Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov was bored. And if he was being honest with himself, which he wasn’t, he would maybe admit he’d been bored for a while. And if he was being really honest with himself, which he definitely wasn’t, he would maybe admit it was more than boredom. It was a slow creep toward emptiness. He couldn’t see it happening, but he knew it was…if he were being honest anyway. It was like watching a seedling and hoping to see it grow. You couldn’t. You could only see the progress if you looked away from it for a while. So Ilya did not look away, did not want to see it happening. He just kept watching his life pass him by. It was a good life. He was rich, famous...among a certain crowd at least...and could fuck basically whoever he wanted whenever he wanted, within reason.
Hockey kept him busy. It kept his body honed and his mind sharp. It filled his days and haunted his nights. But in the quiet moments between, his mind was adrift, floating from mildly reckless pursuits, like how many motorcycles were reasonable for one person with a very large garage, to more dangerous things, like contemplating what the point of getting up in the morning was. And that’s how he found himself leaving Boston to move to Ottawa once he was a free agent. To play for a notoriously terrible team in a notoriously boring place as a notoriously excellent center. Sometimes, to fix an impossible problem, you needed a drastic solution. And if the solution failed…well, that was a thought for the darker phase of his mental gymnastics.
That’s how Ilya found himself walking through art galleries in Ottawa on a sunny day in November. He’d purchased a nice house in Ottawa. It was big, gated, and had a nice view of a park near the river. It was much bigger than his Boston penthouse, which meant a lot of walls. Stark white and staring at him, making him feel like he was trapped in some sterile medical room. A place he had no interest in being. So he was going to buy some art. Could he have had someone do this for him? Of course. But part of moving to Ottawa was the deal he made with himself to stop existing and start living. He had to at least make an effort. And only if that didn’t work would he allow himself to think about the whys and hows and whens of what that meant. For now…he was buying art.
This was the fourth gallery he’d been to. Ilya Rozanov knew fuck all about art. And he didn’t want to know. He was just waiting for something that would stop his gaze from sliding past like it was a notch in the wall he walked by every day and stopped registering. He wanted something that would literally stop him in his tracks every time he walked by it. Something that filled up the increasingly large and empty void in his chest. Fuck, he’d take something that made him want to look up from his phone for half a second at this rate. Maybe he just didn’t like art.
The gallery he’d just stepped into was small and sad and probably not going to have what he was looking for. It wasn’t even a proper gallery. It was more of a consignment shop that touted a selection of local art and goods, and Ilya could see the art was questionable at best and the goods were…quaint. But Ilya was no quitter. He walked up to the wall displaying paintings. It was the same old. Landscapes, strange little mashups of color and texture that probably meant something to someone but all he could see was a mess.
After he’d been standing in front of a large canvas featuring some kind of ugly red-eyed bird for a while, a woman approached.
“Can I help you with anything today?”
She was pretty. Dark hair, high cheekbones, a body that looked flexible and was distinctly lacking a wedding ring. Exactly the type of woman who would usually earn at least a flicker of desire from Ilya. Certainly someone worth looking up from your phone for. And Ilya felt nothing. The lack of heat and desire sent a cold chill through him. One step closer to the edge.
“I’m looking for art,” he said, shaking himself loose from that place, and knowing he sounded dumb, considering he was standing in front of a wall of paintings.
“Anything in particular? We have more in the backroom,” she said, gesturing toward an open doorway at the back.
“Ah…I don’t really know,” he said, getting dumber by the second. “I will take a look though.”
She led him through to the back, just a small room, walls filled to the brim with paintings of all sizes and styles. The light was good, giving them all their proper due. He stood in the middle of the room, looking up and down, slowly turning to take them all in.
And there it was. Large but tucked away in a bottom corner, making him work to find it. He was hit with a sudden feeling of something like déjà vu, but more melancholic. Like a childhood memory that’s just on the tip of your mind, the ragged edges tickling, but you can’t conjure it no matter how hard you try.
