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It's the anniversary of his mother's death, and Ilya is deciding whether or not to go to practice. He can — and has — played (and partied) through the anniversary before, but he's just… had a bad night. He's not sure if it's the move, or the losing streak, or any number of things, but he woke up three times last night to the memory of his mom on the bathroom tile. The third time, he gave up on sleep, and sat up in bed and cried until his alarm went off. Now his head is pounding, his eyes are swollen, and he has to keep sniffing back a runny nose. It's unfair how shit crying can make you feel.
His second alarm goes off, Вставай с постели! Ленивец! flashing on the screen until he hauls himself out of bed. He feels heavy, like he always does lately. Sometimes — especially when he doesn't have a game that day — it feels almost like someone has their hands on his shoulders, holding him down.
He drags himself into the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror.
"Жалкий," he spits at his reflection.
He washes his face with cold water in the sink, decides that shaving is too much effort, and swings open the mirror for a painkiller. But as soon as he's holding the box — he always has to get the individual blister packets, gets nervous if he has to take pills out of a bottle — he feels this wave of… something pass over him, and knows for fact that if he opens that box, he won't be able to stop himself. He puts the box back on the shelf, closes the mirror, and tries not to notice how pale he is as he hurries out of the bathroom.
He ends up in the kitchen, pacing nervously. He opens the cupboard, then the fridge, but he's really not hungry right now. There's dishes on his counter, but he has to empty the dishwasher before he can deal with them, and he hasn't gotten around to it yet, so they're just piling up. He shuffles his pile of mail into a neater stack, but can't be bothered to start trying to sort through them. He wants, so badly, to go back into that bathroom, take those pills, and just… go away. But the fact that he wants that also terrifies him. So he stands in his kitchen with his heart pumping like he's on the ice, until his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Ilya checks the time, and, yep, he's normally at the rink by now. Which means he's being standing in his kitchen like an idiot for… way too long.
His brain is buzzing too loudly to think of what to say to Bood right now, but he opens up his messages with Shane so he can text:
The little dots that show that Shane's typing pop up almost straight away.
Ilya's heart thumps loudly.
Ilya feels a little better knowing that Shane's calling later. He likes having plans with Shane. Likes knowing that he can't kill himself before their phone call like an asshole.
He runs a mostly-clean tea towel under cold water, then presses it against his eyes so hard he sees stars. The water drips down his neck, under his collar, and he shivers. He leans against the counter, head tilted back until his phone starts buzzing again. He drops the tea towel onto the counter with a wet thump.
Messages from more of his teammates asking where he is. He sighs, clicks back to Bood's messages.
Rozanov stares at the messages for a long moment, before his desire to get back into bed overrides any sense of responsibility to his team that he has for the fucking Cens.
He texts him:
Then, because he doesn't want to be called a pussy for not playing through, he sends:
Bood responds with something stupid like get well soon, but Ilya doesn't bother to read it, instead finding their team doctor's number and hitting call.
"Hey Roz, what can I do for you today?" The team doc, who's name Ilya still doesn't know, asks cheerfully.
"Hello," Ilya says, then has to clear his throat. "Hi. I will not be at practice today. Was throwing up."
His voice sounds like shit, all croaky from the crying, but Ilya finds that he doesn't care. Doesn't particularly care about whatever the team doctor is saying either. There's a lot of questions that Ilya answers with a yes or no: Fever? No. Eat anything unusual? No. Keeping water down? Yes. Definitely can't attend practice? Yes.
Eventually Ilya gets tired of the questions, so he says, "Have to go now. Better tomorrow," and hangs up.
The team doctor sends him instructions to stay hydrated, and he rolls his eyes but grabs a sports drink on his way back to bed. He's not hungry, but he needs something in his stomach.
He's tired but he can't sleep, so he lies in bed in the dark, blinking slowly at the wall across from him. He's trying to think about anything else, but his thoughts keep drifting back to his mother. The good memories slip into the bad ones, and he must drift off, because he jolts awake from a dream of his mother, teary-eyed, helping him put on his new winter jacket on his first day of senior school and calling him мой маленький человек. That part happened, but in the dream his mother starts crying, saying Ты уже взрослый, я тебе больше не нужна and swallowing big mouthfuls of pills, choking, frothing at the mouth, shaking. And then she's on the floor, and she's dead, and Ilya's just come home from school, and his mama is dead on their bathroom floor.
This is so fucking stupid. Ilya wants to drink, would normally try to blackout when he gets like this, but even that seems like too much effort today.
And he can't be sure, if he starts drinking, that he won't end up back in his bathroom with the painkillers. And… Shane's calling, later. He can't be drunk at lunchtime on a practice day.
Not that he went to practice.
Hockey's the one thing he's actually good at, and now he can't even be bothered to show up?
He thuds his face into his pillow. Then a few more times for good measure. He wants his stupid fucking brain to shut up. He wants to go to practice. He wants to talk to Shane.
He wants his mom.
He lets himself feel miserable for a few minutes, then fumbles in his nightstand for an old pair of headphones and puts on his music loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
He almost misses Shane's call when it finally comes, and he fumbles for his phone half-asleep and disoriented.
"Hello?" He says groggily, tangled in his blankets.
"Hey," Shane says softly. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"
"Uh," Ilya says, rubbing his eyes. His mouth is dry, and his shirt is sticking to his back. "No, no, is good."
Shane laughs.
"Rude. So mean to me when I'm not feeling well," Ilya says, but he's feeling better than he has all day.
"Okay, I'm sorry," Shane says happily. "How's your head feeling?"
"Mhm, better now."
"Good, that’s good. Are you drinking enough water? Dehydration can make headaches worse, and—"
Ilya huffs, "God, Hollander, so boring. Yes, yes I drink water. Here, listen."
He grabs his sports drink, fumbling with the cap. He holds his phone close to his face and chugs the rest of the bottle, exaggerating a satisfied noise when it's empty.
"Thank you," Shane says.
Ilya leans back into his pillows. He's still sticky from sweat, his hair limp and greasy, and he really should shower, but right now he just wants to listen to Shane talk.
"How was practice?" He asks, closing his eyes.
"Don't even get me started," Shane says, and for the first time that day, Ilya feels a smile tugging at his lips.