipping back into the cocky Russian asshole persona that the media loves so much.
Beneath the table, the man behind the mask presses his foot against Hollander’s in thanks.
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