This painting was a kaleidoscope of greens in every shade, grays and browns, and touched in just the right spots by gold and white, creating light. It reminded Ilya of lying in the park under a copse of trees, watching the light filter in through the leaves, catching every green. But here, it was like looking at that scene through a rain-flecked window, each droplet containing its own little piece of canopy, some stormy and gray, others lit with pale morning light, a few touched by moonlight. Ilya thought he could stare at it forever and never grow bored. Never let his eyes pass it over without taking it in.
“This one,” he said, pointing to it. “How much?”
“Oh, let’s see,” she said, pulling the canvas off the wall and checking the back. “$100.”
One hundred dollars? Surely she must be joking. “That’s it?”
“That’s correct,” she said with a smile.
“I’ll take it.” Then, “Are there more by this artist?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “This one has been here for a while. The artist hasn’t brought us anything else to sell.”
“How can I find them?” He was rich. He would commission more. He would fill his whole bloody mansion with them.
“I have their card,” she said, picking up the painting. “I’ll give it to you at the register.”
Ilya paid the measly hundred dollars. “Do you want this wrapped in paper?”
Ilya considered that. He glanced outside. Still sunny. “No, it’s not going far, thank you.”
“Here’s the artist's card,” she said, handing him a small white business card. He stuck it in his pocket, grabbed the painting, and headed out.
Luckily he’d driven one of his more sensible cars today, but even still, the large canvas barely fit. He set it carefully on the floor to lean against the backseat. It obscured his entire rear view.
When he got home, he carefully brought the painting inside, already mentally mapping every wall in the house for the perfect spot. By the time he was standing in front of one of many said walls, he realized he had no fucking idea where to put it or how anyone decided where to hang anything. He wasn’t a fucking interior designer.
He pulled his phone out, snapped a picture of the painting and texted it to Harris, the Ottawa Centaurs' social media manager. He had become fast friends with Harris, even though he’d only known him for a few months. He was one of the friendliest and most genuinely warm and happy people Ilya knew. He hoped some of it would rub off on him.
Ilya: help
Ilya: I bought this painting
Ilya: how do I figure out where to hang it
It didn’t take long before Harris responded.
Harris: Omg! I love it…very talented artist
Harris: You should definitely hang it in a room that gets sunlight. It’ll bring out all the little details
Yes. Harris was exactly right. Ilya had the perfect room, where one wall was floor-to-ceiling glass.
Ilya: thank you, Harris. genius as always
Harris: I’m glad someone appreciates me
Ilya smiled. He certainly did. Ilya liked his entire new team. They were god-awful. That was part of Ilya’s deal with himself too. He would take it as a challenge, something long-term to keep him going. He’d make the team better, help whip them into shape, contribute what he could. Individually, they were already good. Wyatt Hayes was an excellent goalie. Zane Boodram was a solid forward. Luca Haas was a rookie with enormous potential. Evan Dykstra was a great defenseman…with very poor taste in music. He liked the whole team. He missed some of his Boston teammates, especially Marlow, but the Centaurs were great guys. And Ilya needed that. Having people you didn’t want to disappoint was important. Each another brick for him to lay in the wall he was trying to build on the edge of the cliff in hopes it would keep him from slipping over the edge when he inevitably stumbled too close.
Ilya hauled the painting to the room with the glass wall. It was still empty. He’d been living in the house for a few months now, but it certainly didn’t feel like a home. He supposed that wasn’t helpful. To his situation. But he was remedying it now. He’d hang this painting, then he’d call this artist and commission more. And then he’d buy furniture and whatever the fuck else people filled houses with.
He quickly realized he didn’t have anything to hang a painting with. Surely he owned a hammer? He wasn’t sure, actually. He leaned the painting against the wall and went back to the living room. The business card he fished out of his pocket was simple, only two lines. A name—S. Hollander—and a phone number.
He dialed the number and listened to it ring.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
“Hi, I am looking for S. Hollander,” Ilya said.
“Speaking,” said the voice.
“Hollander, I am looking to commission some paintings from you.”
“Oh,” the voice sounded distinctly disappointed. “I don’t really do that anymore.”
The fuck?
“You don’t take commissions?”
“I don’t paint.”
Ilya didn’t know what to say to that. How can the person who created the painting leaning against his wall not paint anymore?
“Why?”
“Um…I only paint when I um…when I have something I need to get out?” There was a lilt at the end, like a question. Ilya did not have an answer.
“Get out? What does this mean?”
“You know like…when I have something to say. Except, it’s more like something I can’t say.”
Ilya exhaled loudly. This is why he didn’t like artists. What the fuck was this guy talking about?
“How much would it take for you to find something to say?” Ilya asked. Everyone had a price.
“What?”
“Money, Hollander. How much money would it take for you to agree to paint something for me?”
“Um, it doesn’t work that way.”
Ilya rubbed his forehead hard. Seriously, artists were the worst.
“Five thousand?” he asked. “Ten?”
Ah ha! He could hear something suspiciously like spluttering on the other end of the phone. Perhaps money would work after all.
“Five thousand dollars?” The voice was full of disbelief.
“Or ten, yes,” Ilya said. “I will pay you well.”
A pause. “How did you even get this number?”
“I bought your painting from The Lotus Jar.”
“Oh,” Hollander said. “I forgot I had anything there.”
“It’s very good. I would like more.”
“I’m not sure I can do anything like that again.”
“Why not?” Ilya asked, already regretting it because he did not care about whatever artist nonsense was about to come out of this guy’s mouth.
“Well, I don’t have any art supplies. And like I said…it’s not that simple.”
“I will buy whatever supplies you need,” Ilya said. He was ready to get off the phone now. This was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.
“Really?”
Something about the way Hollander’s voice sounded in that one word made something flutter in Ilya’s stomach. It was so genuine, so disbelieving, so…soft. Like Ilya had offered him some kindness.
“Yes,” Ilya said. “Tell me how much you need. But this is not free. I still want paintings in return.”
“Right,” Hollander said. “I’m not sure I can promise that.”
Ilya sighed. “Hollander,” he said, trying to keep his voice patient. “I want more paintings. If you can provide them, I will buy all supplies and still pay you five thousand dollars. Per painting. Ten for big ones.”
“What the fuck?” Hollander said softly on the other end of the line. “Why would you pay me that much? You don’t even know me.”
“I am impressed with your talent. Will you do this or not?”
“Okay,” Hollander said after a long pause. “I’ll do it.”
“Great,” Ilya said. “Tell me when you are available and I take you shopping for art supplies.” He wasn’t sending money to some random artist and trusting he’d use it honestly. He didn’t know this guy. He had a nice voice. A voice that was making Ilya’s insides warmer than they had been in a very long time. But that didn’t mean anything.
“Oh…um. Saturday?”
Ugh. “I can’t on Saturday. I have a game. What about Friday? Or Sunday?”
“A game?”
“Yes, I play hockey.”
There was another long pause.
“Friday works,” Hollander said.
“Text me when and where and I will meet you there. You have my number now.”
“Wait…what’s your name?”
“Ilya. Ilya Rozanov.”
There was a slight intake of breath. Maybe Hollander knew him. Maybe he was a fan. The Centaurs didn’t have many fans, but maybe.
“See you Friday,” Ilya said and hung up.
He flopped hard onto the couch. What the fuck was that? And why did he feel out of sorts after talking to this random, frustrating man on the phone? But if he was being honest, and he still wasn’t, whatever was surging through him was the most alive he’d felt in some time.
-
Hollander had texted him an address to meet at 6:00pm. So Ilya pulled up in his Porsche at 5:55pm. It was a little art supply shop. The kind of place Ilya would walk past and never notice. He parked in an angled parking spot out front and got out, wondering how he’d find this Hollander. Then he saw a man standing off to the side of the entrance. He looked nervous, thumbs in his pockets, eyes darting around, biting his bottom lip. And holy fuck, he was good looking. Dark hair, smooth perfect skin, a spray of freckles on each cheek. He hoped this was Hollander. Why did he hope that? No need to examine that right now.
Ilya closed the distance between them, and as soon as Hollander saw him, his eyes went wide, lips parting.
“Hollander?” he asked.
“Y-yes,” Hollander stammered. Nervous.
Ilya held out his hand and Hollander took it, his grip a little loose, like he wasn’t sure how handshakes worked. His hand was soft and warm and Ilya didn’t want to let it go. What the fuck. He pulled his hand back, trying to ignore the warm, tingly feeling that lingered.
“I’m Ilya Rozanov. Nice to meet you,” he said, trying to pretend like he was entirely unaffected by whatever was happening here.
“Shane…Hollander.”
“Shane,” he tested the name, liking the feel of it in his mouth, a taste of something decadent.
“Um…so I was thinking,” Shane started. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
This again? For fucks sake, Ilya thought.
“Hollander,” Ilya said. “I am good for it. The money.” He gestured at his Porsche.
“Yeah, I know who you are,” Shane said. “And believe me, I could use the money. But I don’t want to disappoint you. I really don't paint anymore.”
Ilya sighed. Shane’s voice sounded…sad. As if he was genuinely sorry to disappoint Ilya. And Ilya did not like how that was making him feel.
“What can I do?” Ilya asked. “To make it worth your while?”
“It’s not that,” Shane said. “I just don’t…I can’t paint on demand. And I don’t have a studio anymore.”
Well, Ilya couldn’t fix the first problem. But he could fix the second one. “You need space to work? I have space.”
Shane just looked at him, blinking. “What?”
“Space, Hollander, to paint. I have a whole empty house. You can paint directly on the walls if you want. Or you can take over a room and fill it with canvases.”
“Why do you want my paintings so bad?” Shane asked, genuine curiosity in his voice, like he still couldn’t believe it.
And how could Ilya explain it? How could he explain to this beautiful man in front of him that his life was an ever-growing void of nothingness, and he was scared of how vast it was becoming and how quickly everything that made him feel something was no longer working, and how he didn’t know what else to do because his list of things to try was quickly getting shorter and shorter.
“Your painting,” he said, pushing away the hollow voice in his head. “It…um…moved me? It made me feel…something.” He couldn’t conjure up any words in English to convey what it made him feel. And maybe that was for the best.
Shane kept looking at him, mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something but nothing would come out.
“What if I paint something and you hate it?”
Ilya shook his head. “As long as you try, I will be satisfied.”
Shane nodded slowly. “Okay…I’ll try.”
And into the art supply shop they went. Ilya followed Shane into the first aisle full of paint tubes.
“Um…are you sure you want to pay for this?” Shane asked, hand hovering in front of a shelf containing many shades of blue paint in little tubes that looked like toothpaste.
“Yes, it’s fine. Get whatever you need, no limit.”
Shane’s mouth dropped open. How much could paint really be? Did he know how much money hockey players made? Particularly players like Ilya. Maybe he didn’t. Shane turned away, eyes back on the tubes of paint. Ilya took the opportunity to give him a good once-over. He’d been distracted earlier by the face and the body, which was particularly athletic, muscles to rival Ilya’s own. Now he took in the clothes. Ripped jeans, and not in the intentional way, a t-shirt that looked like it had been washed a few too many times, almost see-through in parts. A thin unzipped jacket that looked like it used to be black. His shoes were old sneakers that had seen better days. No wonder he was swayed by Ilya’s monetary offer. Ilya would pay him well. If he delivered. Probably even if he didn’t.
He watched Shane carefully examine tubes, picking them up, looking at the color, putting some back, keeping a few in his other hand. Ilya wandered back toward the entrance and picked up a little hand basket. By the time he got back to the aisle, Shane had moved on to the shades of green. Ilya held the basket out wordlessly, and Shane gave him a look.
“Put them in,” Ilya said, and Shane dropped the tubes in the basket. Ilya lowered it to his side and stood there while Shane resumed his perusal of the greens.
What had become of him? It was Friday night and he was standing in an art supply shop holding a basket for a man he’d just met and his insides were a little fluttery about it. In the past, Ilya would have been in a club, a bar, a party…or balls deep in a woman. Maybe a man. Now he was following some random artist around like a puppy begging for scraps because his brain was trying too hard to check out and Ilya wasn’t ready to let it. So he followed Shane around the store and let him drop tubes of paint and paintbrushes and whatever the fuck else he needed in this basket while he held it. And he felt himself moving a few steps away from the edge of the cliff.
After they’d moved through all the colors of paint, the aisles of brushes, and the stacks of canvases, Shane turned to face him, still looking nervous.
“I think that’s enough to start,” he said, eyes flitting around, not holding Ilya’s gaze. He thought they dropped to his mouth a couple of times, but maybe he was imagining it.
Illya looked at the basket of tubes and paintbrushes. “Hollander, are you sure this is enough?”
Shane looked at the basket. “I mean…it’ll be enough for now.”
Ilya sighed. “Please just go get more.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to give this your best effort. Cost is not important. Get what you need.”
Shane wandered back to the paint tubes. He immediately picked up several more, like he’d wanted them to begin with. Which is exactly what Ilya figured. When he was satisfied that Shane had picked enough, he brought them up to the register.
The cashier rang everything up and said a total that Ilya didn’t even pay attention to. He just handed over his credit card. Shane was staring at him like he couldn’t believe Ilya was doing this. Ilya kind of couldn’t either, but not for the same reasons.
The cashier handed him the bags and the two large canvases, which he immediately handed to Shane. He’d told him to get more canvases, but Shane was adamant that he needed to see if he could even finish one first. Ilya had let it go. He would order however many he needed if this worked out.
They walked out of the store, and Shane stopped near the curb. “So…how is this going to work?”
“However you want,” Ilya said. “You need space to paint? You can come to my house, use whatever rooms you want. I have many.”
“Oh…yeah. Okay. When?”
“Whenever you want,” Ilya said. “I have a game tomorrow night. But Sunday I am home.”
“Sunday,” Shane said, the word sounding uncertain.
“I’ll text you the address. Come anytime after ten.”
-
Ilya sat in the locker room on Saturday, making small talk, laughing at jokes, all the things he was supposed to do. He even mostly meant it. He felt invigorated. The night before, he’d dreamed of soft light filtering through trees and raindrops and a pair of red lips parted in surprise. There was a faint buzz humming through him in anticipation of the next day, when a stranger was going to show up at his house. To paint.
The game passed the way most Centaurs games did…with a few moments of pure optimism, when everyone thought maybe this was going to be the one. And then it wasn’t. They got trounced. But after, Ilya clapped his teammates on the back, gave them shit for stupid mistakes, and left with a smile on his face. Maybe his plan was working after all.
When he walked back into his house after the game, the cold emptiness of the house settled around him, creeping into whatever little bit of warmth he’d managed to huddle around for the last twenty-four hours. He thought about going out. Getting laid. Trying to fan the flame. Instead, he went to the room with the glass wall and sat on the floor in front of the painting. He studied it, eyes drifting from one little drop of swirling colors to the next, fixing them in his memory, tying some to existing memories, putting others in their own little pocket so he could pull them out later when he needed them.
Ilya sat there for a long time. Until his back ached and his eyes were dry. He needed Hollander to figure out his shit. He needed more of these. He thought if he could fill his house with them, he might never get bored enough to take another step toward the edge of the cliff again.
-
The next morning, Ilya went grocery shopping. He started thinking about his mostly empty refrigerator and how he couldn’t even offer a guest a bottle of water. He was not going to be a poor host. Ilya would make sure his new ‘friend’ Hollander had whatever he needed for fuel so he could do what Ilya needed him to do. There was nothing more to it. He didn’t care about Hollander, this man he didn’t know, beyond the painting. He needed him to paint. Simple.
When he got home, he put everything away and then walked around his house, trying to decide what room he should offer up for Hollander to paint in. He supposed the glass-walled room was the best option. Maybe the extra sunlight would inspire him. Maybe he could also pay him to hang the first painting.
At 10am exactly, his phone buzzed.
Hollander: Hi, this is Shane Hollander. I wanted to make sure you still want me to come over today?
Ilya sighed. Hadn’t they gone over this?
Ilya: yes, come over and paint, Hollander
Hollander: I’ll be there in 20 minutes
Ilya opened his front gate, and then he paced. He paced around the living room. He paced in the kitchen. He paced through the glass-walled room. He looked at his phone. Only eight minutes had passed. He forced himself to sit down on the couch. The minutes slowly ticked by. Exactly twenty minutes after Hollander texted, there was a knock at the front door.
Ilya opened it to reveal Hollander standing there on his porch, a large duffel bag on his shoulder, and one of the canvases Ilya had purchased clutched in his hands. He was wearing a black t-shirt that showed off his pecs and his biceps, the same pair of ripped jeans, and the same slightly surprised, slightly uncomfortable look on his face.
“Um…hi,” Hollander said, glancing around nervously.
“Hollander,” Ilya said, stepping back so he could enter. “Come in.”
Hollander stepped inside and then stopped, like he needed Ilya’s permission to move any further. Ilya was feeling a little out of his element now that Hollander was actually here, in his house.
“I have a room with a lot of sunlight,” he said stupidly. Hollander just stared at him. “Would that be a good place to paint? I know nothing about this.”
“Oh,” Hollander said. “I mean, sure. Anything is fine.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Follow me.”
He led him through the house to the room. When they stepped inside, he turned and watched Hollander take in the space, his eyes eventually drifting to the painting propped against one wall.
“Wow…I haven’t seen that one in a while,” he said, looking at it like he wasn’t the one who painted it. He walked over to it, leaned in, inspecting it.
“It’s very good,” Ilya said. “I have never seen anything like it.”
Hollander looked up, the perpetual surprise on his face more exaggerated now. Then Ilya watched it slide into something like disappointment.
“I don’t think I can paint like that anymore.”
“But you will try, yes?”
“I’ll try,” he said, turning to look at it again. “Is there something in particular you want?”
“No,” Ilya said simply. He didn’t know what he wanted. He just wanted to feel something. “Paint whatever you’d like.”
“And if you don’t like it?”
Ilya exhaled loudly. “We already went over this, Hollander. You do your best, I pay you. Simple.”
“Right…simple.” Hollander set his bag down. “Um…do you have dropclothes or something? I don’t want to get paint on your floor.”
Ilya did not have dropclothes. Why didn’t they buy that too? Fuck.
“I have a sheet,” he said, thinking of his very expensive silk sheets. He thought he probably had some cotton ones somewhere. “Wait here.”
He went to the linen closet in the hallway near his bedroom. He had a cleaning service that also took care of washing and changing sheets, so he rarely fooled with this. There. He found a white top sheet. Very soft, very expensive. He did not care.
“Here,” he said, walking back into the glass-walled room. He handed the sheet to Hollander.
“This seems…fancy,” Hollander said, looking at Ilya with concern.
Ilya shrugged. “Use it.”
Hollander took the sheet and spread it out on the floor and then started unpacking stuff from his duffel bag. He had a folded-up easel that he set up near the wall, and then an assortment of brushes and the tubes of paint Ilya had purchased. Eventually he turned around, eyes landing on Ilya.
“Are you um…going to stay and watch?” Hollander asked, and Ilya could tell he wanted the answer to be no.
“Ah no,” Ilya said, already taking a step back. “I will be around. If you need anything.”
Hollander nodded.
And before he could stop himself, Ilya added, “The fridge is stocked, help yourself anytime.”
Hollander kept staring at him, blinking. “Thank you.”
Ilya nodded and left the room. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?